My Nightmare's End Is Your Exit

I was dreaming that we had broken up
then I awoke and I was that exactly alone
I sleepily aroused to remember the truth
that I'm subject to this nightmare on my own

you don't want me and I don't understand
we have been okay, good even, for ages
you know I was there for you; supportive
held you through all of your crazy stages

why are you doing this to me, let alone now?
your timing is despicable yet impeccable
your saying this makes me want to hate you
but I can't fake the feeling and you can tell

and that's the worst part of separation I guess
I only hope to wish I can impose you my pain
you gave up me and what you know is a future
apparently as you claimed; to stay sane

take time, find yourself, working something out
well it's all bullshit and you know no doubt
you could have worked it out with my help
now you've got nothing for us to show sound

I'm listless, I feel crippled and detached
I'm watching the life I've had collapse around me
but I'm lacking vision from within my body
it's distant and from the outside that I see

you think that you're special, exemplary
like not I or anyone else ever has doubts
well I'll give you the time away from me
you obviously need to work out what it's all about

being friends I don't think is a good idea
you're comfort is too much to endure
I can't stop missing our closeness and comfort
and not one of your sorrys is close to a cure

with this final; let me alone, just let me be
I'll move on without you, I know I must
you've proven time and over and again
I can't give you even a token of heart's trust

I hope that you can find whatever it is
that you or your life feels so lost without
you'll regret losing me for all of your life
you had your chance, now take your bow

through the good and bad but together
is how you've chosen not to be in this exit
there's no words left to say but please leave
shut the door and from you I'm set me free

All Over The Slowness

A man of twenty one is down about his seemingly (and ever more so) consuming, embittering, self-writhing waiting. And he lights another cigarette. A different brand from the second of two packs that he has with him because he's in the pattern of dissatisfaction of habits. One in his breast pocket, the other on the table. He sips his just more than half-drunk coffee, now luke-warm from exposure, as himself, to the bitter wind of a summer night that has not a trait to let believe it is so.

For all is swept and cold and anxious and imposes on him that exact mood as he thinks, despite having only minutes before arrived, that he is again wound round the tight bind of Love's baby little finger. And he wants to break it so and be free of the grip of consternation but he can't. Not yet, just not yet. Because he still sees in it some dreamy possibility, which he craves. A glimpse of a future, of an ideal, that he wants so badly to believe in and realise objectively as truth, and have faith in to rest upon his growing lonesome longings. So he but sits and waits.

It is not the first time he has waited for her. In fact he's waited on several occasions as he has with many a person, many a girl, many an instance in which he wishes to be in congregation with someone new and attentive and whom has such a mirrored aspiration. He's unsure at first why he convinces himself time and again that they - he or she - might change for him. Or not even for him, but for friendship's or honour's sake. This betrayal of his belief, which he blames them for invoking is a bottling hate, which will one day explode. But he finds forgiveness, for being knit so long, still has thread to give, but as one asks, 'how long is a piece of string?'

The juxtaposition is this: that he's reading Slowness. A book, somewhat but not exclusively, concerned with the notion of appreciating moments uninhibited by contemplation of the future. And he, who dreams of moments and upholds with pride the endeavor to focus and savor and remember those. Yet all the slowness of moments that are solo compound and pile upon each other stirring within him a desire for haste.

It has been until recently his subconscious quest to race through life, grow older, grow up because in those years where age seems the disparage of highest crime he aspired to being freer. Of constitution, opinion, people. But now, with his very aware and acute realisation that conversely with age comes plaguing and aching, waiting is the source of his accumulation of life in order to quicken his stream of existential being. For the dream he once had of the future and so much to greet has been excommunicated in favour of that to brisk through everything and have time to sit and rather than wait, contemplate the past and wish it lasted longer.

It is surely easier on the heart to review and wistfully recollect than it is to preview and see through to finally know there'll be nothing to forget. Except yourself. Time is that, which you can do nil to prevent loss of but have within your plans and corresponding actions every control over how it is spent. It is and always will be our greatest currency. So he leaves, grieving the cost of what she already owes him but knowing that he's learning a great responsibility. And just like that, the slowness is all over.

You Had Your Chance, But I'm Too Good For Goodbye

I find there's a familiar despise
in her greeting of squinted pretty eyes
and pity on her bitter breathe
when with a 'hi' she indiscreetly sighs
and I detect subtle fury in her tone
of conversation when she lies she's let go
and has ceased to let show any care

see, lately I have all too well fared
and perhaps that's to her surprise
since before us, as dust into thin air
did vanish the love we once shared
but with this meeting; her evidently,
not so well I can tell she has been
'cause what I read behind the screen
of her hate is refund of the lines

I screamed out loud when she said
there's nothing left to be felt
and content now my vengeful smile
returns that hurt she once dealt
and though be wicked I seethe
and knowingly so for it glee
I'm finally satisfied at how she
stumbles to correlate the way
we broke up with the possibility:

I'd better make for myself,
of my future and new love life
for her eyes have no foresight
only colour blind and hind prevails
and the places my heart and mind
now reside in are more the righteous
so with pride as I turn to leave
I give her one fleeting last glance
but so far unlike all my others
this one's for 'you had your chance'

With Hearts Still To Settle

'You know you are a whirlwind and I got swept up in your path. And still, though months passed you never completely set me down. I'd get close to feet on the ground then meet with you once again and have my interest stirred up and rendered unable to be shaken from your grip. And tonight's no exception, no closure on what started long ago. You and I have hearts to settle but until next time take care. All the best, you're most incredible.'

