In sincerest form of flattery of U A Fanthorpe

I would like you to think I think of you constantly
Like pounding of a drumbeat in a silent vacuum.

I would like you to think I think of you earnestly
Like thought bubbles floating on a wisp of amnesia.

I would like you to think I think of you economically
Like sparrow squirrelling away seeds for a wintry period of indulgence.

I would like you to think I think of you vehemently
Like heart that throbs so hard it stops.

I would like you to think Ithink of you affectionately
Like curling up under warm blankets of recollection.

I would like you to think i think of you only
Like song looped on cd player.

I would like you to think I think of you wistfully
Like golden traces of a dream that I cannot remember.

I would like you to think I think of you grammatically
Like order within the chaos that is my love for you.

And O I want to think of you, not between breaths,
but within them
like a conscientious lover.

my muse has deserted me.
fled on the wings of half-developed ideas
fragments that could never come together again;
he's peeved.
i dumped him countless number of times,
going out with the flavour of the month instead
getting distracted by kinematics' call sidetracked by caesar's words seduced by the sweet smells of butyl butanoate
but now, when i want a serious relationship,
hes found someone else.

i dont know who she is or where shes from
what she looks like or where she shops
but i dislike her already
for now i cant write
the rat-a-tat drumming of the words in my head
she's stolen the one thing that made me complete
(did i let him go? i cant even remember)
but now i want him back
that magical heady rush all over again
as man and dhan seamlessly merge
to form a piece
that i will critique over and over again
until i hate it with all my being
and then he'll come down and pat me on the shoulder
and tell me to leave the man's job to him.
one too many times.

who is that dancing on my peripheral?
that moving spectre that haunts my every move
behind this car or those
dead eyes, vacantly staring at the dishes

i move towards it scuttles away, cowers
cleaning the cobwebs of a luxurious life
that marks its existence.
irrelevant whether its a Maria or Nena or

YOU!
Pick Up The Kids Cook The Meals Lead
the unsavoury parts of my life for me;
I move on to town
my breakfast dishes behind.