it wouldn't matter

love is stupid,
a tall tale that men tell their wives
in bed and after when they are in bed with someone else,
between you and me,we are insane
and idiotic,
we never speak to each other
we tie our hair and leave the remaining thread
to secure the windows.
nothing left to speak about.

strange and random

are things that happen day to day.
even the feelings you have, are crazy
and volatile.
you want to sit- no- stand,
talk- i hate talking, go walking...but
i'd rather stay home and cook- then again, i hate cooking.
fucking mad, fucking mental case
can't cry, can't stop worrying, panicking,
choosing and resenting choices and wanting
to be out of this world and on a cruise ship
sailing to outer space.

time is walking away

there,
he's gone
and i'm feeling alone.
what will i do?

someone has said that before

drawing circles in the puddle
taking myself for a walk
it's cold but not too cold,
so you want to come too?
there is space for a few
don't talk, just walk along
stare at the distance for a change
act mysterious, dance quietly
in that corner, i'll come find you
it's best if we both stay right here
in this room.

faceless father

of the dying child
watching the grave being dug
by the cemetery caretakers
on a serene afternoon.
no sobs are heard, there is
no music playing, the air
is stiff, the trees are limp,
the undisturbed swifts of  fresh earth 
from 3feet under and counting
feels almost tender and calming.

talk

talk to me, i listen.

dead

he's dead ok.
don't call or msg or talk
i'm sick of your face
i'm tired of the mirrors
and the sun today
very boring, very dreary
too much travelling
not enough air
in my lungs from all that
smoking, the roads
are dirty, my clothes don't fit,
i'm stared at by people passing
by, i don't enjoy it,
and yes, he died yesterday,the funeral is today
and i'm not going.

i like the surety of the sun rising tomorrow
and that my hands, fingers and legs still work,
that i own a face that will face others.
the rides on cars and summer and winter wears
are optional with the calming wind
and the noisy streets are against the quiet god
in the pavements begging,
watching the people not staring, not standing still
reading their thoughts that are thinking about
everything and the god knows no where else to go.

the bulldozer rides over him
it's a circus trick, never fool proof
he doesn't get up again.