Pass me the cheese for my peas,
please,
Before I get stung on my knees
by bees that carry disease!

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First Evening (Première Soirée)
by Arthur Rimbaud

Her clothes were almost off;
Outside, a curious tree
Beat a branch at the window
To see what it could see.

Perched on my enormous easy chair,
Half nude, she clasped her hands.
Her feet trembled on the floor,
As soft as they could be.

I watched as a ray of pale light,
Trapped in the tree outside,
Danced from her mouth
To her breast, like a fly on a flower.

The weekly mad house.
Everyone in the “Ten Items
Or Less” line has more.
Dressed in finery straight from church or shorts
and flip-flops right from the morning hangover.
The week-to-weekers with buggies full of
plastic on plastic.
And an old gray haired guy
somewhere is smiling.
This is a long way from 1962
right Sam?

Exhale.
Long awaited and so in control of .....
All.

I read it.
It reads me right back.

Random music on
but
not
much
else.

His words speak heat.
He gives me language in degrees
that stick to my skin
like humid summer time, beg for some relief soon Jesus please...

" I am in a mental prison
subject to my own threats
Inspect;
the crazy things my mind projects
some take pills to manage the pain
though the never get away because their labeled insane
try to stay true
But how could you,
Because instead of seeing you, people fail to see the real you
A former of the word
Perhaps god has truer conquest
I hope it comes soon
Things becoming more stressed
But don't fear me,
I need you more then ever
Always here to stay

I look up and then He.

Coffee shop chai latte,
foam at the bottom
on table
and I.
When I look up,
He.

Denim dark indigo wide cuff,
he says out of function but he knows what looks good
and I know that he looks good
so I can’t stop thinking to myself
“My god he looks good”

This obsession isn't helped at all by this
ONE thing
that has become
THE thing to change
ALL things.
When I look up,
He.

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz
Or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off
I love you as certain dark things to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul

I love you as the plant that never blooms
But carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
Thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
Risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body

Valentines are tattered cards
their meaning once conveyed.
On white laced hearts with cupid's darts,
is someone's love displayed.

And hand to heart they're given up,
on one day of the year.
Then put away, re-read someday,
perhaps to draw a tear.

But mine's no heart with lace to fade,
or words just made to rhyme.
For it is real to touch and feel,
on days not Valentine.

Today I'm taking back my power
And I want to let you know
I'm no longer yours to control
Its time for you to go

No longer will I think of you
I will not speak your name
You've brought nothing but pain to me
And unimaginable shame

But I realise now that its not me
Who should feel the guilt and blame
Because its you who made the choice
To hurt me like its just a game

By Robert Frost

Whose woods these are I think I know
His house is in the village though
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake