The Last Poem I Wrote For Her

Loving her was like loving fire.
Hot, beautiful, primal,
a terrible burning in the heart.

Not like loving earth,
something solid,
a place to stand,
to plant the feet
and grow things.
A love to live upon.

Nor was it like loving air.
Something you can breathe in
and relax surrounded by.
A cool evening breeze
that blows on through
lending a certain comfort
along it’s way.

It wasn’t even like loving water
drank in
swallowed up
a love that satiates,
can be survived upon
that cools, revives,
is the essence of life.

No,
loving her was like loving fire
and loving fire is a madness.
You want so badly to touch
it’s amazing incomprehensible
irresistible flame,
but it’s fire,
and even a lovely gentle fire
does but one thing;
consumes that which feeds it.
It only destroys.
Because, that’s what fire does.
No matter how exquisite
beautiful or enthralling,
It burns.

Loving her was like loving fire
and it consumed me
and scarred me
and burned away at my soul
until I was all burned up.
like a walking volcanic phantom,
sweltering ash in her wake.

May 30, 2009

- Paul Sexton

(featured in the poetry forum 08.07.09)

(to order Paul Sexton's new book,
Her Soul Bled Out, please click here.)

come undone
09-08-08

Nothing ever happens
Anywhere
Anytime
Nothing at all
Birds don't sing
The sun don't shine
Elephants forget
Cars don't start
Bees are cut off at the knees
Eyelids that never blink
Flowers hang unbloomed
Cats don't scratch and claw
Silent death never comes
Men don't cry
Thunder doesn't follow lightning
It's always empty in the sky
All grass is brown and dead
Politics stays the same
White noise static on the television
The national anthem is never sung
No one eats pie or cake or pizza
Candle wax doesn't melt
Babies aren't born
Men in horned rimmed glasses never sneeze
Volcanoes lie dormant
Rabbits eat their own feet
Movie sets are empty, no one yells "action" on them
Race horses fall over
Time flows down a drain
Hairstyles never change
Policemen sit silently, not eating donuts,
not writing tickets or laughing at your expense
White lace dresses tatter
Bowling balls wobble
Gum is spit out
Unsmoked cigars sit smoking
Girls don't flirt
Whoops don't holler
Grasshoppers won't hop
The far off sounds are coming from nowhere
No one wins a medal, or first prize or second prize
or no prize
Writers tap there pens relentlessly then
fall Christ-like backwards in work chairs
Clowns don't cry
Fools are suffered lightly
Glass eyes don't see
Blues songs aren't sad
Everything yellow disappears
No one gets on that airplane
There are no regrets
Martyrs can find no martyrdom
Monsters aren't frightening
Childhood is like a walk in the park
Wheels won't turn
Hummingbirds kill themselves old school Japanese style
Fortune cookies are empty inside
Cheaters prosper a little
Hats blow off heads
Turtles stack upon turtles in a pyramid
Fish cannot breathe
Monkeys stop fornicating
Limestone doesn't taste like lime
The whole dark world stands still mid jack off
Ticket takers won't take tickets
Flies on the wall don't even give a shit about what's being said
Liars lose their inertia
Honey tastes like piss
Guns misfire
Eggs crack open of their own volition
Carousels won't spin
Angry people sit down with head in hands
Moths surround the ankles
The ketchup won't pour out
Entropy sings like Christmas carols on small children's lips
Nothing ever happens
Anywhere
Anytime
Anything at all
And you don't love me
And you don't love me
And you don't fuck me
You don't fucking fuck me
But you fucking fuck other people
But not fucking me
Bugles blow mournful
Every living tiger screams
Fire burns the head of a match
And you won't stop leaving
One way or the other
With your body
With your face
With your words
With your pussy
Your pussy won't fucking stop leaving
Your heart
Your love
Your connection to all things great and small
It just won't stop leaving
over and over and over
Like trains at a train station
Particles of light
Turning pages in a book
I can't see your fucking smile
Somebody is fucking you now
Ripples in a pond
Butterflies in spider webs disintegrate
Icicles fall stabbing baby lizards in the eye
The universe is flaccid
No one even bothers to masturbate anymore
Pancake syrup down the side of your face
The waitress at the diner offs herself
Phones don't ring
Prodigal sons never return
Pedophiles sip cocktails and smile
at new years eve celebrations
Planted seeds grow Karma like rotting fruit
Demons go unfought
Prophets predict the worst scenarios
Sleep is now a wicked enemy
Poems fall apart
Every single fucking poem falls apart
Inkless pens
Shit from the ass
Stupid languages
Words don't mean shit when twisted around like
quantum folly bullshit bluster
And you don't love me
And you won't love me
You won't love me
only fools to which you are nothing.
You won't fuck me
only fools to which we are nothing.
Everyone goes back to full time jobs.
We all give up the ghost, or the dream, or the secret
secrets, secrets, secrets,
motherfucking secrets!
Perverts, liars, fucking cunts
every last one of you
Return to the same as before
Except for me, I'm disabled now
Everything back to what it was
You back in your place
Everyone back to their place
Someone yells action
Frozen time resumes
Nothing happened
Nothing happens
Nothing ever happens anywhere
Nowhere
No time
No one
Nothing at all
Nothing at all
Nothing at all

