Microwaved Milk

When you microwave your milk

make sure you stir away the skin,

the proteins will protect the juice,

emulsion is a sin -

At least before you tie the knot,

which with milk will be so bold;

you cannot simply wait a while

until your mug is cold.

The sickly sweet synthetic feel

will tremble on your lips,

your mind's natural reflex will be:

'Cease mouth! No more sips!'

So boy, please do not argue that

you simply cannot stop,

if you must, then tie your hands with milk

or scream from a rooftop:

'This lady is too beautiful

for me to comprehend!'

Then seize your milky proteins and

her heart begin to mend.

-

Worry not world, I intend not to 'dial-it-down' as they say. This is just me, holding a mirror to my optimistic present state. Not that you were worrying...

She said I was beautiful.

Isn't it great when you read a poem or hear lyrics to a song and they perfectly articulate the feelings inside of you, both affirming to you that you're not alone in your insanity and prompting you to exhale? Yes? Well, I think it is. And Imogen got me good when she sang:

'Where do we go from here?
How do we carry on?
I can't get beyond these questions...

Clambering for the scraps in the shatter of us collapsed
that cuts me with every could-have-been

Pain on pain on play repeating
with the backup, makeshift life in waiting

Everybody says time heals everything
but what of the wretched hollow?
The endless in between
are we just going to wait it out?

There's nothing to see here now,
turning the sign around
We're closed to the earth 'til further notice

A stumbling cliched case,
crumpled and puffy faced
Dead in the stare of a thousand miles.

All I want, only one, street level miracle
I'll be an out and out, born again, from none more
cynical

And sit here cold, we will be long gone by then
In lackluster, in dust we layer on old magazines,
fluorescent lighting sets the scene
in the one life that we've got

And sit here
Just going to wait it out
And sit here cold
Just going to sweat it out
Wait it out'

Sometimes I wish I couldn't act. Or that someone cared:

A lady bathed a compliment
Within my salty eyes,
Though she saw not the reverence
Like fleeting fireflies
Dancing about my aching orbs,
Such pain they did educe,
For nothing lasts forever, dear,
I beg, be not obtuse.
My feet may tap in rhythm,
Yes, I may snow a smile,
But the sickly milky realism
Bubbles all the while.
These tears will evaporate,
My head I'll hold up high,
And he will always have a key
Though I may know not why.

I wish...

Be careful what you wish for, you may receive it.

I wish to be like you -plural.
Comfortable in sweaty skin.
Your fingers intertwined
tingle my spine. Hello?
Scrambling for the egg shell,
the crumbled inclusive pronoun.
'Ticket home, please' I'll say
and they'll laugh in my face
because I should know by now;
Shouldn't I?
I wish to be like you - plural.
Comfortable in sweaty skin.

A chocolate from the box.

I painted my fingernails when you left
A pinkish-tint of la-la-la.
I polished my heart, I tried to scrub it clean,
but your fingerprints are indelible -
or so it seems.
I'll go cherry picking when the season comes
but for now I'll just be still,
lulled to sleep with the transition of us to me;
I wonder why the varnish doesn't chip,
even after all this time?
Maybe it hasn't been long...

It wasn't even a kiss goodbye.

Limbo

The wispy sort of silence
shone from morning's crisp, raw rays
was floating in the semblance
amongst their lover's daze.
It prickled every speckle
of dust that danced the room,
emanating luscious vigor
of rural passion to resume.
The nude upon the cool walls
did reflect upon their skin,
as they lay in rosy symmetry
that bloomed from their within.
Their wordless rainbow whispers
trickled, juicy from their lips,
in soft secretive flutters
that iced their mind's eclipse.
The science was against them,
as to all humans it be so,
so in sweetly senseless stillness
they let their hearts beat to and fro.
This be the peachy limbo
the blessed inbetween;
I feel your pretty jealousy
to endure this empty dream.

Billet-doux

Dear Valentine,
Your scarlet rain, it only falls
When your appetite is high;
I wonder why I fall for you
Despite your every lie.
The truth is that: I love you, so-
I know you know it's true,
I wish that I could harness hate,
I'd love to hate, so you.
Love...
x

