It’s easy to translate a broken heart into art; I should know, I’ve hated myself from the start. Now I’m paranoid about everything from schizophrenic spliffs to what ifs to Cupid’s dart. She walks & talks mad like a phoenix; that don’t make it brick but it makes me glad to be sick. And now waterfalls of tears recall the snakebite while arrears are politely signed in blood running thick. I will always remember you, but I love to get lost within the why. You realise there is no meaning but that which we ascribe when we try.

The skies are perfectly sad tonight & each soppy star is a secret cherub stud designed just for you. The sun is a photograph of the humming moon’s dance around the globe and its Oxygen zoo. Promises aren’t made to be broken, so relish the rain like a pained painter in a robe on the job. Your library eyes spin tales of youth, but my solitary confinement mind fails the truth of the mob. I will always remember you, but I love to get lost within the why. You realise there is no meaning but that which we ascribe when we try.

I feel to finger the linguist, yet my celibacy lingers on a single thing a touch too long. Epileptic triggers may extinguish the English but stay strong & belong to the crutch of song. Lord, I was a sinner until I felt the mascara of angel dust so strange on her window flesh. Now I vow to begin again; I’m not morose but I want to doze to a dose of the gross afresh. I will always remember you, but I love to get lost within the why. You realise there is no meaning but that which we ascribe when we try.

I want to feel alive and twenty-five and drive and survive and arrive at midnight’s design. I want to fail to recall word, I want a tail like a small bird – yeah, I want what isn’t mine. Someday somewhere, sometime someone somehow will do something so happy. And we’ll spend all day enjoying it, but I’ll never forget how you both trapped me. I will always remember you, but I love to get lost within the why. You realise there is no meaning but that which we ascribe when we try.

First you were a churlish magazine cover - ah! but then you were an orphaned girl. Now you are the private pearls of another, now your kindness cannot unfurl. My tongue curled too; the sun begun to numb me so much I could’ve hurled. This is twisted. This is twirled. The existence you hold is a spaghetti igloo world. I will always remember you, but I love to get lost within the why. You realise there is no meaning but that which we ascribe when we try.