Farewell

It's like a staple when all I'd like is

a hug...

...and you can't cuddle angles.



Trying to turn it off in the ceefaxed bit of my head

, green, red, those lines like ropes of fuzz,

...it isn't working.



So of my Golden City
which part will I find?

Outside Saatchi 2

If my Art is here
Why is yours mis-matched leg-
warmers, honey?

These --- are my words

Words on bone owning that bone that bone is my own, words of bone words as stone, stoney bones stoned bones are my words.

You,
are the clouds
when passions rage and I see mist in
my
fall

You are reflections, waving from
non-existent windows
and I break for you.

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.