An American in London

I like to think I'd be a part of Hemingway and Fitzgerald's posse.

Month: April, 2013

Words in time.

You left words.

Black ink, shiny and dripping

on a mirrored surface.

Behind them, more words.

Music, meaning.

A man and his thoughts,

his voice.

Scribbled in a wet mess.

Chanted in a dark room.

They meant something once.

Behind them, my own face

reflected and left staring, empty

into itself.

Is it for the words or the face

that sadness comes?

Behind them all,

a shared love.

Not a shared time.

Perhaps in years gone by,

or in many already seen,

the words would return.

More meaning. New meaning.

The face reflected, one of joy.

But the clock remains unchanged.

The calendar unmoving.


The words left

under a mess of the discarded and forgotten

to collect dust.

The ink left to dry and crack.

The meaning left to die.

Time, which will also destroy them,

is all that was needed for their survival,

is all that will never be,

is all that could never be.



A tormented mind

artificially sweetened.

Clinging to an intoxicating emptiness.

Dizzying clarity.


Bones, muscles drip into skin.

Nerves melt away.

Memories melt away.



Inebriated thoughts


Fabricated bliss.

Synthetic delight.

A fa├žade.

Reality is too real.

Feelings are too real.

Mask them with a glass

and a mindless grin.