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W i t h o u t A P l a nI am made from treacle and burned sugar. I am made from baking tar and rust. I am made from the touch of love. I am made from mistrust. I am made from broken promises. I am made from a heart pierced by lead. I am made from cold hands on warm skin. I am made from the finest thread.
I am made from what I was. I am made from what I am. I am made from the potential of what I shall be tomorrow. I am made…
Without a plan.
T i d e l i n ePumpkin pies, and men dancing with bears.
Asleep at the tide line, the remnants of prayers.
I walk the shore, littered with dreams and hopes.
Not talking to insects, who made homes, in the washed up ropes.
Toffee apple kissers, underneath vanilla skies.
Asleep at the tide line, the Phoenix shall rise.
Keys rust in locks, as I bury my scream.
If I shut my eyes, as tight as I can, maybe I’ll wake in your dream.
Now I’m lost in the ocean of sixteen million tears.
Gold paper cups, and cinnamon deers.
My cotton wrapped antlers, just weighing me down.
Endless sleep at the tide line, I’m too small for my crown.
T h e C a r t o g r a p h e rPaper cuts, on my finger tips
From the maps I fold to be close to you.
Our houses made up, of spit and earth
From here you see me, from there you’re my view.
Paper umbrellas, for the flood filling valleys
And boats made from leaves to guide me home.
Sun, bleeding through that porridge sky
As our bodies entwine we are never alone.
W e A r e A d v e n t u r e r sI dream of auditoriums, black and purple robes draped over seats, the organ repeating its haunting melancholy for only the deaf to rejoice in. My spaniel heart, dripping with diamonds, writhing in compassion and foolishness, i know i shouldn’t, but somehow i am unable to resist..
I frolic with the mood of possibility that hangs, clammy in the air. There is no point in dredging up the past, yet my grip is so tight. History is naught but a commentary on the incapabilities of a series of unfortunate men she said, but its unpresidented formula is lucid and unintentionally compelling.
I realise in this moment that the most erotic thing in all this world is knowledge, and i know so many who are starved. I ponder upon a different existence, where all else know this secret meaning for deep smiles and a filled heart. I look at my hands as if for the first time, crippled, digging in the mud. My staggered screams haulting mid air, and then burying me too deep, and i am a fool, for i did not
R e v e n g eMy part time factotum
And Jack of all trades
The reverie stops at your limp wrists
The sarcasm fades
Everything is out of sync
Resting, yet without punctuation.
Open the cliché
Forgive my trite sneers
Force hatred to your lips
And neck a few beers
Concentrate on distraction, don’t think.
There lies our sanity, in tatters on our used up bed.
Nine TimesI saw him nine times.
The first time we were both sitting in the room together, getting ready to take the math test that would determine our placement. I was scatterbrained and throwing things around, trying to find the pencils that I had known I would need but had still just tossed in my purse. He was lounging backwards in his chair, looking for all the world as though he didn’t have a single care in the world, including the upcoming test. It annoyed me, that I was frantic and ready to scream, while someone else could be that relaxed.
I tested out of the class.
I don’t know if he did.
The second time I saw him, it was a few months after I arrived on campus. He was the one rushing and frantic this time, running across the square. He was probably late for class, though I had no way of knowing for sure. I was already lost in my own thoughts and ideas, deciding on my major and convincing people that yes, this is what I really want to do with my life. If they weren
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