No one looks at gardens anymore

I was thrown under the bus and told to dig my way to China 

and come out on the other side of the globe, you know. 

But I didn't dig that far.

Instead I just dug till the other side of the road, found some worms, 

some random seeds, and saplings came through with the sun and 

the shine. And then I just let it all grow into this gorgeous garden. 

And it had flowers and weed and squirrels and lizards. And I just 

hid under it all, cause you know, no one really even looks at 

gardens anymore. 

And then I had this whole land of bloom and sunshine and rain and 

moon rays and I wasn't killing life, I was breathing around it. 

And then I just lived. 

No one knows if I made it to China. Cause I don't know if there was 

ever anyone waiting, ever anyone looking. Or if any of them dug a 

tunnel to the other side. I don't look at the rushful roads anymore 

you know, so I will never know. 

And my garden. Well it says hello to the sky every day. 

Anne Sexton

Do you like me?”
No answer.
Silence bounced, fell off his tongue
and sat between us
and clogged my throat.
It slaughtered my trust.
It tore cigarettes out of my mouth.
We exchanged blind words,
and I did not cry,
I did not beg,
but blackness filled my ears,
blackness lunged in my heart,
and something that had been good,
a sort of kindly oxygen,
turned into a gas oven.

no more green

28th September, 2016
2:20 am
A man is learning to roller skate by himself
I'm back in the city after 46 days
And the sound of the rickshaw i'm in is only as cheerful as it used to be never. 

Booty Call

I'll be another 'Woodside' flashing on his screen. 

Lora Mathis writes

Your heart is the size of a fist because you need it to fight. 

The zoo

There are demons in my garden, Fred.
Green-eyed, evil-spirited, invisible - that chatter muchly.

There are insects in my cookies, posing to be chocolate chips, ready to go through thirty seconds of radiation in the microwave; suicide bombers i say -wanting to spread the infection of the population in me.

There is wine in my brain; red, thick, lumpy with grey cell collaborations. Streaming down the neurotic veins - like a river full of plastic waste, all made unclean by the guilty corpses of human memories.

There are world's in my heart; locked down, banished, quarantined, covered up by layers of broken promises, betrayal, fear, revenge, and truth.

There are marks on my feet. Caused by the thorny trees climbed, the mountains crawled to see the sea of clouds, by sea-urchins on the bed of the oceans bobbed with people I've met - hearts I've travelled through and with. There are marks on my feet - bruises I like, the kind you get when you walk on fire to win the war with the other you.

There are holes on my clothes
and burns in my heart

A ribbon to distract,
and a glass of tears to wash down.