I unwrap myself from the red linen shroud

And head towards the wavering closet.

Today the skeleton seems less proud,

Stupefied, only relatively.

Sometimes I take it out and waltz with it,

It seems the right thing to do.

Sometimes I carry it on my friendly shoulders,

Hoping its rage would undo.

Then there are times when I shun it away

To acknowledge its inexistence.

And veiling myself with the shroud, I stay

Till I am disrupted by the rattling of bones

Walking back towards my bed,

I lie down, crying still

With the skeleton at my elbow,

It’s a story of me I want to ****.

It’s funny how we’re always taught

To respect and understand

Other people’s opinions.

No matter how crass,

antiquated, absurd,

or obnoxious

So much was wrong with us

Our love

A fiery tendon binding us together,

Whilst filling you up, marring me

If your sweet memories of me are fading,

Know that you are ebbing in the strands of

my memory  

And if you quiver at the sight of me, still

I will kiss your fine mouth till dawn

Life is a wayfarer.

On some days Life will plod round in the city,

Immersing itself in the quotidian

Feel daft in the company of meaninglessness,

Feculent friendships.  

And I will miss my halcyon days

at the helm of such an existence.

‘This too shall pass’, that’s what they say?

So, life craves for wanderlust (and lust itself, indeed)

Something that infects it with fire from within,

A feeling that sunbeams flow in the lining of the skin;

I crave, I hunger

For the one that will never abandon me on the shore

Of the heart and mind that I grow my roots in

Life will live for this consuming passion,

This tempest that I’ve witnessed will gradually quieten.

Now in this free, really free verse

I shall tell the extraordinary futility of Life.

Memento mori

About why, like Life, I should bother

Betwixt overwhelming agony and spasmodic pleasures;

Crawl over many little deaths:

Life nestles into Death, and cracks it up

Like a butterfly opens its cocoon

Into an afterlife of pulchritude.

Life is just in one long slumber, and Death

Merely a friend who awakens it.

still, so still..

a musty odor abutting against my door

percolating from the malodorous appendages of a subordinate

feigning work at this late night hour.

And my frazzled CFL is glistening over

intolerable Latin, scribbled before my eyes for me to devour