- Paul Sexton

(featured in the poetry forum 01.14.09)

Melancholy Symphony
07-08-08

My guts; all opened up.
Now, I am here before you
praying, that you alter my views,
or better yet that I can alter yours.
I mean just a little, just enough
to move you,
to catch me here, while I fall.

Hold me forever and ever and ever.
Putting things inside you.
Allowing me the luxury of
adoration.

Scrawled sentences that
will never see the light,
of screen or mic.
Here they are;
noodles and truth,
small round table,
every possible fear and insecurity
and all my endless love,
laid out in surrender.

All the dark non-breaths without you
are killing me.
They are truly doing me in.

Yet,
Silly crashing moments keep me going.
every moment you
laugh and speak in tongues.
Nod and listen in that certain way.
Allow with grace these torso hands
to guide you up a stairway.
Hands upon shoulder, broken heel.
The way we
shuck and jive one another.
You've got to know that
you're the only one for me
and I for you.

I'm dying here. Truly dying.

Still crying
late in the car with my buddy.
Had to play our poem one more time.
Gasping for air through Shiner Bach tears.
All these prayers on paper like this.
I had to avert my eyes.
The palms of your hands upon my shoulder blades.
I still can't look into your eyes
those times,
when your fingers briefly lock with mine.
I think you get it now,
my madness and sincerity,
that they are intertwined.
Regardless of what others have said of me
in the past,
that you would have ever paid them heed
with innate inabilities to understand me
the way that only you do
and only I do you.

The world is full of critiques.
Critiques of you, critiques of me
critiques of you and I together.
Coming from all directions all of a sudden.
but I don't care, and you don't care
because we have our own problems
and only we
know what we are like in
me and you against the world moments.

Can he really not hear my pain?
Can anyone really not hear our pain?
Like a melancholy symphony, together.

I'm falling here
I'm falling, falling, falling,
and I want to see my children grow up.
I want to see what their faces look like
in five years in ten years
and I want you to be there with us.

Catch me now
and I promise I will hold you up forever.
Softly whispering,
that you were all I needed.

- Paul Sexton

(added 10.15.08)

Grande Soul Mate Drip

You are like
a Starbucks Grande coffee,
spiritually
in my soul.

You fill me up with this
dark hot
kick it in the ass coffee.
There is no room for anything
or anyone else in this cup.

I can't drink anyone or anything else.
And no one or nothing else can drink me.
Our souls are married and bonded
and everyone and everything else
drops away
when we are together,
causing ripples of
friction, jealousy, resentment
and all manner of stupid madness
in all kinds of people everywhere near
for some pretty much inexplicable reason.

I don't really care I suppose
except,
only problem being,
when you fill the Grande Starbucks cup
of my soul
with your burning goodness
you leave room
for cream and sugar.
and you've never added the cream and sugar
and I won't drink it without
because it's too strong
and frankly a little bitter.

You keep handing me the filled up cup
over and over
saying c'mon drink it.
But I won't.
And you get pissy saying
I keep pouring you this awesome
goddam coffee
into your Grande Soul,
just shut up and drink it
and I keep saying
No, I drink my coffee with cream and sugar,
see,
you leave enough room for it
there in the cup
just enough
and it's not like
as long as you keep filling my
Grande cup up
over and over
I could actually get any
coffee
anywhere else
the way I need it.

So there I am,
best god dam coffee in town
in my life,
ever
hands down
a bottomless cup
you keep refilling
dark, bitter, and
and although I love the shit
out of some coffee
It's something
I can't drink
so I have
no coffee at all.

