Jim, I don’t understand you
Did you mean all you said?
Or were you an actor with amazing talent?
Who fooled me into two months of love?

Jim, you foul mouthed
Who keeps talking of women
Like objects and demons
And I am standing between
Wondering what I did?

Jim, do you feel good calling yourself my slave
As I state my opinions and you look in disdain
Is that love?
I don’t have much experience

Jim, and your obsession with my beautiful sister
How you wanna meet her and love her and steal her
While I am simply sobbing inside

Voices raised at dawn
picture a city in flux
I hear such promise
in the sweep and swell
delight
of rippling foot echoes

Echoes of a shady past
Ballroom in the sky
Hitchhiker from another world
Little known shortcut
Hope springs eternal
Far beyond hereafter
Rush amid the rapids
Hieroglyphic hearts bc part two
Spineless in the running
Hearing things
Seeing things
Brazen outside lodgers
Somewhere on foot
A penny for your thoughts
After midnight canvas
Wounded urban Psyche
A haunting spot
Wide eyed  saunter
Earthly thoughts shimmer
Pearl eyed riser
Bold Wetlands Dash

The Inconsiderate Flowers
By: Know Now

The flowers grow
Iridescently and annoyingly.
The ever glowing colors of petals
Fill my mouth and stuff my ribcage,
Making it hard to breathe.

They are a dirty burden that grow
In any cracks they find.
Their vibrant green color
Embedded into
My nails.

How rude they are.
My tears are replaced
With their nectar.
Their leaves and vines
Wrap around my eyes and neck
As they force me to inhale their

A nation does not thrive on dreams
It thrives on the blood of working machines
A family is not fed by dreams
It is fed by the sweat of working machines
So, we must kill and eat the useless dreams
And in its stead raise working machines

To eat a dream, one must first eat the soul,
To eat the soul, a tasty affair old as time
Mounds of money traded for morsels of passion
All to be chowed on and chewed
Phantoms of fear bartered for bales of brawn
All to be sucked on slurped
Hapless hedonism swapped for crystals of love
Dissolved and devoured

Natural peaks ensue to gaze at longingly
Intense elation follows in svelte swathes
Red picturesque skyline indented ink
Vanish blue mood blight a crude distort
Avenue on toe in vivid vapoured morn
Nullify the urge to harvest doomed musing
Art engulfing dawn spot an abundant spree

Always tantalising for the mundane
escape intrepid venturer

Heaven is that lofty aspiration whose
proximity now loitering

The wind comes and the apple sees its chance.
It pulls and tugs, heaves and ho’s,
But the stem is yet supple, green with promise.
The wind dies down, the tree chuckles, and the apple sags.
Next time.

The child comes, a little girl, the mother watching from afar.
As they climb looking for the reddest, most luscious fruit of all
The apple slicks itself back, bares its widest smile.
But just as the ingénue stretches out in its direction,
They are called back to safety, to warm, welcoming arms.
The tree snickers, the apple sighs.
Next time.

I led a boring life.
The end.

All joking aside, now the epilogue.

As a bookish fellow born January 13th,1959
he attended school and got promoted
as a mediocre student,
who honestly nearly failed every grade
courtesy my nasty, short
and brutish doppelgänger,
who nixed, sabotaged, waylaid
me a little boy blue
(nothing but a representation of innocence),
who felt depressed
at the prospect of experiencing childhood's end,
and essentially tried to starve himself to death
courtesy Anorexia Nervosa
but mother dearest intervened

I leaned in with my eyes, waiting for you to catch the unspoken words,
but you looked right through me, lost in your own orbit.

My hands hovered at your elbow—
tiny invitations I thought you’d notice—
but you didn’t turn.

I carried my heart on my sleeve, bruised and hopeful,
offering you its quiet rhythm,
and you walked past it like street noise.

In the silence between us,
I screamed in gestures: a tremble, a sigh, a borrowed courage.
You mistook it for nothing.

A watch ticks
in frantic metre
in sagging pocket
as I seem to sense
an unfolding plot
or even limp plod
nothing quite counts
when time filtered
reckoner a flop of
passage without firm
compass or point
witness to a witless
whimsy as figures
gather but for what
purpose yet one
gleans this focus
against the hour
minute a minutiae
smiles indicate upshot
closer to a shapeless
triumph’s game intrinsic,
shape assuming form
count down to whatever