Something True

Where are the words?

Where are the words to

Describe this feeling, for

That is all I do, I

Describe feelings, because

To feel them would be too

Painful.

But this one cannot be

Put into words

Look! See! I am

Not telling you

Anything about it.

It’s there,

I swear.

But I cannot tell you

How it feels.

It’s like when I felt scared

I was going to be sitting

On a street corner

With nothing to eat.

But not exactly.

It’s like when I felt excited

That there was something

Around the corner

That was going to

Make life wonderful.

But not exactly.

It’s like when I felt anxious

Because I didn’t know

What to do next,

And thought I would

Make a terrible mistake.

But not exactly.

It’s a feeling neither

Good nor Bad.

It just tells me that

I am finally

Feeling

Something

New.

Something

Different.

Something

True. 

London August 2013

Perspective

You have to remember Diana.

To us, she was a princess

With the world

At her

Feet.

She could have all the

Freedom

She wanted.

Except her personal

Freedom.

She could have anything

She wanted.

Except her virginity

Back.

She was told,

I am told,

The night before she married him,

Just a few hours before she gave herself,

That he was in love,

With another.

It was

Too late

To back out.

Can you imagine

How she cried

When the public show was over?

She was embarrassed.

She was in shock.

She was innocent.

She was owned.

You think

Diamonds

Made up for

All that?

(Zurich, May 2011)

Ode to Zurich

Oh Zurich,

I don't understand you and

I don't know if I ever will

If it was just one language to learn

Perhaps there would be hope.

But so many...

Where do I start?

You know I've never

Been good

With decisions.

And though you are clean,

You really stink.

We met too late,

My smoking days

Are over.

You are tall, strapping men,

In well-tailored suits and

Designer shirts,

Who smoke.

You are Gucci-clad women,

With six-figure salaries and

Over-sized teeth,

Who smoke.

You are the fence-sitting Swiss,

Who really don't want to be friends

With anyone.

And you don't get

My jokes.

But I love walking your streets,

Pretending I fit in,

When I don't.

My collar bone

Fits in.

It is perfect,

Protruding

Just enough

Below my chin.

A fat-free zone,

Covered by just

The right amount of

Flawless skin.

The rest of me is a mess

And might as well move

To

France.

(Zurich, May 2011)

Self Portraits I & II

Self Portrait I

She keeps her eyes

Wide open

To receive.

There is

Lightness

There.

But with every step

She carries

The weight

She cannot

Lose.

The memories,

Regrets,

And ghosts of lost

Loves

Hang about

Her middle.

The padding

Around

Her legs

Prevents her from

Prancing and

Dancing as

Freely as she

Would like.

You want to take a

Big knife

And cut her

Free.

Self Portrait II

She talks

Too much.

Not for

Attention.

Not

Anymore,

Anyway.

She talks

Too much

Because it would

Be rude

To sit and write

In company.

Though maybe

It's also

Rude

To talk

Too much.

(Zurich, May 2011)

Home

Home

Is a place where you

Stand and think,

I belong.

Home

Is a place you can't feel sad

About leaving because

You know

You will

Be back.

Home

Is part of your

Past,

Present, and

Future,

Even if you've only just

Arrived and are leaving

Tomorrow.

Home

Is a place where

You find people

With hearts

Made from the same material

As yours.

At home

You speak,

And are understood.

At home

You listen,

And understand.

At home,

Smiling is easy, and

Love

Is a feeling

That never

Leaves.

(Wellington, January 2011)

Fantastic Future

Falling once was a

Frightening

Feeling. Now I am

Fearless as I

Free fall, my

Fingers

Finding

Freedom

From past constraints, my

Face

Finally

Flawless,

Forgetting past

Fears. My body

Flows through

Fortune's

Fine web,

Forming my

Fantastic

Future.

(Silver Lake, November 2010)

Another Angel

You see yourself

From

One Angle.

Move the mirror.

Now look at that.

That's how others see

You.

Beautiful,

Poised, with a

Presence radiating

Passion and truth.

Where you see

Flaws,

Others see

Flair.

Where you see a

Loser,

Others see a

Survivor.

See,

You are An Angel

From Another Angle.

(New York, May 2010)

Do You Understand Now?

Here are the hands that held me,

That kept tight hold of my heart,

Protecting the part

In constant pain,

Reliving the past

Like there was something to gain

From molesting

Memories,

Like

Medusa's

Snakes

Hissing unhelpful hints.

"You're unlovable,"

"You'll fuck it up again,"

"You'll never lose weight,"

"You're just not good enough."

They hiss.

Yes,

Here they are,

The hands that held me

Back.

That would not let me love

With strength.

In every case

I would

Lack

The courage

To say

"This is the limit of my love,"

I gave until

There was nothing left

For me.

So I would cling

To anything

Or anyone

Until they

Said "Go!"

Then I got mean,

For a time,

Kicking

Long-standing relationships

In the teeth,

Believing in

No thing,

Not even myself.

And so I took these hands,

These hands that held my heart,

And I said,

"Thank you.

Thank you, hands, that held me,

But now, piss off!"

It's time to heal

And pump the blood

And get that aching heart

Working again.

And so I healed,

And pumped,

And grew,

And no more

Hissing snakes

Tormented me.

In their place

Were butterflies

Of change,

Fluttering

Freely

In the air

Around me,

With no attachment

To me,

Reminding me

That love

Is best given

When it is a by-product

Of

Joy,

Gratitude,

Humility,

Fearless passion,

Self worth,

And

An insatiable desire

To giggle

And marvel

At the history

And mystery

Of such pompous

Musings.

(Silver Lake, February 2010)

Finally

Here is where the pain stops.

Here is where the joy begins.

Here is where the aching ends,

And the courage wins.

Breaking through the wall of fear,

Breathing air clear

Of negative particles.

Consuming only love,

As it bounces back and forth,

Radiating blinding light.

Finally

Living.

(Los Angeles, September 2009)

Four Hours

More for the sake

Of the child

Inside

Do I hesitate

To embrace

You

With the full force

Of what I feel.

I would

Lie, limp,

In your arms,

And allow

Your power

To engulf me

And penetrate me

Until I was full of you,

Were it not for

The bruised heart

Of the fairy-tale princess

Who sits on shattered dreams

That I still

Must tend.

If this could be

Heaven on earth,

If these are

Tears of joy

That clean my cheeks,

Then I am powerless

To prevent

A piece

Of my history

From taking shape.

If, once again,

I have mistaken

Hope for truth,

Lust for love,

Need for want,

Then history has

Only

Repeated itself,

And life is

Kicking me in the gut

With a lesson

I refuse to learn,

And I will slowly

Slip away

Before,

Or

After,

I take

Another hit.

The pure heart

Is incapable

Of exercising

Caution.

That's all I've really learnt.

(Los Angeles, September 2009)

The Day The Cricket Died

He was on his back

When I found him,

Kicking his legs in the air.

I put him right.

He jumped off the porch,

Out of the shade,

Into the midday sun,

And started to

Bake.

He limped along

For an inch or so,

Gave a flutter

Of his wings,

And flipped over

Again.

Losing the will to live, he

Twitched

Once,

Twice,

And then was still.

A minute passed

Before I thought I saw

A small movement.

But it was only

The wind

Nudging him,

Encouraging him,

As I had done,

To try again.

But he was gone.

His empty shell

Donated to the earth.

I knew him briefly,

That cricket.

He was on his back

When I found him,

Kicking his legs in the air.

(Silver Lake, September 2008)

Playing With Fate

See, that's the problem,

When you don't ask questions.

You make things up,

You start believing in.

You don't want to

Spoil

The magic of

The mystery?

Fine.

But don't falter

When the truth

Comes out.

Stay strong.

Value what it is.

Or what it was.

Respect

Your own

Responsibility

In the situation.

If you go in with your eyes closed,

Don't open them.

Unless you want to see

The puppet master,

Ugly and tired,

Pulling the strings

Of your life.

