*a purple, aching darling
of a dawning day
unfurls her chilly fingers
over a greying grassland
to close the creaking door of night’s cabaret.
she slips her feeble sun-rays
through a cracked window pane.
dust motes, sauntering in their orbits,
float through a parched concrete bedroom
where once false love was made.
here lies a brave soldier
who fought for hell’s brigade
and shot a widower in love’s name
after which he bartered souls for simple comforts -
oranges, canned fish and pain.
and he never met his son
or saw his daughter’s face
for he had left his lover’s morning singing
and life’s sunlit meadows
for a wartime martyr's charming ways.
so he took cover in the city’s ashen shadows
from the crossfire of his mistakes
and faked his life and death and everything else,
while his sole mourner slipped into his sparse, concrete bedroom
(where he had once kissed his darkness into secrecy)
and wailed.
—
i raise the barricades
and watch the deaths from within
of day, of night, of soldiers and of sunlight
and tell myself to hold my breath
and wait.*
Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 8:27 PM UTC
*my sister fell soundly to sleep in her duvet
once i sang her the song of the moon;
her curls framed her delicate face in the night’s light
and her breath hummed a rhythmless tune.
i had sung her the story of an elegant princess
who haunted the moon’s sunken hollows.
her dress was woven of lonely girls’ tresses
and rope from the broken mens’ gallows.
i walked through the amber of the living room lamplight
and stumbled back into my bed;
i gave myself up to the threshold of nightmares
but sleeplessness came instead.
i told my brain to be quiet and rest
and i turned and twisted and waited
but no matter how tired my eyes were of shadows
my thirst for sleep was not sated.
so i went to the forest where the owlets were hunting
and climbed the first tree i could find,
then thought of the place where the sand was ashen
and the darkness was quiet and kind,
and i wished and wished and wished myself back
and not a moment too soon
for next morning my sister found that my heart was beating
but my soul had flown back to the moon.*
Jul 13, 2014
Jul 13, 2014 at 1:56 PM UTC
Last night
I heard you leave
By the back door
12:22 AM
And the neighbour’s dog was barking
You left your jacket behind
I thought
Of calling you back
And sliding the sleeves up your shoulders
Cracking your icy demeanour
With the warmth of my gesture
And making you smile
I heard you
Muffled laughter
An audible kiss on her cheek
The quiet purr of an expensive car
Crunching gravel
Rolling up the driveway
I ran my fingers
Through your tangled bed sheets
I can’t remember
The last time
You slept well with me
I pulled the covers over my head
Drowning in your warmth
In this darkness
You were still here with me
Your limbs
Intertwined with mine
Your photo
On my bedside table
Your coffee mug
Next to mine
The dishes
Still in the sink
It was your turn to wash them
But I let it slide
I got up and put your slippers on
My toes crinkling with the feel of you
I put on your sweater
And I took your torch
And I grabbed your lighter
(I never told you but
I hated that you smoked)
Last night
I heard you come back
3:45 AM
And police sirens were shrieking
The house
And my heart
Were aflame
Drowning in your warmth
I heard you cry out my name
I heard you cry
I heard you
I heard you
I heard you
(But I don’t think you heard me)
Dec 24, 2013
Dec 24, 2013 at 1:22 AM UTC
*I have
A train ticket
To the sea.
I have no relatives left to visit,
No business to justify my stay,
Nothing except
A sense of abandonment in me.
I have
Some loose change
And a candy wrapper
In my pocket.
I have no place to stay,
No place for dining;
The seaport has nothing besides
An old lighthouse,
Rusted and forgotten.
I hold its keys in my hand
And unlock the creaking door,
Climb the spiral staircase to the top
In a sort of restless agony.
We are one and the same,
Too close to the crashing waves of reality
Yet still with the silence of disregard,
Gathering dust and cobwebs
And echoes of human warmth.
We both sit,
Quietly looking out into the frothy churning of a violent ocean,
Salt spray crusting on my fingernails,
Its railings squeaking under the turbulence of the grey air.
I feel less alone
In the presence of loneliness;
We are one and the same, like I said.
So we sit
And we wait
For the tide to come in
And my love to come home.*
Oct 26, 2013
Oct 26, 2013 at 6:58 AM UTC
I have been knotting and re-knotting my headphone string
For twenty seven minutes,
Trying to re-enact the exact contortion of your fingers interlaced with mine.
I have been staring into my coffee for eleven minutes,
Trying to find the exact shade of the brown of your eyes in it.
I have been glancing up at every stranger who passes me by,
Trying to see if any of them resembled you;
One had a jawline with the same sloping curve as yours.
I have been watching the grey skies outside the pane glass window,
Trying to find the cloud with the exact billowing contour
Your cigarette smoke made in the mornings.