Or maybe being up
all night with you
just makes me think up
some ridiculous shit
in the morning
before leaving the house
to get a cup.

- Paul Sexton

(added 10.07.08)

Shadow of Ash
07-22-08

Everything you do effects me.
You are the butterfly
to my causality.

Your eyelids open up
universes.

Your horizons are
my periphery.

Your voice , in synapse
a chorus of spheres.

The sub-atomic thought moments
that make you
feel alive.

Now inserted
and intertwined
in-between mine.

You are blindingly beautiful
as you explode in time.

I am a
man-shaped
shadow of ash
left behind.

- Paul Sexton

(added 10.07.08)

Nightmare Before Christmas
07-20-2008

It’s kind of funny,
her favorite all time movie, that is.
I think it must be
Tim Burton’s
Nightmare Before Christmas
.
One of the oddest things about her,
a trait we both share in a big way,
Is that we talk and talk and talk
most of the time,
unless we are mopey
in which case everybody knows it.
Sometimes, when you’re always going,
you forget what you’ve said before
and to who.
I think it’s like that when
she tells me about
Nightmare Before Christmas
.
She gets this excited gleam in her eyes
while recounting the plot.
What she thinks it means
An outsider coming from this one place
into another.
Yearning for something more.
About the characters, how they meet
where they come from, what they want.
She will smile and laugh when
explaining the funny parts,
“Santy Claws” she laughs.
Her voice getting higher and faster
Until launching into the final part
where she sings snippets of the songs
in this deliberate
cartoon voice, smiling,
Her eyes get large and round.
I have seen her do this entire bit
many times.
I’ve lost count.
But each and every time
I remain silent, do not interrupt
and give no indication that
I have heard it before.
In fact
I usually maintain facial expressions
that say it is interesting,
new, entertaining,
Captivating,.
because it is.
I smile and I nod
listening to every single bit.
I laugh at the end and say
“That sounds awesome,
we need to watch that together sometime”
but we never have.
I’m not sure
what else to say about this.
I’m just telling a story
about her.
There are a hundred more.
They are small
and might seem meaningless
to you.
But,
when someone
Really means the world to you,
all the tiny stories like this
are not meaningless,
they are everything.

- Paul Sexton

(added 10.07.08)

hummingbird

I was outside
on the patio doing bench press
surrounded by
flowers and bushes and trees.

I'd finished a set
then sat up to rest for a moment.

Directly in front of me was a
Hummingbird.
I could see it clearly.
It's frantic wings
darting from place to place
flower to flower
taking what it needs to survive.

It seemed like time stopped
as I, and this beautiful thing
existed together
in a frozen moment.

It was beautiful.
The kind of beauty
that lingers
forever
after.

Suddenly
it was gone.

I went back to my bench,
but I was different
than before.

It reminded me
of you.

- Paul Sexton

(added 09.29.08)

agony

The agony of love,
how terrible it is.

The pain of truly being alive.

Troubadour suffering,
denied sight of the beloved.

Empty silent nights.

Every aspect
pounds and rushes.

flowing
through the entire body.

Wildfire memory.

A sweet pain in
every terrible breath.

- Paul Sexton

(added 09.29.08)

SAD2008!
07-28-2008

In the building, up the elevator, at my desk.
I hit enter to start the computer.
The screen to log onto the network pops up.
It says "Password expires in 2 days,
do you wish to change it now?"

I choose yes.
I type "GOODBYE0728!", and verify it.
There are only so many characters one can use,
or I might have typed in;
"I CAN'T BELIEVE
YOU ARE LEAVING AGAIN!"

Or perhaps;
"YOU DEVISTATE ME!"
Or possibly;
"PLEASE STAY!!!"
Or maybe even;
"I LOVE YOU SO SO MUCH
EVEN THOUGH YOU ALWAYS
HURT ME REAL BAD!"

Or go crazy with something like;
" EVERYTIME YOU LEAVE
I FEEL LIKE HALF MY SOUL IS MISSING
YOU FREAKING CRAZY BROAD!"
But no,
there are only so many characters one can use.
SO I settle for GOODBYE, with the date.
Then after a while, that will expire
and she will still be gone.
and I will want to type;
"STILL MISSING YOU" with that days date.
But that will likely be too long as well.
So I'll settle for;
"SAD2008!"
and that will be that.

- Paul Sexton

(added 09.29.08)

Spiritus Veritas

I just want something real,
he said
I just want something real,
he said.