You want to play games

With fate?

Fine.

But don't complain

When fate wins.

He always does.

(Los Angeles, March 2009)

If He Knew

I can't help myself

I've done it again.

I've met a boy

Who melts me when

He touches my arm

Just above the elbow,

And kisses my lips with strength

And humor. And so

I am weak with desire

And strong with hope,

And all I can do

Is try to cope

With the time

Between the times

I spend with him.

Writing rhymes

And drinking wine

On my own,

Imagining he's mine.

If he knew

I was writing this

I'd die. I'd have to

Pretend to miss

His call.

(Not that he'd

Call, if he knew I was

Writing

This.)

(Los Angeles, March 2009)

Our Songs

No.

Sorry.

I can't listen

To "our songs"

Anymore.

Which is a pity.

Because some of them

Are very good.

I miss them.

I miss you.

I want to listen to them again.

I want to listen to you again.

But not the part where you're saying

You're

Leaving.

I don't like that part.

Just the part where you're saying

You're

Laughing

Too hard.

So hard

You think you might

Puke.

That was funny.

(Los Angeles, March 2009)

London

London

Got lost

Behind the scowl

Of the disgruntled

Bus driver

And the gasp

Of a tourist aghast

At the filth.

Grey gargoyles

Blend into

Grey skies,

And the green Starbucks sign

Is visible

In three directions

In Piccadilly Circus.

There's histroy

Hidden

On the crumbling banks

Of the Thames,

Invisible to the eyes

Avoiding

Other eyes

On the Northern Line.

The theatres would be emtpy

But for the stars of Reality TV

And American movies;

Box offices unmanned

But for the RADA trained actor

Making rent

And one meal

Per day.

Buskers audition

To beg

At a beer-sponsored

Spot,

And the homeless

Have a right

To every coin

In your pocket.

If you don't want to work,

The state

Will pay you

To sit at home

And smoke.

If you do want to work,

Schoolchildren

Will break in to your home

And steal what you earn.

And there will always,

Always,

Always

Be engineering works

On the day

You must travel

From

Paddington

When a man was tired of London,

Once he was

"tired of life".

Now if a man is tired of London,

You can't bloody blame him!

(London, February 2007)

Pictures of Perfection

Child,

Believe

You can do

Anything.

Do not look at what is around you,

Think of what could be.

What you dream of is

Tomorrow's world.

No one can see it but you. 

Thank your imagination for

Pictures 

Of 

Perfection.

Others will try to hold you back

Because they lack

Courage.

Until you die

Nothing can stop you changing the world

Except your own fear.

Never mistake 

The voice of fear

For

The voice of reason.

YOU

Are the most exceptional person who has ever lived.

Only by doubting

THAT

Will you ever fail.

Take what you are and make

The future

BEAUTIFUL.

(London, January 2007)

The Comfort of Silence

Did I say that out loud?

It's not the first time

I felt

Like crawling away

Or turning back time,

Wishing I could

Extinguish

That desire

To tell a random stranger

What I believe.

I feel him shrink and recoil

From this girl

Who has said something

That makes him feel 

Uncomfortable,

Because he felt safe

In the knowledge

That his darkest desires

Were invisible. 

He wonders,

"How can she see

The unknowable me

When I cannot put into words

My formative years

That torture me?"

She feels his pain,

And then,

Falls 

Silent.

For once.

(London. January 2007)

Pieces Of Truth

Pieces of truth,

Fragments of memories

Make up me.

Pleasure and pain,

And the experience they gain

When vying for a spot

At the top

Of my list

Of significant moments.

Is it then or now

That matters, and how

Do I know if I can trust my head?

So much to think on,

Both good and bad, that curl

Like two trails of smoke

Disappearing. 

What is precious now

Did not exist then.

What was everything then

Is nothing now.

Much later

All will change.

Count and bless the good minutes today,

Tomorrow could bring anything.

There is a place

Inside

That I return to

For comfort.

But even so,

Every time I go

The sky is a different colour.

(London, January 2007)