You are Bach, as played by a technician
You are dry

You are as punk as Pink
Ballads at 11pm
Just before
Bedtime

Your poems are as cool as mathematics
Your words are history,
University,
Hours of thought

In the gallery of your life
Under each picture
Is a clever quote
Of subtle angst.

You have no imagination
You take
Pictures of blurs
In grey
Call it art.

You have some soul
You cover a 70s tune
With ironic vocoder
(this actually moves me to tears. Sometimes)

Your rhythm of the visual
Is thought out
Practiced
Polished

You clever cut
And jerky jump
Try confuse with speed and (again)
The blur
The sepia
The moody

You decorate your loneliness
With emo eyeliner
Lip ring pain
Poster child
For Cutters Anonymous

You are a half formed sentence
Masquerading as a Poem

You are progressive rock
You are Coldplay playing Snow Patrol
Drinking tea on your tour bus.

You are cute when you insist
Your alcohol addiction
Is an intellectual affliction
And you scatter IQ points to the wind

You are so sweet
My teeth hurt
When I catch sight of you

You are sunlight
In my
Eyes

You are rain cloud afternoons.

You are the easy answer
You are multiple choice
You are a kitchen without
a spice rack

You are nice
You are a murder waiting to happen.

You have ruled this world for way too long

But dear
Hun
Darling

I am getting better
There were hours, yesterday, I did not think of you at all.