This common experience.
This shared suffering.
This birth into tragedy that
has shaped us so.
Demented us so.
Made us artist.
Let our spirits soar.
I just want the real experience now.
The authentic.
I suffer for it.
I await it.
I yearn for it.
This is the truth I toss about in
meandering lines.
We are in a space outside the tribe.
We are the neurotic episode.
We are heaven's offerings unto the dirt.

I don't want
the ones who hide from it
wearing the hiding
like a mask.
I don't want the ones who
fester in it
wearing the festering
like a mask.

Let us transcend it.
Let us overcome it.
Let us be all at once above it.
Let us enlighten ourselves with
the healing of it.
Let our spirits sing.
Let our words be divine.
Let us be more,
more and more and more
than the circumstance of it.

Faith faith faith faith
faith faith faith faith.
Goodbye to being,
hello becoming.

I just want something real,
he said.
I just want something real,
he said.

I'm not sure what I want
she said.
Something altogether different.
I think.
Come and be
real
with me

- Paul Sexton

On Fire

you're on fire
you're on fire
you're on fire
everything about you is on fire.

your eyes are on fire
your eye lashes are on fire
the tiny edges at the corners of your smile
are on fire.
your lips are on fire
you hips are on fire
all the lines that come together in-between
to create this amazing being
are on fire.

your heart is on fire
your soul is on fire
your mind is on fire
your voice is on fire
your words are on fire.
the feelings you feel and
the thoughts that you think, are on fire.
your laughter is on fire,
especially your laughter is on fire.

your dreams are on fire.
the compassion of your actions is on fire
the places where you get occasionally lost
inside your hopes and memories of the past,
are on fire
everything inside you is on fire.

the air that surrounds and slides around
your burning form when you move through it
is one fire.
the infinitesimal empty spaces burning with desire
that come together to create the matter
which manifest your form and being
are on fire.

you're on fire
you're on fire
and when you look at me
and when you speak to me
and when I look close at you
and when I listen close to you
and when I feel close to you
and when you open your heart
for tiny fleeting brief moments to me
I am on fire. I am on fire,
and it's your fire
and it doesn't go out.
It burns.

you're on fire
you're on fire
you're on fire.

- Paul Sexton

It Is What It Is

I prefer that feeling.
That dried up feeling.
That spent feeling.
That empty feeling.
I dig it,
dig it hard,
when people are the worst to me.
The cruelest.
The most unkind.
I like it best when I
know it's coming
like a familiar tune
like train cars
like regret.
I like it most when
I stick it out there
and am foolish
and it gets cut off with lazer precision.
I like it this way
because it's comfortable
fucked up
dangerous
real.
I don't like it when there's attachment,
like quicksand,
like chattering laughter
like clouds.
I don't like it when it seems like
a corner might turn
like time is a top hat
like Santa Elves and Easter Rabbits.
I hate it when the asphalt
slides away like cotton candy.
When sweet dreams spill over into
dark afternoons and solitude.
I hate it most when nothing
pretends in my mind
to be something.
When bees sting
and rain dances like a bugles mourn.
I hate it most when I care about anything
or anyone
or anywhere.
When days run away and
fingers snap like bowling pins.
I love it when
I fuck it all up.
When I'm blank tablet.
When there is no one.
When bells ring
iron bars clang
and words dance on paper.
I love it most when I'm alone
when I'm empty,
when I have no attachment.
when I'm burning like the blistering heat of
tomorrows melancholy sun.
I love it most when I'm empty,.
unfettered.
un dissolved
unrepentant
misunderstood
misrepresented
mistreated.
I love it most
when it's over,
all said and done,
when I'm pounding like a hammer
deafening like a broken heart
sworn in like an imbasil
overcome
debauched
defeated.
I love it the very very best when I hurt
because it's a recognizable thing.
It's something
It keeps me in line.
Keeps me from escaping wrongly,
strangling circumstance
becoming a butterfly
embracing civility.
I love it most when I'm in it
fucked up broken down
not surprised
empty
unfettered
alone.
I love it,
love it best
when it simply
is what it is.
is what it is.
is what it is.
Tonight.

