More Like This

I'm in love with the air and the cries it carries to me I love that which I cannot see, nor hear, nor touch And yet I feel it The only true love I've known During a life of heartbreak and disappointments Oh! To meet the air. That which has come over me What should I do? Dance with him, lay with him? Tell he that I know not what his troubles may be That I love him? What is it to love that which does not exist? Love does not see, nor hear, nor touch itself It is as the air to me So I find that it is love that I love And nothing else

Im Strauß unserer Wahrheiten Für uns erkennbar: Das gekonnte Arrangement Die schlichte Schönheit der einzelnen Blüte Wehmut eines SommertagsWehe uns! Einer zeigt das Offenbare: Abgestorbene Blüten Welke Blätter Der ekelerregende Geruch faulenden WassersDas Gran Hoffnung Entlarvt als Träumerei Scheinbar Schöngefärbt Das Sträußchen Hoffnunglosigkeit.

Jack-in-the-box When one squashes life into A little red car, And zooms out On unfamiliar roads.The headlights ancious beam (try as it might) Cannot strain beyond the bend But faster still they go.Driven by the Swoshing glimpse Of a faintly Familiar feeling;The undeniable, blissful intrigue of a childs new Jack-in-the-box. Rob Evans - 29/1/03

. .   .    . Poetry is like a stehoscope It brings out the heartbeat Of whatever it is placed upon

we are in the front of your car and you tell me all these stupid things about how i am one of two people you care about. you drove all this way to apologize. you think my hands are beautiful and i am saying bullshit bullshit bullshit and you are looking at me like you used to.-i picked up the phone and all i wanted was you all i want is you.-i am caught in pine needles and thumbtacks, and i am going nowhere.-

I don't know what to think of you Of all the things you say or do You're round and round, up and down Can't tell if I am looking like your clown It seems that only time will tell If we're in heaven or in hell I love the pleasure that you show Drives me crazy like you don't know Though I wonder why you come to me You do, and it makes me heppy You're like a book thats hard to read Never know what you want or need But as long as you are coming back Our train will roll along this track

Johan takes the old lit books out of his bag one by one and throws them at me. I bat aside a well-worn copy of Frankenstein, and then ask him why he still has it in his bag in March. For an answer, he throws Oryx and Crake at my head.Once the lit books have been exhausted, he takes out rainforests of paper and the cover of a sketchbook he messed around with last year. He takes out broken pens and pencils, a broken pair of headphones, and a few pieces of trash. All these things, he threw at me, and after they bounced off my arms or head, I picked them up and placed them on the table between us.“What is this?” I ask, holding up two pieces of...