Hairspray Curls

If love came neatly
Done up in images
I would easily
Show you how I feel
Instead of all these
Fumbles and Tumbles
I put you through.


I would say-
'Ever since my blood
Leaked alphabet
On reams of paper
I have dreamt
Of a splash of black
Curls, On 1000 thread count
Sheets, White as light.
I have dreamt
Of shedding my
Worldly faces
After an evening
Of careful construction
And climbing in
Beside you
And your hairspray
Curls; The last remnants
Of the artifice
Of an artificial world.
I have dreamt
Of holding you tight
And murmuring,
How even hairspray curls
Smeared eye shadow
Smudged kohl
And washed out lip stick-
Building blocks
Of our worldly faces-
Look real and true
On you.'

That would be my
Image of love
For you
And your hairspray curls.

Endless Summer

Don't end just yet
O endless summer
Don't go just yet.

Wasn't it yesterday
That I settled back
In your rhythm?

Fleeting, flying summer
Don't run so fast
I barely caught you.

Thieving, scheming summer
Don't go stealing
My sun drenched dreams.

My country glimmers
In the rear view of
My sweetheart no more.

I will see Autumn bloom
Stranger in a stranger land
Caught looking back

At the decadence 
Of an Indian summer
That many will never know.

The Old Continent will maybe
Soothe, Your scorches
With a cool and cobbled tongue

But I am left
Without a home
And a summer love unsung.

You don't answer me,
O summer. Just shine
And blind and-

Run, Run and Run.

Break

It could, it would – almost, maybe, just about- kick you, fuck you, bend you over- if you let it.
Ink and paper/Paper and Ink have been guzzled down the drains of this cesspool of a thing- let’s call it humanity. And they all say it is love that will do it. They are lying.

Strong is just a word, patience is another. Here take Serenity and shove it alongside the others.

What gets you, shreds you into nothing you can ever imagine being- is despair. Do not mistake despair to be a child of love. Despair is the oldest thing that ever was. Despair is the creeping thing that abounds in night and day and sings a siren song. Despair begins and ends.

When it comes, it will break you, unmake you.

It lies in the ruins of a shattered mug. It smiles from the bloodied knuckles of your hand. It screams in your head as you try and fail to suffocate yourself in your bedclothes. Despair is the  root and the tip. Every time it rises, it rises in the urge to break, break, break, break. It is despair not anger, but it is human to confuse the two. Every broken face, every broken mirror reflects despair.

Break it all, break it now. Break everything. Hear the music shatter and crescendo out in the world. Break it all for the pleasure of seeing it break. For the pleasure of hearing it break. For the pleasure of...simply the pleasure of.

Break, break, break, break and then perhaps you will learn the language of despair.

It is something you were born to learn.

Don’t worry.