This is the biggest lie
The mirror told me;
Don't speak.
Why?
People can hurt you when they
know too much.
Will they?
Can they?
Yes, when?
Yesterday.
I don't remember that.
Because you think you know it
all, stupid boy.
I don't.
Good, because you don't, you're
wrong. That's right.
I think I need to speak to someone
But you have me; I know
everything
Mirror, mirror
On the – communal - wall
Where strangers **** and ****
And always avoid eye contact
There's power in silence
But then how will I find things out for
myself, if I am quiet always?
Know the power of knowledge,
ledge of knowing
What if I fall off this ledge?
You think too highly of yourself,
you're shallow it won't hurt.
Right.
Or is it wrong, I told you to be quiet and you still speak.
Nobody listens to silence
- Quiet **** -
Tie the noose for one's
- Own neck -
Maybe the small knife from
- The kitchen -
To carve on flesh, escape from
- My skin -
I want to keep it safe, not scarred
- Not always -
Fatal, just curious.
-Does that make sense?-
It's not real. Let me ask someone I think
-I trust-
Stop dreaming!
I can't control that.
You said this was your body,
you're control?
But that's different.
See, you're not always right!
It's not bad to be wrong,
sometimes.
Then why are you still speaking?
I'd like to lie down now.
Okay.
What sacrifice will I leave to the beast?
“Kind can be the inflicted, and also the ignorant.
Gracious can be the dark; or else too the light.
Afraid are the lost, and so too the able.
Bliss is real”.
But you aren't kind!
Neither are you.
Gracious? Look at your posture.
I'm looking.
Are you telling me I am old?
Sometimes.
Filth. You are ignorant.
I am going to light a candle now.
There is a church I walk past everyday. It is orange, not like the fruit, but like the sand when the sun is half way between this land and another. When the skin of water is cool, and not blue like the crayon drawings' of a child. Sometimes I want to knock on the heavy, mahogany door of the church. Not for permission to enter; I want to know how thick the door is. Orange with dark spots, that is how I remember the church. Points to the sky, and I would need to take a detour to see it close. I am always late, maybe one day I will be later. You said I could just wake up earlier; I told you I will not do that.
You must love yourself,
look how many mirrors are in
here, ha! Just kidding. This is cool.
Ha, I know. I love and hate mirrors.
Really?
They're tender and tough. Depends
who's looking. Does that make
sense? I want to
say more about them, but there's
not enough words.
I've never thought of a mirror
like that before.
And I've never thought that I can
stop thinking that way about
mirrors.
Do you want some more water?
There's no more in the fridge, but
let me get some from the bathroom
sink. It's better from there.
Don't worry, I'll go. You're tired.
Neither quick or slow, but delicately, he walks to the bathroom. I hear the door open, the light switch on, a pause. He walks, runs the sink; I can hear the glass filling. It is a small apartment, and the walls are weak. He turns the tap off, the flick of darkness and I can hear his footprints returning. He hands me the glass; I know it is cold before I touch the glass because of the condensation. His fingerprints are there, and so too are mine. He relaxes his shoulder against mine, presses his lip to my ear. His breathing is calm, like the water at the beach. Then that small chuckle, I hear him, exhale. Hard and protective, like the door of the church. Stable and seductive, I know he is going to tell me his witness, or a joke.
You don't have mirrors in your bathroom.
Oct 20, 2018
Oct 20, 2018 at 10:29 AM UTC
Imagine your hand is
one hundred days older
Than the hand you use now.
Look at your hand.
What will that hand hold,
in one hundred days from now?
What will that hand have push away
that changes the next one hundred days?
Your hand is younger than it is now
than it will be in one hundred days.
In one hundred days, this hand will
mould and shape and change each way.
This hand is the age you are now,
and this hand is not eternal.
This hand helps you to write and pick up
what you need; reflexes from danger, sometimes.
One hand in one hundred days may be
marked, with a burn or scar or a tattoo.
The other hand may be softer, because
you wore gloves or moisturised by choice.
Or maybe this hand in one hundred days
Will be blistered, from harm you fought with wonder.
Maybe this hand is a blessing forgotten
And you reach for another coffee.
So why are you so focused
on what happened one hundred days ago?
The hand moves, clenches, rests, changes,
like time too.
Sep 1, 2018
Sep 1, 2018 at 8:13 AM UTC
Weathered eyes
Watching I
Wondering why
Stupefied.
Either the tale is
Wrong
Or, surely! not yet another
Lie?
‘Here within the story lies’
I heard you whisper;
And I just thought you meant
‘You made your bed’
(did i steal your whispers?)
So let’s not deny
The bed,
Another tale yet to be said -
Because another fable
Makes me feel unable
To know knowledge.
Then again.
Then again, Maybe it was never meant for
One.
One plus one isn’t always an equation;
Just separate entities
Together again, are you now an
Enemy?
Jul 9, 2018
Jul 9, 2018 at 4:23 PM UTC
My hands search the Sun -
Your hands reclaim the Oceans.
My feet flee fear -
Your feet finds freedom.
My eyes pursue intricate; marble sculptures in ruin on the eighth floor
Your eyes a fluttering motion of wonder; belonging to all.
My tongue so wants to serenade your soul to sleep, though I cannot sing very well; so sometimes I try to make words dance for you-
Your tongue! mellifluous, soft eloquence whispered, like the hymn of the wind, and intricate - too fractured in places; ineffable. (I will wait)
Four parts of the body, which
Most people have -
Surrendering self-consciousness of by-standing witnesses,
I am waiting for these four parts of you
To teach, tender and passionate.
Being is not singular, nor hateful in permanence,
Much to the dismay of popular press -
It is not only a face with some red patches,
A chipped tooth or non-proportional nose.