Jackpot

I'll bear my heart, though one may profane
It most naive in it's splendid youth,
For, of what I can discern with sanguine qualm,
It be true to itself in resonate hope,
Sustaining beneath the better knowledge
Of a wisdom far exceeding the bitter longing
That fuels it's fruitless course, or so it seems.
My honeyed desire be only this, my sweet:
That one should thirst for the juice,
The syrupy elixir of my very vitality,
With a longing 'O but a mere millionth as amply
As I yearn for thee; pray, grant me this?
Why, who do I seek to fool? Such a thing
Cannot be asked for and readily received
In earnest agreement upon a covenant
Spoken for mutuality, no, it be not so.
Prithee, spare me the seasonal seeking of
Affirmation, of which you so frequently require,
For you do know as well, if not more, than I
Myself that I will be enchanted by your
Spell as a butterflies wings do flutter for
The rays of sunshine that swim from the heavens.
You know, and it pains me that I know so
That you know, for it leaves me pondering
The very essence of my wishing upon stars.
You, you are every star that shines in the
Midnight sky, twinkling above me in majestic
Perfection, such indelible, majestic perfection.
So, I do beseech you, if thou hast but any Love
in thine heart, towards the one who is myself,
If it be that of the long ago or a simultaneous
'One day', spare me your beauty for a while.
With every breath you steal, I must capture
one more; I am losing time - you are my time.
And you tick and you tock in my mind,
And I watch you, leaving me behind.

How dare you say: 'Don't let me go' -
I cannot deny you anything,
So, here I am.

Mr Cacographic

The stitching is frayed on
my patchwork pillow heart,
formed of fabricated memory,
threads of your merciless art.
Your nimble hands picked
free the words you'd sewn,
piercing my core with promises
that heightened my alone.
A needle in your hand, my love,
is worth nothing in the shrub;
like stardust stolen from
the sky, shattered by a cherub,
who, with his golden arrow
plucks such beauty from the sky,
and sprinkles it upon the earth,
diluted by human eye.
The textiles of my essence is
enthralled by who you are,
this glittering, this glistening
mere reflection of your star.
And all you have to do is smile
to entice this sibilance;
Grant me: Be I, the slender dream
girl of whom you sing, perchance?
The fibre of your spirit drowns
me deep in dainty dazzle,
I long to true decipher the
mosaic engraving of your easel.
As I box away the cushion, synoymous
to your serendipity,
something inside you reaches out
to the flutter within me.

How do you do this?
Or are you doing anything at all?

My Dream...

So, I had another pretty horrible dream last night (I've been having a few too many lately) and I can't get it out of my head. It was so metaphorical to my life that I feel like it was trying to tell me something - or maybe I'm just over analysing, again? Anyway, I had to write something about it to get it out of my head as best as possible. So here you go, an insight into the on goings of last night in my head:


Embraced by the silent kiss
that consciousness does miss,
as it be the very paradox
the mortal heart unlocks.
Evoked, a certain beautiful
of which the naked apple
eye could never quite behold;
enter imagination's threshold -
Your fleshy force is merely
matter of which I've closely
analysed, reformed by the power
of my being, with such azure
that I drift into a wonder
of your lightening, your thunder;
is it you who I can see
or is it the reflection of me?

I feel that I can feel you
so I feel that this is true,
with visage I see before my gaze
the bitter flower, she decays.
So, I lose my dainty sense
within your beauteous beam, hence
you begin to cast your spell
grasping your poisoned pastel.
Go ahead and warmly whisper
the triple that does blister
such vivacious virgin relish
as you titter at the foolish.
Then rip from me your promise
that dulls the pretty blueness
of my eyes that do exalt
the man who burns default.

And you say:

'This is what we do,
we make mistakes,
we birth regrets,
and then I run away
until the day
I return. And you,
you will be there...'

'ere right, you.

You, you are the same bubble of existence
who floated betwixt my heart and head,
mocking the just naivety that my ticker did possess.
Your smile it still haunts your pretty little face,
in the same way it once did, but my sweet
soul does deduce that feeble be your attempt.
You do hold your limbs the very same with
courteous contempt to all of which is logical;
You never did believe you were made for here.
Your words they melt from your feverish passion
that lies within, dripping, oozing the promises
of tomorrow, of which even you are uncertain.
You, you plundered a touch of lips; she did not
belong to you, not anymore, you let her go
and whispered away your woe - remember?
Your magic seduces her, enchants her so,
with such intense embrace that she drowns
in denial; see how she alters the pronouns?
You made her this way, O'you made her this way,
with your fluctuating suffixes that conjured
a spell to chain her weary eyes to yesterday.
You, you cannot feign within your gaze as, yes,
your eyes deceive the empathy of your sultry
prose. Steal your sorrys from my ears.
You, yes you, you know just as well as I do
that you cannot be truly sorry, truly sorry,
as if you were truly sorry, you wouldn't do it again.

Oh-fellow.

'Good night, good night. Heaven me such uses send,
Not to pick bad from bad, but by bad mend!'

Well said, Dessy.