coldfalafel

So I was thinking The other day That maybe the reason why I’m so awkward flusterd in everything I say Is that I’m worried I won’t have enough time To tell you everything that I want to.

Can you tell me why does a rhyme please you So much? I’d like to know because my ear too, is soothed by its Soft touch Yet my mind lies bereft half the time for a word that fits, and its never bothered me before, So I wonder why, why do I feel compelled this time To find the perfectly shaped rhyme Words fly: crime, lime, prime On a roll now, following down this line But wait, stop. I don’t want to sound juvenile. Shall I sacrifice my meaning for that cleaner sound? Its not either or I hear you shout, But I don’t believe you, someone has to lose And I search for a way out Hurrying, I stumble over the laces of my shoes B

To talk   To tease, sometimes to play,   To sit with one another for so many hours To laugh, joke, eat together, complain in lazy companionship, Share each other’s pain To lean, to fall together To pull each other up To hold on, tight,   knowing nothing could pull nearly so hard until Nothing does. Nothing Not a glimmer, no burning ember, remains No more than a flicker of recognition   all that’s left to see, to feel Neither passionate rage nor cold fury   but sharper, and more devastating than either is just this: the absence of warmth friendship lost.

There will come a day When they sit in wonder Of all this disaster and dissarray Civilization and say 'the head was a little too big on that one, wasn't it?'

without using all the usual clichés there's something I intend to say these lines never used to rhyme it's strange, what changes over time and what doesn't like a tug on my eyes I admit to surprise That what should be long-gone still lingers like a train in the distance a dot of light piercing the night Believe that she could pull me across the sea

what would you say if I told you that four days had sailed through the waves and constraints of four years clear as clay fainter then these golden rays? Enough to pull eyes off a page stare vacantly for a while wondering, too much like a child

So he took a little break and when he came back and looked at it again, he had to admit, it was a bit like vomit on a page

The rain started last night in the hours when the dogs are all quiet, the moon spirits have settled the hours when you wouldn't hear anything because no one would be awake enough to hear so came the rain in those unfortunate few hours unattended, unwelcomed in a silent dark rush the first glimpse of morning was without light unless the silver gray of the sky unfolding can be called such they danced vengefully upon a dazed, half-conscious earth a flood indignant, that for a few whole hours no one could have cared

I throb in every molecule pulsing waves of sound bodies shake with the rhythm frantic then slow eyes roll, close this is the face of revelry yet I feel nothing

Here comes another heart-touching story about those terrible things happening over there and the Children in Africa and you should tear up really you must find yourself moved Because you live so comfortably with the smallest list of reasons to be unhappy so naturally you need to hear tales of misery to feel something different I think If I Was one of those children over there in Africa I'd prefer happy stories all the time, though I guess I'll never know

you wrote essays about revolutions and dictatorships, whilst I tried to read you poetry about night drives through Italy. we worked together, yet separate. you on your numbers, and me on my language until we grew bored of library stacks and interested in each other. the winter wove us together until I collected my days just to share them with you. I teased you about leaking roofs and routines, you made fun of my cold feet and reading glasses until we thought we were fluent in each other. I noticed you sneaking glances as you changed gear though we never would have admitted to it. speedometers drop, and scenery changes, yet the

I can still taste smoke and it's getting old now. older than china tea cups and laddered tights and -- cigarettes aren't pretty and one day your lungs will tell you so. quit whilst your ahead. I forgot the boy with the bright hair and I told tales that date back so far I forget their names and I heard my own voice like a echo of someone who I didn't recognise. I'd show you a slideshow of how I fall apart at every hurdle and tell you to run for the hills or sooner or later you'll see for yourself.

Eighty years old, that's a big thing to the Chinese. Eight in Chinese (ba) sounds like luck (fa), so any multiple of eight is a cause for festivity. My grandfather's eightieth birthday last year, for example, definitely warranted a special celebration. And what better way to celebrate this than to go back to where my grandfather's life began, where his parents first met, where his grandparents lived their whole lives? And what more appropriate way than to have the whole family with him there? But China, how I underestimated you. No amount of Chinese tuition could have prepared me for you. For someone who had grown up being forced to stutt

for a moment, time stands still. then the world comes rushing in. it's coffee-flavoured - bittersweet, with a hint of irony. it drenches them, frothing around their legs and curling its tendrils upwards until it covers their heads. so they stand in their coffee-flavoured world, watching jellyfish float serenely by. his hands are on the small of her back, hers are around his waist. we need a camera, she says, staring round at the scenery. look, he says. land. their vessel of bare feet deposits them on warm crystals of sugar and they drag themselves upwards, bit by bit, ignoring the sickening sweetness that gathers in the pit of their bel