Be Still My Aorta?

Be still my beating aorta?

No, stomach with butterflies

No, tingling skin

With cool sensations


Be still my beating femoral?

No, ragged veins

No, shivering knees

With sinking caps


Be still my beating cerebellum?

No, my hazel eyes

No, my needled joints

No, my itchy feet

With shaky moves


Be still my beating heart?

Yes, her

Yes, that needy cur

Hovering despite me

A part that wreaks


Still beating




My head hurts

From that searing pain

One feels in wretched

Admiration of death

By relief

Lit sparks

Pool around the base

Of my  . . . head hurts

As oozing vapours

Saunter along


The itch

Seeping inside

The divided brain

Snips of rain

Calm illusive

Her pride



My head hurts

From the split

Two halves

In duel

And worn

My head hurts

From the searing pain

Of a restless mind



Long time me no see

Her face lit up

Eyes vibrant

Thoughts silent

When will I learn

Her moods, tone


And respect the gleam

Hold it in high esteem

And beam


Soul splits

Mine encased in half

Her love in the other

We are hers

She is ours

We need her love

And she’s our

Twinkling star

Sorry I didn’t see

I didn’t see them

Walking as if they need to be

Somewhere, anywhere

Scrimmaging around the block

Rocking to the side on the spot

Strolling round the school yard

Hanging round the desks,

Spacing, it seems

Hearts racing, beaming

Screaming, “It’s me!”

“See ME! Hear ME!”

Racing to the hub

Heading to the club

Working in the stores

Not street or non-street

Just them, as they were

As they are

But I didn’t see

The ones who looked like

Faceless names

But were

Something exquisite

Sketched heaps

Of Bohemia

The invisible ones

I’m sorry I didn’t see


The words

The words buck

Can’t intuit

Can’t install

Can’t state

Just can’t


Won’t speech

Won’t pitch

Won’t spill

That infernal itch

To carve unknown words

From despair


Like “I don’t know what to say”

. . . in moments like this

Can’t say

Won’t say

Don’t will me to speak

The words

I can’t find

Or squeeze through my tonsils

Yet I must try

Though they buck

And loosen with time, yeah?


Do you write for the thoughts in breach of conduct?

Or the dreams stumbling through the forest?

Do you write for the churned butter?

Or the lost cause?

Or the patient waiting in the courtyard for a pill?

Or the mood in the sanitarium?

Or the fans in the stadium holding their breaths?

Do you write for the guest in the lobby?

Or the actor in the scene?

Or do you write for yourself?

Do you?

Do you write?

Where are those piles of words?

The ones heaped on a restless landfill

Why do you write, my friend?

When will I hear your reason for this tense need?

Or do we wait until you dismount?

Do you know, or is all this wondering . . .

Wasted patience?

Just tell me

Why do you write?