Pretty much,
My greatest interest is that of love.

So I thought about it
Not for long, but just long enough
To pick up a pen...
And let my brain spew it out onto paper...

...and so it went on.



Love is beautiful.
Cut like a diamond,
In all the right places.
Desirable, indeniable.
A girls best friend.
But after hours,
Minus the lipstick
Love is bland.
The ugly, deformed.
The childish. ID card required.
Reformed.
Love is weak.
Asleep after noon.
Suddenly,
Mighty and stronger than steel,
From beauty sleep,
Once risen.
Love is dreaming.
And realising. Alone.
Things about him,
her,
them,
and the others.
ANd how it will be,
After this.
Love is escaping.
Going elsewhere.
Away from this dreary old city,
Where we will hang from strings
Detached and stubborn.
Threatening to snap.
Love is the fashionable.
Sick to my stomach,
From rags to riches.
Lost amongst coat hangers.
Love is hand-written.
On scraps of paper,
The back of books,
Postcards
And newspapers with holes for eyes.
Love is abstraction.
The best sort,
Filled with riddles
And codes
And methods,
To the brim.
So elaborate, so mathematical..
Not even Einstein could crack.
Love is insane.
Drowsy, pill-swallowing, dumb.
Becoming the numb,
Under the thumb,
Of some doting, white-walled, white-curtained asylum.
Love is friendly.
Roarious laughter,
And haemorraging with smiles.
A friend in need,
Is a friend indeed.
But reliable?
Perhaps.
Love is reliant.
Reliable. Still unsure.
Love is hidden though.
Under the sheets,
Somewhere between the warmth of limbs
And matress.
Kept in shoe-boxes and
In never quite in the foreground of paintings.
Not enough, anyway.
Retiring in shadows,
And in clouds that look like rabbits and faces
And ships in the night.
Love is irreversible.
A time-travelling machine,
With buttons in every shade
And a gear stick that beeps.
An intercom voice that sings kareoke,
And badly.
As if we want to hear.
Love is addictive.
Like a sugar rush high.
Ridiculously marching in time,
Single file.
Left, right, left, right..
Until our footsteps sound the same.
Routine manipulation.
Built on lies, lies, lies.
But, under the surface..
Love is innocent.
With a mantle piece of halos,
Fit for a king.
Love is lost.
And not found.
Always home for supper though.
Love is compromised.
Breaching contracts left, right and centre.
Lawyers that use big words and breathe deeply,
Like ethical cannibals.
Love is adventurous.
The eighth wonder of the world,
Next to Vegas.
Where people go to meet her.
Love is misadventured.
But dwelling on possibilities,
Where nothing seems good enough
To invest in.
Until the market picks up.
Love is the legacy.
Qualified in history,
A thesaurus for remorse
All in a word.
Love is tainted.
After the first time.
Never again, she says.
When the last time,
Becomes the first time all over again.
Love is artistic.
Like a botched Pollock from the inside out.
Nothing makes sense,
Not even paint.
But she still calls herself an artist.
Penniless and self-proclaimed.
Love is instrumental.
She plays the saxophone,
And once upon a time, the flute.
She can play anything by ear,
But couldn't read the notes if her life depended on it.
Love is activated.
When she watches him,
And sees her chlldhood in photographs
On her mothers wall.
Switched on when the stars are,
Far away,
Where she always envisaged hills would become esculators..
By the year 2000.
Love is the specific.
Where the i's and t's and lower case j's
Are always crossed and dotted
By midnight,
When glass slippers malfunction.
Love is the weapon.
Shooting the shot,
Bow and arrows on fire..
And targents in the mist.
Love is the sensation.
When skin struggles to rid itself of
Pins and needles.
During carpet picnics,
INfront of the television..
When befriending ankles, knees and fingertips
Comes naturally.
Even for the senseless.
Especially for the senseless.
Love is the torture.
Concentration camps for eyes.
Sticks and stones may break my bones,
But words will never hurt me.
Love is the havoc.
Ignited by discipline,
Too easily ignored.
Or declined.
Love is the waiting for the phone to ring.
And speed dial.
And dial one for new messages.
A face for a voice,
And ear-shaped diaries
That keep secrets better than a piece of paper.
Love is beating.
In time with the world,
Outside and inside
And right here, beside us.
Love is random.
Pouncing like electricity
From a toaster to knife.
Love is the association.
The 'it' list,
The plus-one,
The invite only pass.
I'm with the band,
V.I.P. privileges
Free alcohol on the side.
Love is the harmony.
Thick with cliche
Comprised of choir boys
And a slow, sombre organ
Lost in the air.
Love is inside.
The sweetness of shelter,
When the rain is pelting down.
With the television on,
And dancing fire..
Just thawing the surface.
Love is the narrative.
Read twice,
And reviewed.
Doing the voices, children demand.
And dipping when pronouncing vowels.
Love is honest.
Carrying roses in her teeth,
And wasting pinky promises
To those who don't understand the idea.
Love is tolerant.
After screaming matches,
When the throat is still sore.
Patient of the hours, drifting..
When deadlines are deceased.
Love is the late night phone call.
Not asleep, but still dreaming.
Disrupting something inbetween.
Love is the solitude.
Trick or treat thoughts in a bag,
To be savoured later on.
Love is the master.
Of the universe,
The prom-queen, the one.
The laugh that just got you,
When nothing else did.
Love is furious.
Enraged by small things,
Like beauty.
And chocolate.
And the way birds sing louder than usual,
When you want to sleep in.
Love is signifigant.
Like specific, referred.
A little taller than the others,
But nothing to be made fun of.
Love is treacherous.
The rope bridge
That steals your courage and
Can make grown men cry.
Love is the embrace.
Heating up, like wool on fur on cotton on silk.
Layers of touch.
Love is the souvenir.
The shadow box filler,
Ranging in prices between one or two dollars..
At the most.
Love is charming.
Bond, James Bond.
Yes, charmed I'm sure.
Love is reminiscent.
From here, there
And elsewhere.
Becoming a memory,
That didn't exist
Until now.
Just in time to be mourned.
Amen.
Love is the treasure.
Marked with an X,
And then O.
Ex. Oh. Ex. Oh. Ex. Oh.
Love is the battle.
Dynamite, on tap.
Release the cannons.
She's gonna blow.
Love is the exposure.
The chain reaction,
And atomic equation
Where scars never fade,
Properly.
Love is blissful.
Cornered by meadows that smell like
Springtime.
And then other seasons, later on.
Love is the being held so tight.
SO tight. So tight.
There's barely room to breathe.
Love is the victory.
The street fighter challenge
And arcade madness.
Where no amount of coins could
Sway the scoreboard.
Love is the defeat,
When your opposition knows short-cuts
And dials 111 in emergency,
Long before you do.
Love is the inbetween.
The very last word, before the book ends.
Or the song finishes,
And starts all over again.
Broken record,
Stuck in her head.
Love is forgotten.
Fallen between the cracks,
Read between the lines
And misplaced,
On purpose.
And love is you.
You look a little bit like love.