That's what he said to her. What he wished he could have said face to face, or conveyed with a kiss or an embrace. But over-contemplation placed him in the grip of fear in the moment and all his plans ceased at their evening's closure.

He walked in solitude, the incline up Swanston Street; the city fairly empty for a Sunday evening. Turning right up Little Lonsdale he felt his leather jacket pocket for his car keys. His sigh was as heavy as the weight she left on his heart at their every departure. For Feelings all too familiar he had not the comfort of a final cigarette as they'd shared the remains of a deck of Mild Sevens at the Carlton Club. And the last one of the packet they'd taxed each other of drags. Her lipstick on the filter tip, their fingers touching every couple of puffs.

Driving home and feeling more left alone than before, he played over and over the night's details. Spicy food for dinner. Her glasses of white, his matching quantities of red. The things they said, as every time like by rote, their tip-toeing around the moment they never closed months ago. She showed him her writing. Finally. It was what he questioned her of at every greeting and conversation the past year. Ever since the invitation to begin an exploration of creativity together.

Her words were magic and her offering of them modest. He encouraged her, genuinely impressed by what he read. There's a truth to the tune of your poetry and songs, he thought out loud. Despite all trying to concentrate on the pages, his eyes were for her lips, the same as they'd been since their first kiss. Of his inability to cease staring he was aware was obvious to her, but didn't care. He'd told her time and before and again of his wishful intentions and she knew, even if she pretended otherwise.

The instigation of their meeting was to consolidate their feelings and thoughts and happenings of their lives since she moved away. Now, she was moving further away again and him too before she would return. Obligation's grip gave each the mindset to not let time be their moat for history. A catch up was insisted upon. Post-dinner drinking was called for and for her choice of dinner; his was for where to drink. Overwhelmed with indecision he slipped into an attitude of being comfortable and determined an old hotel turned club.

She began with a cocktail, adventurous, daring, promising. He more aware that he'd be driving; decided a Gin and Tonic appropriate. The alcohol carrying their inhibitions from their brains, they continued the pattern of their warm and natural, chemical reaction conversation. But at every sentence, his thought ended with determination that he would kiss her before the night's end. For all she told him of though being single, not ready to yet again be with someone; he felt less aware of her dilemma, considering the waiting to which he'd already been subjected. But fairness did get the best of him at every chance he had he couldn't bring himself to move that two inches closer to her lips for fear she wouldn't initiate any response other than to scoff or laugh it off.

Walking the steps down and out of the Club at eleven thirty and back towards the tram lines he imagined and decided he would leave her with a full lipped kiss despite it all. A once and never again dare to sear himself further to her memory. They arrived at their fork in the street, their T-intersection and as he knew she would, he leaned at a speed to meet her. Arms outstretched in embrace and wrapped around each other. This time however, her mouth more obviously found his cheek. Unlike all their previous greetings and regards where she'd leaned straight and he'd mistakenly gone left, this time she didn't.

Unprepared and surprised, all he could do was find her neck with his lips and hold them there for a split second. And on the drawing back; peck her on the cheek in true defeat, his desire and intention impossibly indiscreet. Thinking to himself in the last look into her eyes: this may be the last time I see you where there's any freedom to be honest. He promised himself he wouldn't let her forget this year they'd not spent together. But per the pattern of his life in every instance up and until, including tonight he just put off confronting her. Resigning to confide in the sanction of writing, where he could prose everything to dose her heart with his love, he sat in the car and as it warmed up he wrote.

In her response she claimed herself not whirlwind but whirlpool instead. And as he read the slurred words, drunkenly fumbled into a text message he was perplexed at her perhaps misunderstanding his written-between-the-lines hurt. But what did make sense, whether she meant it or not, was that she was more whirlpool than whirlwind. And he Love's fool for he'd been sucked in and drowned so far that there was no obvious way out.

He turned on the headlights and drove home from the city and stepping through the front door got a new packet of cigarettes from his draw, made a cup of tea and lighting another Mild Seven up, started writing everything he thought.

