Just in case.

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When I reached for that straw and caught it, and stayed afloat,
and was drowning no more, already it was madness upside down.
Or was I just sane the wrong way around?
Or was this my joy cleverly disguised as sadness?
Sitting in a train, facing the wrong way when the train started moving.
Is backwards forwards? Is forwards backwards?
Which way are we going?
In the look of surprise, at my window reflection, lies the madness.
Even as I sank, I was flying,
Even as I suffocated, deeply breathing,
I swooned into the slumber of eternal sleeplessness.
Wide awake was like dreaming.
Dying seemed like living.
I can find no better word for this form of crazy,
that likes to appear sane.
Who can tell the difference anyway,
between late at night, or early morning?
So just in case it is all real, and therefore really crazy,
just in case:
Goodbye and hello
to those I thought I knew,
and those who thought they knew me.

En garde, angelitos!

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Minutes before I cut, the angels shove another tidbit. Maybe just a ray of delight to keep me dangling.

Like a picture of a little girl so cute, overhearing a really funny joke, a memory of some past or future glory. Anything to make it worth living.

Seconds before I slice, I  see some fluttering butterflies. No longer do I wonder how they manage to come inside, where there are no flowers.

These are my irregulars, is what they call them in the trade. Part time shots in the arm for a tattered spirit. Then they fly away before my awkward questions need to be answered.

What do they get paid? How much for their specialist job of torture by the minute? For every minute they keep me going, maybe they earn for themselves that minute too. A butterfly’s lifetime plus a minute and counting.

I will never know if I was really being kind to let them hit me with a little more hope, each time. But only so little.

Guardian angels hate my guts. So they send hope by salami tactics. Moments before I lift to my lips that cup of sweet, alcoholic poison, a flower blooms in the corner of my eye, a mysterious fragrance distracts me, in the distance, sounds of a flute and fingers strumming.

On the deepest, darkest, heaviest of my clouds, is where my guardian angels hang their blasted lining.

Sometimes the dawn is delayed and I get too seasoned to pretend it was even coming. I pretend I have convinced my angels that I am commiting suicide by simply not moving.

They wait in glee for me to writhe in painless agony. They have a philosophical discussion about whether there is any pain in it. But with every breath of “Fuck You,” I have been practising.

They are guardian angels. They know I cannot die like this. So there is no need for them to get worried. So, it stands to reason that guardian angels should let me practise and practise and practise not even moving.

I don’t even hear the kitten outside the window mewling.

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Bingo!

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The delirium is when the poetry starts. Sometimes you don’t exactly know which is what, except to kinda know it’s kinda happening.

Looking at a tart in a piece of art hanging on the wall.

Never thought to be afraid of going insane, until fairly lately. Before, the mornings used to come early, and chase away the ghosts. Never late like now.

Already half eaten. These days are truly getting lazy, if at all. So the dark has something to do with it, definitely, I’m pretty sure, kind of.

Knowing this comforts me in ways, I have found in practically nobody but nobody at all.

Relax. It is normal. Everyone gives up on sleep at four o”clock. Next thing you know… bingo!

Yet another postcard picture dawn.

Parting is such sweet sorrow.

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Credit due to the photographer, whoever you are. Good one. 💋

A part of me wants a part of you,
Because all of me knows I cannot have all of you,
And all of you does not need all of me.
But the part that I have for you will love the part you have for me ever so fully.
Any more would be heavy.
Any less would be hungry.

Let’s get our parts right,
And may the parts of us make the all of us more happy.

O friggin No.

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It’s broken. That’s all I know.

Could’ve told me you died long ago.
Taking up good body space for some mistreated homeless soul.
A live one, I mean. Not a corpse dressed up in branded clothes and acting like you’re living still. Aah. Go, zombie. Go.

And when you leave, please
take all your baggage too.
None of that one earring, one bra, half a pair of shoes lying around.

No nostalgic picture on the wall. No lingering scent. No crying sound. No bloody trace of you around.

Of all the hatreds in my life, what I hate the most is to find out I was showing all my sexiest hottest dance moves to a ghost.

The Witches of RRR

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Eye-of-newt and tail-of-rat.
Crap-of-monkey, jizz-of-cat.
Bubble bubble, toil and trouble.

Lostsa pain, bit of misery, two and a half measures of this, and a barrelful of tears from joy, betrayal, love, and regret. Plus a dash of drippings from festering, unhealable wounds, and stinky things like that.

Stir the cauldron with a broom, until the bubbles start to pop up in your hands. It can take days or weeks, mostly likely months and years, on average a lifetime or two.

So, no point saying you forgot to check the use-by-date before you chucked in the wing-of-bat.

Restart, reboot and reset.

Fooling Around

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When you forgive a fool, you will have done a very good thing.

For a fool may never know how to correct a mistake.

When you forgive an old fool , it is better still.

For an old fool may never know, and has even less time, to exorcise the mistake.

Fools who are forgiven can hope to be less foolish when they come back again.

Fools might believe that to forgive a fool is to make a lot of merit.

Being fools, they never know it.

Snap, crackle, pop.

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Snap would be brittle, like sounds of decisions, impatient, offhand, carelessly wishing to go. Or a twig on a branch coming off.

Crackle would signal a more instant event, a report of things such as the twigs, perhaps, that may have snapped after being trodden underfoot.

Pop, would come maybe right after that, in the split second beyond the sounds of things that happened before.

In the season when the leaves are red and brown around the world whatever such an atmosphere might there be called, it is comforting to tramp through the woods, and hear and feel, over and over, so familiar already with what would snap, and crackle and pop.

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The weight of a soul

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They say a soul is lighter than a feather in a breeze. Too wispy to be captured by music, art or poetry.

It speaks to you in the raindrops falling, kissing you in the air you breathe. It is as real as the water that flows and disappears, on and off your skin.

Tragedy is an artist in the garden, hopelessly alone, against the multitude of morning dewdrops on the leaves. The comedy is the tragedy pretending that a tear is a speck of dust in the eye.

Somewhere deep inside the composing of music, and the crafting of song, there is a moment when even the greatest artist must pause to breathe. That is when a soul slips by, fleetiing as a whisper in the breeze.

Souls can fly and live in worlds where art need not exist. The makers of beautiful things remain down in this box we call the world, with the hackers of stone and the carvers of meat.

The soul must leave just as the body must keep the words it can read, the the sounds it can hear and the food it can eat. And the artist can only grin and bear this tragi-comedy.

My whore tonight

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Come and be my whore tonight, baby, while Sheriff Tomorrow is rounding-up his posse of bloody-minded deputies.

We’ll be good and done by daybreak, guilty of the sins of being foolish and the crime of mistake-making. And for screaming like coyotes all night, for disturbing world peace.

Come over now, from whatever far-off place you happen to be, singing the songs they want to hear, bumping and grinding, stripping down to what they’re yelling out to see. Leave the stage and come. The part where you take everything off ? Save that part for me.

It won’t be too long anyway, when all will be said and done, with the lawmen’s rising shadows against the morning sun. I’ll know if you’re an outlaw then, if you are still around. Or maybe there will be nothing warmer than a blanket, or blood, on the ground.

Only good outlaw is a dead outlaw, said the Sheriff, as he filled me full of lead. Well, you can’t catch me if you already killed me. Either way, I’m free, I said. Same if I do, same if I don’t.

Why should it be eating me anyways, to know if you’d be here, or you will have already been and gone?