I have been listening to the metal detector beeping,
Trying to recall the sound your alarm clock made, sitting on your bedside table,
Waking you up from a woozy dream.
——-
They have announced the boarding call for flight 207 at terminal 6.
I have a ticket in my hand
But I am glued to the seat,
The warmth of the person sitting before me still lingering.
Perhaps he had used the same cologne as you;
The smell was awfully familiar.
——-
I have not moved from my seat
For three hours and twenty three minutes.
I can feel the eyes of the security guard burning a hole through my back into my chest,
Trying to judge if I am a criminal or not.
I would be a criminal for you, love,
But it is too late
You were the one
Who stole
my heart
first.
Aug 20, 2013
Aug 20, 2013 at 12:40 PM UTC
*They say that
Van Gogh ate yellow paint
To put the happiness inside him.
But she, instead, would
Cut out the sadness from her skin
And let the hatred pour out
In gushing streams of red,
Her screams echoing
The injustice of colour.
Her wheat skin looked prettier, she thought,
With the raked furrows of half healed scars
And painful slurs
Etched into the deep ochre of her soul.
She quietly detested her terracotta skin,
Smooth like a polished stone
Picked up from the Ganges.
But here in the pale waters of the Thames
She was a blot of burnt sienna on an otherwise ivory white riverbank.
And every new cut
Would heal bloodless and waxen,
Which made her vow to herself to cut off her skin completely,
Leaving nothing but
The darkened red of her fury
And a frightened echo of a scream
In a room filled with bitter laughs and slurs,
In a room filled with the muffled cries of the oppressed and unheard.*
Jul 22, 2013
Jul 22, 2013 at 8:25 AM UTC
*One day
I will wake up in the early morning
My fingernails aglow with sun
And I will not want to scratch the pain out of my skin.
One day
I will not be subject to
Pleasantries and masquerades,
Hellos and goodbyes and see-you-agains,
But be greeted with a small smile
And a nod of understanding.
One day
Someone will say they will stay by my side
Even when the sea inside me
Overflows, and drowns him too;
He says the tide will bring us back ashore.
One day
My fingers will not shiver
In summer, because the cold is never gone.
The blood in my veins will not carry the echo
Of hate and self deprecation.
One day
I will wake up without internally screaming,
And hey, who knows, maybe I’ll smile.
I will put on my yellow boots
Not as a reminder of the sadness I hide,
But a proportionate guarantee of the happiness I feel.
But today, you see,
Today I cannot find the strength to leave my bed;
The blinds will be closed the whole day and
The postman will know not to knock on my door.
Today
The sea inside me rages
And ****** the backside of my eyes,
Drenching my pillow with saltwater.
And in a blurry pointillism of blues
I will drown
Before I reach ashore.*
Jul 15, 2013
Jul 15, 2013 at 1:44 PM UTC
They said that she had fairy skin
And cinnamon dusted hair,
A sleepy countenance, a ragged demeanour;
They said “she’s never quite..there."
Her fingers, when I saw her
Were tangled into a wreath.
Their fragile veins seemed about to snap
But she sat so calmly in her seat.
What a waste of a fine young lady, I say,
As she muses at the sky;
An excess of poetic form
Has made her mad and shy.
And yet I harbour a fascination
For one so truly lost,
Who cannot tell real from dreams,
Who nightmares do accost.
And oh, what a beautiful sight
To see one stay so naive.
At least, I say, I’m not the kind
To pin my heart up on my sleeve.
And once again the monotony
Of another day rushes past,
And the sea inside ****** the back of my eyes, I see
An exquisite pointillism of stars.
Maybe she’s the one with the luck of the Irish,
And I’m just a manifestation of routine.
She’s awake and full of fireworks,
And I’m just half asleep.
Jul 8, 2013
Jul 8, 2013 at 4:43 AM UTC
Stay awake for the dawn that comes
Awake for the light at the
End of tunnel
Blink and it's gone now
Just wait and see
A cerulean
Behemoth
The sun an illusive revolver
Shooting love like a fast paced finger flung dart
Burning up the starch on your blue shirt
Searing through your heart
This is what it means to be alive
This is what it means to be alive
Jul 7, 2013
Jul 7, 2013 at 3:32 PM UTC
*I spend my days waiting for night to come,
And nights awake waiting for day.
It’s a hopeless conundrum,
Like waiting for a flight in permanent delay.
My bedroom has become a terminal
Where tungsten lights seep through tearstains,
Where happiness is a criminal
On the run from your grenade.
I’m waiting for your satisfaction
Your smirk of approval, your disdain,
And all I get is a kiss from your shotgun
Blown off, blind-sided once again.
What’s another day to me
One step closer to being depraved
Of meaning, of purpose, of distinction;
I’m just another patient face.
I’ll wait.*
Jun 29, 2013
Jun 29, 2013 at 2:37 PM UTC