Pursuit Of The New

Life's journey sees regret's a course
that I find I always abide by
like the way of the wind: choice has no say
about the outcome of any and I
Time's magnetism; it draws us together,
opposed poles for awhile
but eventually Love's electricity
turns us away on our sides
there's no improving our conduction,
no precedent proven right
and though I strive to encompass random acts
they only resolve contrived
my mission it seems is the acquisition
of people and personalities
but in persistent metacognition
I realise that through them it's myself
I seek and long to define

The Truth That Hurts Most

I watch as she traipses across the width of Kingsway
with spits and spatters of rain hitting the streetlamps
dressed in a black leather jacket and tied back blonde hair
it settles with me that my imagination was well fair

sitting, her eyes find distraction in the busy street
occupation with the activity and bustle indiscreet
but when her eyes eventually meet inline with mine
I'm more positive there's a glisten in them tonight

coffee and cigarettes is not an expense I consider great
when it takes place in the pleasure of her company
and something I realised in the midst of conversing
was the girl I thought I knew wasn't so and thus alerting

was the situation I wasn't sure if was dating and I
grew past any discerning whether interest or faking
then in the contemplating on the walk back to my car
I debated whether my goodbye appeared instigating

of further intentions beyond a late evening coffee
cause when I leaned in by her cheek I sure got the
impression I missed where her lips wished be placed
and as I tripped and became awkward made the mistake

of letting goodbye be a look over my shoulder
rather than what I could have let honesty show her
all things considered the truth that hurts us the most
is that to the invitation to know me I'm burden of a host

A Drunk Discussion Of Love

one and all maybe it's the alcohol
or ourselves, maybe it's this house
or maybe it's these conversations
we can't stop running around

love is certainly not a time-line
love's another word for history
love so far we struggle to define
love's relative to what's missing

we delight discussing these theories
and bust out these philosophies
as we rant our random hypotheses
and take for granted desire's hypocrisies

eventually we settle on nothing solid
but for love's not what we thought
and I tip back my drink deciding
tonight it's best not be distraught

the tiresome fight for understanding
has and is fought and now's long lost
and you and I, we resign to admire
love as something; privilege to be taught

but tell me; isn't love an experience
that must be lived and's razor concise
and that which we lack the words to
equate to and fail in attempts to describe

and furthermore the prized trophy
we strive to shelve before we die
it seems amidst this drunken banter
it's indiscreetly what we all wish to sigh

so night like this after night- repeat
we try to replicate the most we've felt
even if dealt with poorly in the past
to defeat our heart's will not be knelt

Not For Intoxication

for what's not connection
I know is chemistry
and for what's not letting grow
is an alcoholic memory
for what happened last night
sorry's not the right word
for what you let me show you
there's no lifetime that'll wipe away the hurt

intoxication's just a cheap excuse
for what you said you would do then didn't
not that I want any resolve other than
my stopping having to otherwise insist
take your tone now for example
it's sample you're great at looping
so much so that I don't know
what's spoken whether truth or fable

you found me the morning after
with tact I give you that
but the words you write as paper's thin
don't hold long intact
it's vicious how limitless your fingers
get behind those keys
as you tap away not looking down
do your eyes of the fight you give even see

Duty's Clause

duty calls and drags by it's claws
all my intentions to just ignore
until I give in for the sores
won't scab just bleed of all her need
and thick liability pours

with trepidation I always answer
with plans to excuse from further action
then tackle she will; a fish strung to my line
and though shackled my anchor gives every time

broke I am for lavishly spending
youthful vigor and energy tending
to send a regard when obligation grabs conscience
and what I loath most is the words I utter so honest

help not can be made for Sincerity's fool
yet genuine love seems my mind's likely tool
for plowing the crop of what I turn from
brief rest to pedestal and yet refuse to learn

We Spiralled Right Out Of Control

I love the words
I choose to use
to describe your use of me

low and behold
for all that I told
myself of our love I see

now left alone
more cold and closed
than ever, we're no possibility

and sting it does
the blind man's eyes
the images from which
he can't shake free

no sleep will save me
from the dreams I have
of you and I in the way
we used to be

not for need of closure
but more a rope to pull me
out of this time lapse
to which I heed

I despise to imagine
often the Summer days
hot, upon which we'd
decide to meet

you wearing a dress
myself in black tie attire
hand in hand towards water
bent to the gentle breeze

now be it days or years
before you realise
the ways which we made
our time sparse

for what we shared
and showed in pounds of care
we should've strived
to make longer last

but at last we caved
and saved what we could
of a relationship
best left as an ending

instead of mending with thread
only to know would come lose
we now bare rags and as homeless
carry bags filled with tokens

of better days and love's memories
and love letters we meant to send
but never will

Justice Is Luck's Brother

for all trying I can't get excited
about anything or anyone lately
let alone the puffs of smoke
that with need of nicotine I'm inhaling

and at impale with your words
my heart knows to weep
because it fails all my attempts
to hold near, safe and keep

the feelings that you're finding
in the arms of another
so similar and compatible
I wonder soul mate or lover

Justice is only brother
to Luck and Co-incidence
and it seems life is spent
awaiting that very instance

the moment of love's knowing
is worth every owning
and banking under lock and key
in the deepest part of your heart's memory

because it's at risk of being robbed
by life's cynical walk
and the way we write lyrics
and listen to songs and then talk

with wistful wonder at love's plunder
only to wind up empty in palms
and face each other outstretched
with the lengths of our arms