Sappho of the South
Sweetest lips upon my mouth
From Tomboy Casanova
To Soft Butch Jehovah
Stone Top, Touch-Me-Not
To chapstick and Birkenstocks
She’s my Strapping Queen
The only flicker of my bean
Oh, Lavender Menace
I’m on my knees in minutes  
Stud-finder
****-diver
Love-guider
Me-inside-her
Lover’s lips upon my mouth  
Lovely Sappho of the South

Autumn and sleep deprivation

The world spins, right left right left
I am falling off the edge
I am slipping away
Drowsy, sick, tired and lethargic

I ache for what once was but will never be again
Sore for reminiscence
Yearning for reconnection
left hallow in the lack of your presence

I saw her last night dancing her heart out
It was glowing, how the leaves do when the sky is empty
And loud like lighting and thunder on a stormy fall night as
Her feet bounced up and down the wooden floor

I could feel her eyes on me
An unshakable serene feeling
Her lavender taut dress was a magnet and my eyes steel
We are the two neither poles

We bear each others presence
My brain is filled with the presumption of
how we were meant to be here together
Like two yellowed leaves decomposing

A promise broken

I stood in the corner with another person
His arms around my waist
My palms on his face
Yet no true yellow rays of embrace

I don't feel delight nor contentment
Rather bitter resentment
For him, for you, for me, for the world

I have to ripe in the consequences of my actions for as long as we are in this building together

I recall the faux weddings
That youth had adorn.
We were something like five or six,
Playing in her attic.
They had setup
A whole play marriage altar
Out on the back lawn.
My "bride-to-be"
Was dressed in her attire properly,
White veil & everything.
We had often played at house,
But never at matrimony.
It was always explicitly implied,
In such games,
That we were already married.
I did, she did -
You may kiss;
Sweet pronouncement!
Just as with half of all marriages,
We eventually grew apart.

Maybe it was the economy,
Maybe it was our goals;
Maybe it was because we were children,
Maybe because it was just for fun.

I still remember picking for eggs
At her home on Easter.

my bookshelves are empty,
my room is too.
the emptiest however, is my heart
for this house isn't mine anymore.

i tried to make this house a home,
decorated the walls with paintings,
every other empty space with plants and trinkets
but alas, a house remains a house.

over the past three years,
i have familiarised myself with every
scratch and crack and dent in the walls.
they whisper sadness as we depart.

my washroom tiles look strangely blue too.
they've listened to me wail and sob and curse
they've seen me dance and sing and laugh
they know I'll forget about them soon enough though.

a year down the line, i will forget about the crack on the ceiling wall.
i will forget about my favorite corner in the room,
and promptly the house will forget me too.
for the paintings will be removed, and the tiles replaced.

the walls will be painted over
removing any trace of the fact
that this house
was once a home.

the labyrinth is all i know.
i might have been born in it,
my nascent cries and wails amplified
by its damp and desolate walls.

maybe i crawled into it as an infant,
naive and unaware
of the horrors it housed,
for the labyrinth imitates life.

i do remember still,
when i realised i was stuck
like a rat in a maze
with no end in sight.

thirteen was when i built
a sojourn in the labyrinth.
a bubble, for no one but me
and my hopes and my dreams.

but soon the dismal walls closed in.
the bubble popped.
i tried desperately to hide
the glowing orb of hope deep in my heart.

yet slowly, it ebbed away.
with it, died all that was good
with it, paled every color
with it, i was lost at last.

with all that is left in me,
i still try,
try to find a way out.
i want to escape, i do.

how will i ever get out of this labyrinth?

I’m a rainy day parade.
A parade that was rained on
but decided to play anyway.

Neither the rain nor the parade is a charade.
Rather, the rain is Kool-Aid and the parade is a wall
of a bar.
I’m on the other side looking far



too






gone.
I sob and blub between a racket of thunder and brass.
Every emotion I feel feels crass.

Alas, are these drops tears or rain?
My life is a metaphor for itself.
Is that irony or plain?
Maybe they were drops of Kool-Aid.

There is a robot in my pocket,
it's smart enough to design rockets,
but just gives the forecast,
and knows all about my past,
it even works with no socket.