Poetry, Lipstick and Fragrance – Elements of Beauty
you call me crazy
you don’t know crazy
if crazy isn’t pouring cyanide
on your open cuts
if its calloused claw isn’t gripping
your collar
if steel shavings aren’t squeezing
your spine
if crazy isn’t skinning you like a cheetah
ripping your carcass open;
freeing your intestines
so, call me crazy again
and
see what will happen
Neurologists are infatuated with the dark matter in the
Brain, philosophise the concept of sparse firing
Love to speculate some neurons are in fact silent
perpetually drift into an inactive state
neurons defiling their main function turns them on
the glossy lustre is enough for them
They claim to love the science, love the whole brain
But seem to always find themselves
debating and thinking only about the dark matter
they dream about dreaming about dark matter
til they become the dark matter
Then they realise they didn’t want to be dark matter
in the first place
If a man doesn’t live by his law, then what does he have?
The conservation of love governed every part of my past life
It was simply the most important law
When I witnessed love’s death, I didn’t become suspicious
I didn’t question it against my own law,
The law that states love can never be destroyed,
I didn’t question its death against this law
Was this a vital error? I should have known
my love for this girl is forever constant
But here, I lie, think, wallow
And continue to turn the cogs in my brain,
I must have considered the wider universe around us
We were constantly travelling in different directions;
Our love was stretched, strained and redshifted
Thus I ask when our love was redshifted, was it conserved?
With that I ponder, did our love varnish?
And if completely lost, isn’t that in violation of my law?
I spend each day challenging fallacies and fables
Against proven and tested laws in my arsenal but
How am I even sure that the conversation of love is not
Just a whimsical idea?