Somewhere on the other side of this wide night
and the distance between us, I am thinking of you.
The room is turning slowly away from the moon.
This is pleasurable. Or shall I cross that out and say
it is sad? In one of the tenses I singing
an impossible song of desire that you cannot hear.
La lala la. See? I close my eyes and imagine the dark hills I would have to cross
to reach you. For I am in love with you
......
The biggest fallacy of childhood:
"Sticks and stones may break my bones
But words will never hurt me."
How did it start?
Perhaps in a vain attempt
To build resilience.
Yet all of us have been wounded
By a careless remark,
Some needless invective,
An incisive insult
......
My business is words. Words are like labels,
or coins, or better, like swarming bees.
I confess I am only broken by the sources of things;
as if words were counted like dead bees in the attic,
unbuckled from their yellow eyes and their dry wings.
I must always forget how one word is able to pick
out another, to manner another, until I have got
something I might have said…
but did not.
Your business is watching my words. But I
......
Words do fly and leap through withered pages
Born from constant restless furling
Damp from swipes of moist fingertips
Which paves the way for words to fly and leap from surrogate pages
To form a symphony of sentences which feed the mind with comprehension
As thought patterns take the shape of understanding, awareness, rapt attention
As words that fly do leap and dare to beg, read me.
I bleed words out of my heart again,
a slow, rhythmic pulse of syllables,
spilling onto the pristine canvas of paper.
Each drop, a testament to the ache within,
as hope pushes the edge of my chest again.
I write in the language of longing,
a tender melody of ink and pain,
weaving verses like delicate tapestries
that whisper of love's transient touch.
......
I bleed words out of my heart again,
a slow, rhythmic pulse of syllables,
spilling onto the pristine canvas of paper.
Each drop, a testament to the ache within,
as hope pushes the edge of my chest again.
I write in the language of longing,
a tender melody of ink and pain,
weaving verses like delicate tapestries
that whisper of love's transient touch.
......
Words do fly and leap through withered pages
Born from constant restless furling
Damp from swipes of moist fingertips
Which paves the way for words to fly and leap from surrogate pages
To form a symphony of sentences which feed the mind with comprehension
As thought patterns take the shape of understanding, awareness, rapt attention
As words that fly do leap and dare to beg, read me.
I think of names for
Things.
(Lamp. Window. Candle stick.)
Signifiers of home.
I think of the stubborn weeds,
Leaning
(Docks. Cleavers. Pilewort.)
And envy their tenacity.
......
The biggest fallacy of childhood:
"Sticks and stones may break my bones
But words will never hurt me."
How did it start?
Perhaps in a vain attempt
To build resilience.
Yet all of us have been wounded
By a careless remark,
Some needless invective,
An incisive insult
......
People often say I talk a lot, but I hardly think that is true,
Like the whispers about the bluebird, of which he never knew.
Talking helps a lot with my job, which is in public relations,
As modern artists' imaginations, help to create new sensations!
At last I was on vacation though, relishing in blooming pathways,
As I followed the sun, not looking back, on the endless highways.
The scenic route is always best, when you have plenty of time;
......