- Paul Sexton

Tornado Girl

You came into my life so suddenly, unexpectedly
and, and, everything
was lifted up and twisted around and uprooted
like a tornado.
Like this spinning spinning storm that lifts and moves
and breaths and lives and feels and speaks
and changes up
everything,
my, my ,my
my heart, my eyes, my time, my hours, my
words, my ideas, my ideas, my days, my friends
my thoughts, my feelings, my views, my
altered views, my altered views and situations.
My work, my work , my art
my art, all of my words, and time and feelings and art all
lifted up all twisted around and changed all different all
impacted.
It's all different now, its all in different unrecognizable places
like this tornado that is you, touched down right here in the
middle of my life, my, my,
my heart, my words.
spinning and spinning and spinning everything all around and
now
when you are gone,
this eerie silence, everything scattered everywhere
this silence
when you are gone
like this big wrong awful emptiness when you are gone.
like everything is wrong somehow
like everything is undone somehow
out of place out of sorts out of whack out of synch out of time
like everything is sad and silent and falling apart somehow
my everything my everything all turned upside down.
your words and sentences and voice and ideas
and laughter and jokes and songs and tears and love
still lingering in each and every tiny space between
everything I am and think and create and see
I still hear you after everything I say,
I still feel you
I still can, can, can almost grasp you, respond to you
answer you, know what you would be saying in every moment
when you are not here with me.
How could you have become such a part of me
How could you have become such a part of me
How could you have become such a part of
everything I am in so short a time
such and impact, now a part of me forever, forever
in my. in my , in my
my heart, my mind, my soul.
twisting me all up like some tornado
twisting and twisting and twisting away
from me, from my world, left silent, left alone
left hoping, you
have carried something important away with you
something you'll keep
something of me flying away with you
as well. I hope I hope, come,
come back someday.

- Paul Sexton

THE REALLY BIG SHOW!!

Fire eater, dancing poodles, head in the lions mouth
hi-wire tight rope walker
that's me mother fucker.
A fucking circus act.
A really big show.
Repeat performance, uncanny skill, precision
crazy-clown showmanship, OH, How I dig it!
Whiskey a go-go. Go daddy go
do it all the time, yeah, yeah.

The act begins with me
somehow drawing these amazing women into my life.
Different sizes, different shapes, different ages, different colors
different styles, different beliefs.
The only common factor being a recognizably strong will and personality.

Part two.
Then through some strange mystic interaction
these fantastically fabulously bad-assed females
come to see me as this
talented, intelligent, insightful, entertaining
compassionate, honorable, worthy, respectable
gentleman, artist, friend, lover.
Someone worthy of time, energy, trust, emotion, attachment.

OH! It is truly grand indeed! It is, it is, it is.
However this is not the final act.
Not the finale, not the end of the show,
Because in ACT THREE comes the old switcheroo!
Couple weeks, couple months, bunch of years, something.
It starts with something like
"You know what your problem is?"
Then after a while, the female is raising her voice.
yelling a bit, pointing, telling me how it is.
Sometimes big, sometimes small
sometimes private, sometimes public,
but they seem to have always figured it all out.
Exactly what my character flaws are.
Exactly just how fucked up I am.
Exactly what I need to do differently to be somehow right.
To get my shit together, to fix it all up.
To not be whoever it is that I am not supposed to be.
Not doing whatever it is that I'm not supposed to be doing.

It's a farce, a fucked up romantic comedy, a cautionary tail
Shakespearian tragedy, slip and slide serious group therapy
highly entertaining, dramatically enthralling
a really really big show!
Three ring circus, big top blow out, Chinese acrobatics
High wire tight rope walking jumping falling without a net.
Head in the lions mouth.
come one, come all, come one, come all,
come one, come all, come one, come all,
Watch now, as he begins to learn to laugh at himself.

- Paul Sexton

Post Modern Orphic Hymn

French fry forearm tendons.
Contract. Release.
Tambourine plink ping breathing
diet soda can. Big gestures
when I lean back, clad black at
the stroke of midnight arms
falling palms down facing, plink
again. Neck roll concentric crackling
like footsteps on shattered glass.
All for the world.

All for the world I think,
as some wild June thunder busts it up.
See that puff
of smoke that rises there, as I exhale thusly?
Oh, it's all full of French Canadian clown music
entangled in fine gravel dusk memories.
Where we stood inside the time stream.
Watch it float up and away taking lost spectacle
elsewhere. Shredded memories no good when
the tall grass has known death and resurrection
time and again
since the slipping away
of wishes, days, and clock tics.

A can song fades to black..
Elysian Mysteries thunder as embodiment
It's different to be me.
Nothing anyone
would understand.