It is not past misgivings, even if you have repented when they were cruel.
It is not false pretensions, for we see the sadness in your bones.
It is not even wealth, the fabric wrapped around your ribs
or hips.
It is not ecstasy and it is not sorrow and it is not black despair.
Serendipity
Humility taught through serendipity - sly salvaging of strength.
Glorious gains, grateful for hindsight now placing a delicate kiss on the forehead of foresight.
And doesn't this help us to repair?
I know we are only mortals.
And you know now I am waiting for you, fellow being.
Jun 17, 2018
Jun 17, 2018 at 4:33 PM UTC
Look into this cauldron.
Tell me - what do you see?
I can see hibiscus, salt, vanilla pods and bees.
Let me see what you can see
In this navy cauldron of granite, balancing
On the remains of a dead tree.
It boils and it kills and it nurtures
And it can even grow flowers
From beginning until the end; if you
Do not disturb its condition.
I can tell you most things can survive anywhere
If you let it adapt and provide tender patience.
Say yes, look at your gains and give spirit.
Death may be stalking but you tread
Thoughtfully along and give praise
To beauty and every wonder residing in your only mind.
Let freedom flutter and kiss velvet
Lips - delight; let silence surrender
Us in a nation of two where one truth exists:
worth and you.
Look in this cauldron
And tell me what you see!
Because while I see a cauldron of exceptional wonder,
you might see a decay
Jun 2, 2018
Jun 2, 2018 at 3:25 PM UTC
If ancient Gods’ gaze upon me with judgement,
Judge evenly.
Judge not your errors,
Witness your loose fingers carving
Misery one whisper at a time.
Observe male and male actions of
Understanding; where does this burden carry you?
If tyranny is the call of man
The conscious invisibility murdered your perfection.
Call man a beast and watch beasts roam the earth.
To whom do you call in distress?
Darlings gone rogue,
Or was this foretold?
I cannot call upon you; I never have.
Call this a confession of poisoned sin:
In acquaintance, love and kin
I cannot trace your value.
So call onto me, oh merciful monster,
All the injustices of the world for us to fix.
For all we mortals can really do is understand,
Forgive and carry on with the great burden
Of self-destruction and
Inflicted preservation.
May 29, 2018
May 29, 2018 at 8:10 PM UTC
If a man is only strong and righteous,
What does that make me?
If a man is productive and protective,
What does that make me?
If a man is duty and power,
What does that make me?
If a man is money and ***
What does that make me?
What does that make me
If my gaunt face and bony body grows under hate?
What does that make me
If I proclaim wrong amongst complicity?
What does that make me
If I write what you don’t know?
What does that make me
If I scratch an insecurity to show humility?
What does that make me
If I am encompassed in new morality?
What does that make me,
If I realised forever is nothing?
What does that make me,
If I inherit debt?
What does that make me,
If I told you between my sheets is authenticity?
I’m forgetting what father foretold
Because what he foretells was from his father,
Who also forgot.
May 29, 2018
May 29, 2018 at 8:06 PM UTC
Look at you, wearing
My father's shirt
My mother's broach
My sister's skirt
My brother's boots
My grandfather's watch
My grandmother's kerchief
I can see you
Bringing forth a siege from your palace -
Robbing my family,
Relentless! while they offer
No fight.
I don't know where my voice came from.
Whose bones did I inherit and let rot?
Whose muscles bring strength then shrivel?
Whose heart beats and will beat the end?
Whose eyes carved from marble and dirt?
I can't find these answers
But I can see you,
Wealth
Stealing from me.
May 29, 2018
May 29, 2018 at 7:33 AM UTC
Death drew lines in sand,
Boarders on grass and divides
Sea and land. But know
The scorpion will strike, snake glides and bites
A predator; not of ill-belonging, but of fear.
Birds float across continents,
Dolphins flow and follow the tide.
Exhaust all energies or you can hide;
Forget illusion of deity and rebirth,
Of perfection and redemption.
Let live. Accept and move along,
Move along with your only feet for as long.
The absurd, the faults and the strengths,
Believe no charity nor fate or luck,
Swallow dignity and hate;
Or choke on beliefs soon to break.
What happens now is up to you.
Rise with scarlet sun and high-sky blue
For not even language is absolute; it deviates time.
Grasp words you know, tell me what’s mine.
May 29, 2018
May 29, 2018 at 7:21 AM UTC
When I was sixteen
I was told I was a ghost in the machine.
This made perfect sense for I sought seclusion
From fright in my mind; I was hunting a delusion.
What was wrong and what was right
Could never be far or near or protected with might.
When I was seventeen
I was told I was a ghost in the machine.
This made perfect sense for I hated my mind.
Suffocating in a body howling with mistakes scared and lined.
Escape was hollow and deprivation
When a cold numb murdered little sensation.
When I was eighteen
I was told I was a ghost in the machine.
Laughter and warmth within and around,
Let us take a photo to capture what was lost and found.
Often I will reminisce about the night it all made sense
But I cannot remember it all, let loathing commence.
When I was nineteen,
I was told I was a ghost in the machine.
Now, I did not understand
For I could feel and touch and fall and land
Without sorrow or destruction at what I could not achieve.
Everything that happened, I knew now it was time to leave.
I am twenty six now,
And I remember when I was told I was a ghost in the machine.
Digital memory captured it all
And a scroll reveals the forgotten, the joy and the fall.
I didn’t realise at the time we place our spirits into devices so lean.
So let me tell you;
Guess what?
We are now all just a great ghost
in a pocket machine.
May 29, 2018
May 29, 2018 at 7:15 AM UTC