I gingerly side stepped the hole in my chest
my hands clasped in my lap
the melancholy ring
from all the sad music you gave me
slipped on my little finger.

Chaos turned cold and then settled
like dust
which puffed and lingered after your feet
and consoled me, strangely, as something
in this tangle of nothing at all.

We were so full of what we eventually lost
that night I forgot my words
as they fell from my mouth and
slipped through the phone where
I trusted you, blindly, to remember.

The earth sagged with all the tired weight
an insult to what was real.
The CD skipped
I tripped
the ground rolled away like the river.

This came to me as I typed.

I wanted to tangle myself into you
and all over you
like paint
or swirl about you
like smoke
and enter you
like the same
and carve myself on your insides
and play at your heart strings
and sing too
with your vocal chords
and laugh
with the same.

(From a year or so ago)

Barrels of guns

The heavy words dripped from your mouth
and landed in a pool at my feet.
If only I could dive into that pool
if only you'd accompany me.

We stuck flowers down the barrels of guns
with their eyes on you and me.
If only we could dive down those barrels
if only you'd accompany me.

Ba da bum bum, barrels of guns
with their fixed eyes on you and me.
Let's walk on our tightrope up to the sun,
please will you accompany me?

Monsters eat them up

Waking in the morning

running up the stairs

flicking on the lightbulb

to find your brain is bare.

Your dreams have been poured out

like an empty, upturned cup

and are swirling down the bath drain

where imagined monsters eat them up.

Sail on silver girl

In Retrospect

The silence rang in my ears

and the cold day wrapped its

long bony fingers around me

and stowed me in its pocket, safe

and ironically, warm.

I wasn't surprised to find there was nothing

there left for me,

no plaque bearing my name

no wind ridden statue

no chair.

But nontheless, dissappointed

in myself and my invisible amdirers who

had probably worn away, long ago

after I forgot to return their mail and

instead counted days on my fingers

and weighed them, meticulously,

an old miser and his gold.

So this is what life is like

dusted off and taken from the shelf,

such painstaking simplicity.

Then the pain lost its elegance,

my heart lay,

an ugly relic on the ground.

She sat on the step, behind her hair, painting her poor self away.

Music's my imaginary friend

We all say goodnight, then run to our rooms,
our dreams take our fancies and lay them out cold.
But we can't look, so we close our eyes,
but our eyes are already closed.

My thoughts concerning time

Time will run, and we will hear its steady steps, so lonesome and weary; plodding blindly on to oblivion.

SICK at the worst possible time

I'm sick. Although I've a million other things I should be doing, my day has consisted mainly of laying on my couch thinking.

"So I drifted back away, on my homemade hot air balloon, with my heavy imagination in tow, dangling on a string beneath me."