Collection Box (day 2920)

In envelopes of my collection box
My heartache rests beside my lover’s hair
Rusted pins and unused pens
Worn well and never used.

Could opening be the end?

I drove a long night
Through windy roads
Of Scotland’s y’Or
Great Bras d’Or,
And long wild grass on feral land:
Swan song I’ll sing again.

Head can see, alighted way
Matchsticks lite Borrower’s torch;
Down a cold tunnel with dripping water.

Lover’s name in a letter she carried.

Pizza For Breakfast Again (day 1821)

Keep your toes turned in
Don’t lose that anger
Don’t let go that deep down feeling
Where things just ain’t right
A delay
A mistake
A sideways glance
An avoided question
Remarks leftover with
Pizza for breakfast again.

One line doesn’t lead a road
A windy road
With seated tickets
Black fedoras
Bill folds
Cadillacs and
Pizza for breakfast again.

A mountain in charge of
Pioneers recollection
As fields reap harvest
And a bastard stands tall in
Sun beaten heartache
For a sister who loved him
In a town too small
Closed for business
Out of order
Dialtone on
Pizza for breakfast again.

Practicing Wizardry (day 1569)

Wizards are taking turns cracking whips at higher shelves,
A lost umbrella serves as a dusty stepping stone.

When did he ever know his heartache?
A landslide, at the base looking up standing tall.

Can the old boys help anybody now,
Since there’s a guardian knocking all them down?

There’s a wild side whenever anybody’s holding on,
Take a look now, tomorrow’s rhythm of any song.

Inner ambition’s little sister came to say hi amongst terrible rubble.
She cried big elephant tears until socks upon giants grew ears.

Dusty sorts, way up there, but important bits reside beyond the whip,
Enough so, that a lazy angel has taken it to be her resting place.

Leather bound and locked without a lock.
Page four houndred and seventy three.

Puppy’s Breath (day 1455)

Memory had the young lad locked into heartache
Said a long face into still waters, messy brown hair.
Even puppy’s breath flowers, scattered about un-special pebbles
That were delicately delivered by glacial giants in a spring long ago,
Couldn’t lick the apparitions floating about.
Mounting piles of she-loves-me-she-loves-me-not
Couldn’t dare stop to observe silent friends soaring high above,
Or recognize it wasn’t what was left without.
But the great deal of compromise left standing tall
Two men in full militia calling: go within.

Fond of a Maiden (day 1101)

When wanderers showed me another decision,
A lane up ahead lifted options adieu.
Where once was a path littered with madness unforgiven,
Turned swiftly to a road which lost was a given.
Down, through, and past ghouls where I roamed
A length I did witness had I hardly been borne.
Beyond intents, beyond deliberation
I was lost in a path for forever ambition.
Launched into desires like a reflection upon me
I shared all I had with a widow of seven.
She laughed at my folly through havens and glens
That caused me much heartache of which I’m still shaken.
I was laughing at the tragedy I’d been witness,
In all of my givens I was never victim,
Save only of dreaming eternal desires.
Here was my folly; deeper than madness,
Here was the road I had swiftly been given.
To which [luckily] my stars had been lifted to heaven
Aloud as I lay beneath all these twilights.
Then at once – without warning –
As I kissed my last maiden goodbye
I witnessed what I had openly given.
Shared with my gallantry: a picnic in the glen,
A light long been forsaken.
Here I was dined like a royal brandy-wine
A Mister to a noblette, a guru to affect.
Like my littered path of madness unforgiven,
I was handed a chance of a rosy countenance.
Here I was left as if struck by forever,
Struck daft by the eyes of life’s fairer.
So out of my lands I had mended and mined,
Through wild abandon chalked plenty with lust.
I found I had seen what’s never forgotten.
Here I was. Here I decided. And here
I lept at the chance to grow fond of a maiden.

Opine (day 1074)

I was born into a centrifugal force,
A suction cup of heartache, of proverbial effort;
Cause and effect.
A slow line moving along Granville St.,
Caught in excitement of teenage free spirits:
Fashionably conscious and disregarding etiquette.
A night life on Hastings
Wish-washing lines between law and desire;
Societies dream of an everlasting image
With a reason for being a mother-fucking
Pop icon.
This is a history book documenting trend-setting hipsters,
Glossy pages filled with alluring sex tips.
Designed for those of us left standing on Commercial
Wondering: “who the fuck’s opinion even matters?”

The Back Of the Book (day 896)

Why does the world have to die like this
An endless jaunt through crowded parks
Heartaches that climb up through the heart
Passed by breath from lung to lung
Lumping into salivial glands

Memories that remind innocence
How far time that’s yet to come
Has left them remembering why
An arrow has never remained straight
Lapping at the oceans edge

Each star, remaining a soul
Holding onto an unforgotten memory
Never understood, never accepted
Never wanted and hoped against
Battling with unending tests

I cry for this moment
For this death that whispers to all of us
Screeching to a halt in accidental disarray
I am not a cause for understanding
Victimless and harmless and misunderstood

So remind me of an arching smile
Radiating eyes and hugs that last too long
Leave me remembering what will never again be
Again, a lost answer in the back of the book
A scribbled name in hasty mischief

Tears running below my chin
Death so close I can touch it
A hurt longing for the tips of my toes
The soul hovering
As a chance of love and heartache and an unending story

Long Forgotten (day 749)

Will you still love me when my hands have burned to dust
Love is sadness that carries golden rays of sun towards dusk
Did sounds of heartache keep you awake at night
Blood oozing from hands that toiled for your fortunate future

Will you still love me when my hands have wrung themselves dry
Sitting here dancing with eyes around the moon tonight
Our dreams dressing up in black and white shoes
Placing our love into lust into locks of curly golden brown hair
Twirling ourselves round and round to the tune of trumpets in summers night air

Will you still love me when my hands have curled against time
Sheltering our eyes against the hours of sunlight
Carefully pulling apart leaves that shelter the garden
Shaking away caterpillars nibbling on precious shards of life

Will you still love me when my hands have burned to dust
When history remains and old friends have long forgotten
Will you still love me when my hands have burned to dust
When the story ends will there still be a thought
Will you still love me when my hands have burned to dust