- Paul Sexton

Machine of Almosting

Mad genius sloped back flicker in the sun,
ethereal agent sacred clean
caught up in Spiritus Mundi machine.

Echo flapping desert bird wings,
toward
slouching beast, lost, sing, sing
crestfallen desire.
Giant aching acre wide heartache of legend.
Simple fruition of a female golden mean
nothing more,
minus modern moviehouse adaptations.

Pratfall whirlwind blink violin whacked,
depressed on the eve of great depression,
he was depressed, obsessed.
Formed from seraphic anti-matter Goatee
I must already be
an impious version
of singular quantum implosion
privately
safeguarded by the apathy
of everyday notions.

Vacillating melt-down mushroom cloud
dream believer circumstance unspoken,
strictly speaking, fate,
lips against the glass eye road to nowhere,
deserving of so much more.

Just want to grab true real words,
once held solitary in silent temples.
The idea of permanent impermanence like
circumventing the torn rent veil of night,
circumspect in circumstance
always circular.

Abrupt impromptu jagged batwing fancies,
dash about no worse than
clown groupies.

I want to blow out your candles,
make you forget,
foraging
inside the confines of a moment, with me.
Tell me you want me,
unfolding as just what it is,
eyeballs, everything unexpected.
Templar treasure comfort just thinking of you.
Upon the heads of.
Upon the heads of kings.

Marching band crackle fizz bear claws
cat's-paws.
2 anonymous door frame red roses in
burnt toast wind.

Do I drink excessively.
Am I. Am I. Am I.
I am chasing sudden autonomy weeping
letters in the snowy blood of
ancestors already sleeping.

Even now as the moment dim light silences,
chicken wire around my heart and
brainpan self-speaking into
the next simple breath,
and the one after that,
and after that.

- Paul Sexton

Evil Walks the Land

She blew through the glass door, black
tall boots and short cropped dark, gray peppered hair.
A stack of papers and notebooks approximately 7 inches thick.
She Belonged body and soul to Mary Kay,
A quasi-cult corporate Hydra.

It appeared terribly absurd, the way she
spoke to thin air, gesturing and smiling out of habit.
As if an empty chair held the actual form
behind the voice on the Cell phone ear piece
which facilitated obtrusively loud far off communication.

She advised the voice to pray,
that the hotel off of George Bush Toll way
would offer them a lower rate on the meeting room.
To pray that they would
include the buffet as a part of a pre-agreed upon price.
And that the buffet might attract more participants to the event.
at an attractive price of $2 per head.
She advised the voice on the other side,
the invisible cohort,
to continue praying in this direction.
That she was absolutely sure
that the lord had a plan for them,
that their business initiative would work out splendidly.

She was very loud, as I said
and something like a circus side show attraction
a bearded lady, a sword swallower.
She was a soulless female networking automaton.
A real flying saucer suicide, and she was loud.

I couldnt drink my coffee.
I couldnt read Ken Wilber and conceptualize emergent Holons.
I couldnt relax.
I couldnt breathe in normal ways.
Then suddenly 2 men walked in, shirts tucked under bellies,
with the same space age Cell phone ear devices.
Like 1950s Robots, Klatu Barrada Niktu
Domo Arigato Mr. Roboto.
They simultaneously ordered Chai Tea Lattes
Then began speaking in a rhythmic Latinish
Benedictine backbeat conjure chant.
One started a Boogaloo Shrimp Breakdance
twirling head spin routine, while the other tapped his foot.

It was time for me to get,
and to get fast, while the getting was good.
I farted a heady bouquet while sauntering past the woman.
Letting her have it real good.
And I could feel her praying in my direction
As I plummeted through the glass door.

- Paul Sexton

Crazy Girls...

I love the crazy girls.
They are more alive than giant
crocodiles.
They possess levels of depth
that un furrow
Like blooming flowers of impulse.
Their words like throwing knives
non-sequential ideas that
entangle themselves
In vines of truth
And they area all mad
Really.
At least all the ones I’ve known.

If the entire universe was
careening to a halt,
and I could save but one thing
from oblivion
It would be the crazy girls.
I’d save them just for me
I'd keep them and I‘d
watch them
and listen to them
and hold them tight.
I would never point out the illogic
of their assertions.
Only pull them close in
when they cried
And kiss their mouths when they
laughed.
It would be just me
and all the crazy girls
all alone
in a perfect universe.

- Paul Sexton