Waiting.

Waiting, in my anxious grief,
she had the nerve to steal me like a thief.
I wonder if I'll get less nervous in time
as I walk this burnt and broken line.

These girls (who want to sleep with me) -
I can only hope they'll set me free,
because a worry fills my lonely cell.
Yeah, love has come and sent my head to hell.

In gold and in brown my stomach heaves.
Emergency: we'll burn these dying leaves.

Now I'm here at her door, now I'm here in her garden
but I throw up again, so I'm begging her pardon.

And I am outside, all the time
brandishing a stupid, empty rhyme.
Wherein no truth or tact is found
and hope lies bleeding helpless on the ground.

Perspective.

Getting some perspective on perspective (from a distance). 

Giving good time a run / a break from your money. 

Chasing up cloud dreams / a storm for your body. 

Exhaling perpendicular to parallel and all there is in between 

Retro-compiling consciousness in an exegesis of psychology.

Multiple divergency: the error of the psychonaut.

Undefined consequence - corollarily cancelled on a mis-fired synapse 

I am one, I am all, I am one, I am all, I am one, I am nothing.

Wandering with a wanderlust that's working itself into a sermon. 

Breathing in the shadows that flitter through the time-crawl.

Far away, on a distant star, a cosmos sighs relief

and fills a honeycomb with a fractal field that beggars all belief.

Experiential insight (now you're in for the whole enchilada),

drawing close the things you know - things people have said to you.

I wonder through the misty haze (that burns a shadow on my brain)

whether all is one, or one is all, or if I've misbehaved.

I was never born to float this bubble

I was never born to whip this cream

I was never born to feel this troubled

I was floating lost within a dream.

Obfuscation.

We're all guilty of loving you:

of having brushed our hands

against the litheness of your back.

All we'll be guilty of afterwards...

I'm guilty of having liked you,

of having had you,

of holding you.

Guilty thoughts:

"I love you",

"I await you",

"I destroy you".

Whilst the obfuscation syndrome

(that shadow from beneath my skull),

crawl'd across the floor

through the dust and the mud.

We're all guilty of loving you: 

of dreaming you, exploring you;

setting search by starlight 

for the intimate delight. 

The promise of your politeness 

and perky, chocolate nipples -

enough to send me mad,

quite mad!

For joy is rare occasion'd.

Empirically we think we search for cures to obfuscation:

yours within the word (and smell),

with mine beneath the eyes.

I have kissed you,

I have known you,

but that never would suffice!

All this I must confess, and thus allow under the sky.

All you'll be guilty of afterwards...

All we'll be guilty of afterwards...

All I'll be guilty of afterwards...

is letting you walk by.

For weal or woe -

Goodbye.