sometimes it doesn't mean a thing

He wore a red shirt
read the Telegraph
what could it mean?

I woke up at 3
having dreamt of pumpkins
what could it mean?

She clutched me hard
while crying for him
what could it mean?

9 million bicycles
she called it
what could it mean?

I smoked 5 cigarettes
while waiting for your call
what could it mean?

You said 'Like'
not love, and then cried
what could it mean?

He drummed your fingers
on my sternum
what could it mean?

I sit on rotting wood
to fulfill my prophecy of a fall.
“Move away silly girl”
cries the gardener.
I gather my skirt closer
to protect myself from the cold
(as if that will be the death of me)
and sit firm on dead rotting wood.

This Sunday

Rolling in the dark
has its own joys,
thought the lil boy of 17.
marijuana dice fall free,
the room starts smelling of
winter nights; men and their
wood fires, burning rubbish
in my ignoble city. Rolling in
her dark room, with a sliver
beneath the door, has its own joys,
Sundays finish up my new freedoms,
and the cup now tilts; she clucks
like the mother hen, admonishes me.
The lil boy of 17 in me chuckles in glee.

off my chest

all the weight

crush me

brush me

paint me red

shower

more power

rush over

halt a bit

take a hit

and now..

no Now

give it back.

on my back

feet fly

toes curl

you toss

i turn

you push

i shove

we count

power.