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Lying in bed with that mosquito scratch If summers are anything to go by it wouldn't perform a miraculous stretch on anyone’s mind that she said goodbye Others’ summers can be filled with intimacy feeling one another’s humid, stale breath my ones, hah, are filled with plenty of numeracy and a typical lover’s shibboleth The bite on my foot still itches wildly, and that’s summer I suppose to put my feelings on paper, mildly, there’s a solution my soul will endlessly propose And that ticked-off list, that key is something repulsively elusive That key I’ve failed to look for and to see Like the idea of you, terribly seductive. I suppose the endless global ailment Will cease at some point So I can seek what my dreams meant and look for her, my heart’s anoint Till then, it’s more accounting for numbers And looking for where they’ve gone and striving for restful slumbers this summer’s dawn.
With age
comes the burden of experience;
of sorrow and loss
of joy and success
but it is there—
heavier, greater,
as time goes on.
As you grow old,
wiser and more stubborn
as you watch your parents
turn into frail children
and all those around
sail off to their own worlds.
You’re left on your own;
what are you going to do?
I’ll keep writing till my pens run out
till the napkins in the café are all written upon
till my quill runs dry
till the octopi flee
until all ink has been spilled:
all the ink I’ve got and then a little bit more.
Pif, paf, pum
that’s the sound of a gun
and the ratatat of this pun
which I’m saying for fun.
This conundrum of sounds
waiting to be found
cost: a few pounds
curse them, blimmin’, confound!
Why do we write about love?
Why not instead about this pen:
this pen, so many words to come out of it
leaving its mark on the pulverised wood.
Whenever, wherever, always ready to spill
to divulge its contents upon this pressèd sheet
not a screech, not a sound—always willing
willing for its ink to do its spilling.
If only people were so willing
to be loving, to be kind.
Instead, they just enjoy drilling
into the depths of each others’ souls.