An old couple meet at a coffee shop. “Harry! How are you doing?!” “Hilda! I’m doing well.” They hug and Harry pulls Hilda’s seat out for her, removing his hat and putting it on the table. “Can I get you something?” Hilda asks. “Just my usual two cents,” Harry smiles, the love obvious in his eyes. The old woman calls out for two coffees and a slice of bitter lemon cake for both of them. They sit in rapturous conversation,...

I stood there, gazing into that empty, yawning abyss. I felt a strange nostalgia. A melancholy that was both familiar and unnerving. I knew this place, long ago.Time began to slow.My tears began to flow.I have arrived.Goodbye.

There’s a man with an ostrich,he’s got it on a lead;he’s taking it for a walk!I shouldn’t gawk. Now there’s a hawkand he’s going “squawk, squawk!”He coming at me.Woop, there goes my knee! The man with an ostrich,he’s got a cannon now.Ka-pow! Ka-pow!Ooft, fuck, shit, OW! For fuck’s sake,now there’s an owl!“Have you seen the news?”Then he goes for a snooze. We’re in a blender.Life over.Return to sender.I’m a clover!

Hello? Hi? Ehhhugh, hum?Y'all? D'ye exist?I exist?Anyone? Anyone at all? But, no. Nobody did exist.But somebody must have.Existed, that is.Otherwise this wouldn't  exist. But what is existence without purpose? Is that just, sorta, being? Like a thing. Y'know, not really there, but not not there. An object, formless, but there, not really there, but uh, in time and space. I don't really get it, y'know.Anything.But isn't th...

Go away, fuck off, back to your bunker.It has no title,but understanding is vital.Stop.Here’s the poem: I saw somebody.She was beautiful.An energy that didn’t fit,yet she owned it. I found outshe likes to twist and shout.But does she like ...? Her polar is bi,she thinks she can flyand of course she can. She doesn’t need fixing.Let her bebecause she is me. I am serenity.  

Dear Humans, You're all so weird! Sorry, let me start that again. I've been on your planet for 35 years. I've witnessed some things that I wouldn't want anyone else to, yet people do. I've seen the world through the eyes of a baby, growing up to become an infant, child, teenager, and finally adult. When I was a baby, things were simple: Cry for attention, sleep most of the time, play for a bit. This pattern continued unti...

Snackin' like it's going outta fashion, I've got a smile, it's flashing.  I'm happy as fuck, hear me play with my rubber duck!    I got hit by a truck!    Still snackin', just through a tube,  at this rate, I'll lose the moobs.  When I make a recovery, I'm gonna grab some boobs!   

Four hundred and twenty potatoes. A client asked me to take a picture of that on my Exacta 66 camera. I contemplated as I sipped my dirty martini. I do get a lot of absurd requests, but this takes the cake. Speaking of cake, let’s get baked. I forgot what I was going to say now. Whatever, just saying...  

Pain, pain, go away,Fuck me up never a day. An hour or more is all I ask,Is that really such a task? I wear a mask of brave facedness, But inside, my lies are bare faced. Nobody sees because I hide,For what else do I do, lest I slide? So, here I go, it's a difficult time,Where is the reason, where is the rhyme?It'll fade, given time. But when in time, will my mind be mine? If my body stops its paining, My mind will stop i...

There's a house at the top of the hill. Haunted, of course.It doesn't want to kill, or even chill. Benevolent, of course. It used to be a mill. Abandoned, of course. They made twill. Aeons ago, of course. Now the house sits lonely and old. Awaiting its new masters. It's earned a reputation, ill-begotten. The house, alive, just wants company. It remembers, you see, it's former glory. Will it ever be loved again?  

I’m not entirely sure I like you.Everything here is too bright and too dark. It’s a fucking paradox and it doesn’t make any sense.It doesn’t even make paradoxical sense.Like, why am I sitting here typing this? My hands are betraying me.The wind is harsh, yet comforting.Why’m I even drunk? Am I sober? Do I exist? Ugh, questions!Like, I could just write this out like some kinda paragraphy thing. I could write in complete se...

The ideas are here,but so’s the pain,it’s making me feel rather wan.It’s not a perfect rhyme,but give me time.Why do poems have to rhyme?A poem doesn’t have to rhyme,just as long as it makes the readerspend time.Time is great, but waste it not. Rather, make haste, and buy a yacht.I’ve no idea where I’m going with this,my hands are fucked, my brain is worse.Why the fuck do I have this curse?!Chronic pain, illness, I can’t...

I want to take a walk through an enchanted forest. Feel the dew drops at my fingers. Sink deep into a magickal cavern. Get lost in the scents and taste the rain.In my magickal daydream, the forest welcomes me.I climb to the highest heights and take a ride. My senses awaken and the forest sighs. A blissful feeling, the forest emits.I can't help but smile. The forest is my happy place. 

I met a crocodile with a smile as wide as a mile. Said I to the crocodile"what are you doing with that mile-smile?"Said he to me "I've just had a tasty tourist!"He looked at me with eyes of wist,"are you a yummy snack?"I looked him back"no, Sir Croc, I'm full of grist!"His eyes of wist, 'came full of mist"I need my dessert!"I smiled at him"how about that woman there? She's lovely and pert!"His smile of a mile disappeared....

As most of you know, I am a man. I wear nail polish and have my hair long. I occasionally wear makeup and crossdress a little bit. As traditional gender roles go, I’ve eschewed most of them. I don’t see the point of them. When I was wee, I’d play with cars, Meccano, LEGO, dolls and anything else I wanted to because I wanted to. I wasn’t limited in what I was allowed to play with, except that one time in primary school.I w...