Last published
is not necessarily last met.
I could meet people over pages,
and files, and messages.
Over virtual coffee and biscuits.
Over a pizza and brunch.
Over politics and then lunch.
I could meet people
over all the food and drink.
I could see them
within every blink.
I could make friends in two's
over texts and our blues.
We talk about all that is gone
Happening now and now torn.
We crib, direct and maim,
We talk of all the pain.
Much has come and gone,
we are still singing our song.

If everything could tremble
we could have done it.
If there was a rumble,
we would have done it.
If we were born in a jungle,
we should have done it.

Last met
is not necessarily last seen.
I could see you in pictures.
On turfs unsold and plains.
On beautiful canoes and trains.
In parties and in games.
Through soil and refrain.
I could see you in pain.
In sharing and in gain.
We met through a window,
we met in self contain.
Much has wilted and waned,
we are still not to blame.

If a fist could crush concrete,
we are the saint.
If they fell with a tumble,
we left out the paint.
If a dream capsized,
we didn't dream to dream again.

Last seen,
is not for sure the last has-been.

The Mask

The rebuttal,
the return
Bringing the colours
of the old and new.
Decision among fruits.

Inhale!
Being still.
a thought
a rebuke,
Exhale!

Language,
a trick in words,
a meaning behind the turf.
The layer removed,
unearthed,
reworked.
A peel
ripped,
gathered,
shed.

Inhale!
go back to
Being still.
a thought
another rebuke.
Exhale!

If love was but a parady,
Of a life lived and stolen.
Of moments uneven and gallant.
Of kisses bought and sold,
Of metres ran untold.
Of eggs broken and rigged.
Of hearths fired and lit.
Of homes built on quicksand.
Of walls built in glass stands.
Of a face admonished in brass.
Of people walking on grass
and of kindness but a task.
What if love was that tragedy
Of those stories untold,
and the many books yet unsold.
Of pieces of paper ridged underneath
That heavy squalor and burnt sheets.
What if, like from those years ago
Love was still that haze in blue.
The squints from eyes two.
As blue as the far off mountains
As blue as the everyday rain.
As blue as the unvisited ocean
and yet as blue as all that pain.
As blue as the bird in flight,
and bluer still after a fight.
For blue is as warm as can be
As true as the unheard melody.
As tall as the heights unscaled.
As wide as the girth of ancient trees.
For blue is as strong as can be,
To digest this reverence in parody.

An Eon after a Series of Flights

I left

He left

So did she.

I reached,

Neither did he nor she.

It's a beautiful day
There is so much noise around me
It's almost impossible to draw or write.
I seem to have forgotten noise.
I have tried to live in a couple of noisier cities than here, but it was never so noisy.
I always have found that corner, that spot,  that thought.
But now, here, every horn feels louder, ever vehicle without a silencer. Every bump in the road, ah well. I think I overrated moving here. Home is where the hearth is. But my hearth is amiss at the moment. 
I travel by buses to curb the feeling. I try to hide behind a book, as I always have. I work late into the night. I hide behind the bathroom door or the headphone set, as I always have. As I always have, was years ago. Can it still be the same. Sleep is a reprieve. Is it my book or my mind.
My dreams wake me. Sometimes they take me.

Of the Wall

The brick
The concrete
The plaster
and the paint.

The flaking paint.

I see the green beneath
the once beautiful blue.
And some of the white
beneath all that was new.

The white which gets on my shirt
and my pants
and my skin.
The white-wash refuses to leave.
Blemishing the brown beneath.

I scraped some blue off
to make some jello cream.
I looked it up fair
but wasn't sure which
flavors to pair.

How to make jello:
1 and 1/2 cup "chosen" juice
1/4 cup cool water
1/4 cup almost boiling water
1 tbsp gelatin powder
1-2 cups of "chosen" fruit.

Mix gelatin in cool water.
Stir briskly.
Add really hot water. 
Stir briskly.
Combine with "chosen" juice.
Stir briskly.
Add "chosen" fruit.
Stir lightly.
Pour in a setting dish.
Refrigerate for good.

I decided against the blue.
I added a grape fruit
as my "chosen" juice.
I now had a beautiful green.
I decided against any cream.
For the fruit I "chose" aubergine.
The flesh appealed to me.

And I looked for the perfect tray
in which to slowly slide
to take that ominous shape
to beautifully support and hide.

I chose against a dish,
instead I poured my wish.
I filled some old eggshells
with the now jello dream.

Knowing, the next morning,
I could have a certain meal.

The Sinking Ship

The ship sank.
"Why do I call it a ship?"
you ask.
Why not a boat,
               a canoe,
           or a raft?

"For a ship it surely is."
a ship with a large hold
a small stern
and the hull, the size of a whale.

Someone ran a spear
straight into the rear of the ship.
"What will a spear do to a ship?"
you ask again.

I smirk.
"A lot!"
The ship is soft and beautiful
and was afloat.

Water refuses to leave it now.
The outlet is way above,
on the deck
too proud to function
the main mast takes too much space
the sails unfurl and the rest all hides.

The mizzen is still to be found.
as tall as the main I want it to be
with interlocking shrouds.
"Such a ship could never exist."
you say finally.

This I think about
look at the sinking ship
drop an anchor far from the crowd.
Sneak into the crow's nest
afloat in my doubts.