When I think of you in symbols,
you've already given all of those parts,
there are no new cells to nurture,
all divided before I featured,
and the lights blink into the future,
where all the sentences are blurry,
and all the outcomes mixed and slurring,
where my head is blocked and slurring,
and my mouth is full and slurring,
and I wish my cell was broken,
into two then four then open,
spread into bits out open,
like a pen leaked out then frozen,
ink iced up half chosen;
thoughts blurted out in the open,
and when I've torn myself right open,
like a pen cracked into the open,
and you've told me all of your symbols,
and none of them cradle me in their middle,
like I held you round the middle,
like I love you right through the middle,
but I can't see any other any longer,
 all our lights blink off into the future,
Even when you push me off like a suture,
And I'm sorry I know that i'm slurring,
but i'm scared just so scared that we're blurring,
and i'm scared of what you are inferring,
And I wish my cell wasn't broken,
this is no kind of life in the open,
this is not the love I was hoping,
I'm not sure my dear if we're coping.

Baskerville's Stanley

He lived a life by the letter,
lying through lipless teeth,
blue underneath.

Sinking through corridors,
like smoke between teeth,
buried down packed snow to sleep.

Cotton bud came out bloody,
and he sighed himself to sleep,
with poems from the good book
that held his hand,
that touched his cheek.

I heard him talk in vases,
echoed spirals right around my mind,
in years that grew like climbers,
a kaleidoscopic narrow mind,
switching up the chambers
 until he forgot how to tell the time.