Crappy Titles

Crappy first liners
Pile in black crinkly bags
In how many shitty ways
Could it be dressed in rags;
The things I wanted to say,
That there was nothing finer
Then the things you’d written
That I had been smitten
The second time you caught my attention,
Though I did my best to deny it
There was no denying
The betrayal of my own actions.
I had decided towards the noncommittal
So when you first shown
In fluorescent lighting
You demolished, while you belittled
My determination to lead a life
Without romantic turbulence.
Initially I pretended
I had not been watching.
But I ended up chasing
After your prancing silhouette
Desperately trying to get a handle
On the soul you had hidden
Inside porcelain fragments.
And now that you have left
I no longer possess a smidge
Of the thrill I used to be unable
To contain while uncovering
Your flawlessly flawed existence.

Would you give
Me the pleasure
Of being able
To witness you again.

Mistook Her

Doubt lingered in the new world I stumbled upon
But I thought
It would not have been difficult for you
To hide your tracks with the materials
You kept stored in your backpack.
So I’d follow anything that came close
To footprints you left in deserted tundras.

She spoke of love and sex.
She had purple flowers
In her hair,
Threw them flamboyantly in lines
Like you had shown me before.
She used the words you used to use.
She had a caramelised voice that
Almost sounded like yours.
She spoke of tides and sands,
The last thing we spoke about
Before you departed on your adventure.
She’d throw letters at the cliff’s edges
Which I’d clumsily scramble to grasp
Before the winds could scatter
Them across the frozen topography.
The time she appeared almost matched the days
You decided to have me play
Your cat and mouse game,
Where I had always been the cat.
She spoke about our game too.
She spoke of birth on the night of my own,
Something you might have known.
I chased after her shadows night and day,
As birds would inconsiderately twitter
Regardless of the extended time frame.
She was a silhouette; a figure,
I probably, mistook for you.

She was similiar,
But the possibility remained,
She could have not been you,
Something felt wrong,
Something was strange.
So I tried to fold her
Into the pages of past mistakes
And set out to find you again.

Burdened by the time that had passed,
Thinking you had given up on our game
And called it quits,
Doubting the possibility
Of retracing your steps,
I tried to give it another shot,
As vultures circled round, decaying
Bodies in hopes optimistic venture.

Maybe if I had not been as successful
In my quests the last three times you left,
Then maybe I would have just kept her under the radar.
Instead of factoring in your deceptive nature
As a possible tool
You could use
To manipulate
To keep yourself
Hidden from perception.

The Sun Reigns

littleworlds
Pearls of reflections
Of refracted visions
Of distant worlds
Of what never was
Cascade down
Spinning in rotation
In orbital trajectories;
The birth of a new solar system;
In explosions;
You constantly appeared.

I recall those days
I lay in wait
For you to rise.
Moments of hysteria;
Screaming
In the confines of my mind
As raging rivers shook
Unmitigated parched thirst.

How I fell in love
So deeply.

I gave up so much.
So many things I believed I wouldn’t
Just to make her my reality.
Only god knows
What else I’d give up
While the sun reigns
In gravitation.

Hay Strand Memoirs

In fitful frenzy, instinctively trying
To grasp at predetermined disappearances
While knowing every location
Her soul resided in
Vanished.
Gone.
From perception.

A gust of wind knocks over
A dwindling light from an oil lamp
Igniting hay strand memoirs,
Warping hazes of should have been
Euphoric possible divisions
To impending impossibilities,
Consecutively
Distort contorting images
In flickering reservoirs
Of flaming memories
Slickly licking, creeping
Up a load bearing beam.
Crackling filaments disperse,
Gritting embers singe and then
Helplessly drift in stagnant atmospheric pressure
While another woven strand
Burns and turns to dust.

Especially When

In efforts for furied release,
I hurl white ceramic plates
In a darkened dining room
Against pristine white walls,
They crash and shatter
Leaving splinters on the surface.

Imagination
Somehow alleviates.

Words springing forth from the voices of recall.

I’ve had enough of your voice
I don’t want to hear it anymore.
I don’t want to envision your images
ESPECIALLY WHEN
Everything
Meant nothing.

Her

Long after the force of recall
Fades
It lays embedded in the banks
Of the subconscious.

The mother has withered away
But her eggs
Spawn infant remnants
Of her DNA.
Occasionally found in excrements
After consumption.

Too small to notice
But upon closer observation
You see
Them squirm
In the crevices
Of shit.

I wish
I never
Read
Her
Poetry.

But I would not have
Grown to love
Writing
As much as I do
If I had never met her.

Probably