poetry, trails of thought

And I guess – mebbe – that’s the nature of the deal

So Google won’t allow me to 



unless their powers to 

cash in 

a cache 

are more far powerful than I know.

But imagine the case, 

and imagine it now: for love, real love, 

the love I’ve never experienced –

not my love for others 

but their love for me –

I would gladly, freely, sincerely and frankly

destroy all my art, all my writing, all my photography.

If the condition of being loved

is to regain all our anonymities,

then condition I accept 

in exchange for promised land.

[Love isn’t blind, by the way: 

not half as much 

as you may


My love also recognises the level of pain 

I suffer daily, all the time, in the 

absence of soulmate’s rhyme.

I just want to be happy 

with a woman who shares my joy:

the being and seeing and fucking and doing grand,

where thinking over idiocy 

no longer rules me sad.]

And so I’d prefer to fly with you, my dear,

over writing 

another goddamn single word.


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