You fucked off.
Where you went is none of my concern, now that your heart and mine don’t sing a pretty song.
Now, all I can do is talk to myself about regrets and shit. I’m alone, in my 30’s, and my bank balance is small. You even took the cat with you because you said fluffy loves you more!
In my desolation and decay, I put on five kilograms from eating too many Swiss chocolates, my clothes don’t fit properly, and I look like a frump.
Now that I have taken the path of least resistance and succumbed to watching shit loads of television and listening to crap music, my knees squeak as I move from the couch to the coffee table, and I talk to myself in a morphed language.
When will you acknowledge that I still love you, or am I just blowing hot air up my arse?
Tag: poet
Cake Crisis
You love chocolate gateau cake. You’re always asking for this cake to be made and presented to you on special occasions. Sadly, your special occasions usually involve family, friends, the odd random person, and usually, someone dressed up in something contentious or cringe-worthy.
I take the challenge on with both hands. One hand would be a bit difficult, given the nature of the spatula.
I am making a cake for you.
I mix the ingredients.
I move backwards and forwards with ease as I tick off one goal after another.
Then, losing the will to live, I stand in the middle of it all, contemplating sticking my hand in the blender. I value my hand more than I value the quality of your gluten-free, almond free, dairy-free, fucking everything free, chocolate fucking gateau cake.
You still love my chocolate gateau cake.
Unfortunately, your family doesn’t. Was that plain flour I used? Oops, I didn’t notice.
Beer of our Love
Magical yeast mixes with hops, barley, and water from a virgin spring to create a golden frothy liquid that touches the lips and heightens the senses.
Throughout the ages, monks have quenched their sexual desires by placing beer glasses to their lips, then being constantly tipsy.
Not one for any convention; you created a beer like no other. You call it “Our golden goddess goon” as you say, I turn into the golden goddess goony whenever I drink the brew.
The beer of our love showers us daily. It froths in our minds to foam all over our bodies, to stain the bed, sheets, carpets and the walls.
The Vent
I lay in bed staring at the vent, thinking about you again and again and again.
Warm air blows onto my face; I cannot breathe, for the heat is too intense.
If this happens when thinking about you takes hold of my flesh, I must go now and find you.
All hot and bothered with no relief, I take a visit to the garden; the chill and the rain upon my face temporarily calm me.
Curtains
They live their lives without curtains.
Every Tuesday night, you hide in the bushes, down by the sand, and watch them in their underwear.
So many photos surround you in your apartment.
You wish he would look at you and tell you kind things about your lips and feet.
When will he see you for who you really are?
Idle Feet
Sliding around on the DVD cases, hoping that I will catch your eye.
You don’t look at me, so I put olive oil on the soles of my feet.
I hit the coffee table and fly into your knee; now you see me.
The Lounge Chair of Luxury
His study is a place of bourgeois reflection and hard-won luxury for a man of the people.
He reflects on the day and sometimes other things as he prepares to mix a drink.
The leather lounge chair smells so expensive to him that no candle could ever compare.
As he sits down to ponder his life, he feels youthful as a renaissance man with a full head of hair and most of his teeth.
The lounge chair of luxury is beautiful and stern, just like the interior decoration and his mood.
He reclines on the lounge chair of luxury, unable to find a comfortable spot.
The leather lounge chair cannot replace that hollow feeling felt so often, now his heart feels no love.
You Haven
The toilet seat holds all of your secrets, keeping them silently.
A friend to no one, yet useful for all: your haven.
Sitting upon your throne of bliss, you ponder the mysteries of the universe as ideas awaken: you come alive.
The room spins,
your mind is alive;
one with the seat.
C & K 