Neither within nor without;
neither breathless nor heady;

there the dance is,
not still or even skipping.

Try not to fix it,
to where the heartbeats are counting.
Except for that tangent, the perfect solace of stillness

There might be no dance. Oh! But,
there is only the dance.

While The Expressionism floats

Clutching for the one that can steady
Your wobbling.
You are frozen a bit, with each beat of your blackened honesty
making the churns come.

So you do it;

you pop the bubbles and recreate your tundra
to find the letters that show how your heart feels, what those worried eyes
are trying to say.
And then you're not sure
sure
not sure if you want it to go
but you Man Up and do it;
and while your expressionism floats, you're left thinking
"Oh Shit", until the reply comes.

Though all I could see was he,
Not fresh and straight,
but dirty in the foam; and she,
Love, who'd pulled you from
There, and into the running.

lost-in-a-bit-of-Russian-translation
I was asked
What do you mean about This Music?

with a smile then

What do you mean about This Music?

with a raise
and a crackle of flash
(think sparks here)
she'd caught that slightly
confused
I-am-European-too, but glazed,
face,
forever amused on her camera lens

Pirate writing

she said to me
"when it's plain sailing,
you can't write"
so does this mean
it's gone choppy?
and am I able to
pinpoint the rough,
like pirates
like trawlers,
stealing and dredging
for the things that might make them whoop in gratitude
because now it's plain sailing for them?

when you Look at me I wonder
what it Is that you are thinking
through your Eyes and through your breath.

are you Happy saying nothing
lying wistful in your thinking
dancing In that time we met?

or are you Cooking little pots
of thought
that We might be the best?

If there can be
If there is
A Melancholy Death of Oyster Boy: And Other Stories
are there
is there
A Despondent Loss of Lobster Girl: (And Other Stories too, obv.)

Or if we could be
A Medieval Master of Love, like Ovid,
why should we turn our subjects of admiration, pet,
into cheap translations of the Silver Age
when all he wants is some future hope for his eternal devotion?
Poor guy.

Maybe he should've written some Other Stories!
Y'know, like, spread himself out a bit...