Akasaka, from
A moment of cautious hope,
Thirty minutes late.
Miyashita Park,
We held hands in Shibuya,
We kissed on the stairs
Aoyama, a
Day of Paris and queueing,
Opalescent nails.
Ginza after dark,
Octopus and old-fashioned,
A black dress, my suit
Ni-chou-me, lemon
Sours, Italian jokes,
Stumble home with me
Ebisu, in blue
After weddings and babies,
Pizza and a film
Shinjuku, a shirt
For warmer days, a night of
Sunsets and pasta
Meguro, two bowls
With dumplings and rice, a walk
Back home through the rain
Shinagawa, to
A place far away; promise
You’ll come back to me
Jun 14, 2023
Jun 14, 2023 at 8:46 AM UTC
I once had a way with words.
Wielded them like a gilded sword, ******
From line to ragged line in
Desperate lunges. A duelist,
Fighting an ever-futile contest against
Enemies within, for honours hardly
Deserved, never recognised.
I wrought small trinkets and gaudy
Sculptures; I fashioned some
Restless peace, if only for moments.
I wrote my way to draughty sanctuary.
I sought shelter, and on some occasion
Remained dry.
Jun 13, 2023
Jun 13, 2023 at 1:41 PM UTC
I’m sitting and
Thinking and
Wishing and
Longing and
Reaching backwards and
Falling forwards and
And and and
Jan 3, 2020
Jan 3, 2020 at 6:46 PM UTC
And so the shift, 'twixt gears of
Passion and those of despair; easily
Done, devoid of signals to alert
My dreary mind of its occurrence.
There might have been reason,
At least speculative notions,
Why we came to impasse,
And why you left and I stayed.
I dare not reach conclusion,
Nor do I attempt to find peace
With the tempest raging beneath,
My calm, unyielding surface.
Did we not enjoy some discrete joys,
'Neath pebble-dashed ceilings and dim lamps,
When you brushed your hair aside,
And it glowed in the darkness.
No, there is nothing to be done,
No way to turn but awry.
You walk to greener pastures,
I'll wait, to see if you return.
Mar 31, 2012
Mar 31, 2012 at 10:35 AM UTC
Tonight's expulsion
Requires anonymity and mild discretion,
For he will not bring about the disgrace
Duly owed, long overdrawn.
I've laid my heart on the table,
My ******* soul on the line,
But you chose across the partition,
Between a sure thing and a
Mild gamble.
Even the poorest of human examples
Will surely best the most distinguished ape.
Oh how you laugh with him,
How you direct your smile to his eye.
Your fingers locked as one,
Your remarks intended for private ears.
Your poisonous kiss,
Sickening embrace.
You know who he is,
You know what you find yourself
Tumbling emphatically towards.
And yet you fail to spot the trick,
To understand the things you do.
How I long to know what he knows,
To be where he is,
To have such vaunted attributes.
And despite hours of desperation,
Following weeks of prior preparation,
Overwhelmed by innate privilege and
Blind luck.
**** this.
It's the hand holding that gets me.
And the fact that I haven't spoke in ages,
But you both haven't noticed.
Perhaps I ought to cast it all aside,
Collect my fragile mind and consider
That life makes erratic progress
Toward an incandescent horizon.
One defined by sublime revelation, and
Glorious triumph. A decision
Of colour and love, so
Enchanted, so majestic, crowned
By everlasting wisdom; a moment
Of inexorable beauty, of
Magnificent grace.
Such a thing...
Nov 1, 2011
Nov 1, 2011 at 1:02 PM UTC
This stray amongst the lions, singing
Songs about the motions, while he
Shuffles on his feet, and dreams of
Birds and trains and oceans.
Inside a cage of pens and desks, his
Mind a whirlwind blowing, and his
Instinct rarely showing that there's
No real way of knowing. Be-
Neath the towering eyes of stone, he'll
Charge forth into worlds unknown. And
Maybe he'll make us all so very proud.
The jewel within the junkpile, reading
Classic works of old, and telling
Stories of a life she dreams on
Starry nights so cold. She
Takes a subtle gesture, turns it
To a work of art, and then she'll
Take a few steps backwards, turn, and
Then she shall depart. Be-
Tween two realms of parapets, she
Takes her time, but still forgets to
Return to the heavens she is from.
A seething mass of paper, screaming
Mindless riddling tricks, bent on
Giving you your fix, of heady
Sciences, for kicks. They share a
Bleak appraise of life, but still
Together it's alright, because
There's nothing they can't face, if they just
Shine a little light. Be-
Mused and disillusioned glances, and
Gaily executed dances. The
World just fades to white, and all is well.
A satin mix of music, and an
Air of discontent, disguising
All who can't repent and left to
Pick their cold descent. She
Strokes aside her hair and puts her
Hands around your waist, before you
Narrow up the space and dance to-
Gether, face to face.
Alone without a single care, the
World is left to stop and stare; and
Rain falls from the stars in darkest skies.
He stumbles round his words, and offers
Meaningless remarks, which don't il-
Luminate the dark as well as
How he set his mark. An
Awkward, crowded scene conspires to
Rid him of his dream, but still he
Doesn't let it seem as though his
Nature doesn't gleam. A-
Lone with just a pocketbook, he
Takes his turn, but doesn't look to
See if she has found her way back home.
He carries his emotions to a
Private place he knows, where the
Jokers never go, and all the
People walk below. She
Meets him at the bar, but doesn't
Take a seat beside, because she
Doesn't like this ride, and so her
Feelings are denied. He
Stares into her ashen eyes, that
Earthy depth that never lies; she
Sits and plays a tune for all to hear.
Oct 1, 2011
Oct 1, 2011 at 1:19 PM UTC
I believe we are of sound and worthy mind;
That we might cast our constant glare back,
Towards our own transgressions and
Pretensious claims to ascendance.
That we may reflect on our own fortune,
Alive and affluent, rich in life and
Experience ill afforded to our elders.
Perhaps then we might pretend,
If only for fleeting moments,
That we are as deserving as we commonly believe.
For we are nothing if not
The cynical generation, born into
A world so mature that we need be
Nothing but children within it.
We have no politics, no beliefs, no
Drive to propel us into an existence of
Grace and enlightenment. We scoff
At signs of sentiment, we laugh
At barefaced gesture and divulgence.
We indulge in ceaseless pleasures and
Live upon the surface of the shallows.
Yet we forfeit the beauty of feeling,
The release afforded by sublimity;
We are afraid of what is bigger than us,
And we respond with profane derision.
I tire of popularity competitions,
Of gossip and blunt innuendo, of
Social ladders and picking up.
I yearn, with nostalgia and music, for
A time foreign to this weary soul,
A time perhaps non-existent, when
Such games were not all there was.
Sep 25, 2011
Sep 25, 2011 at 4:09 AM UTC
A line can be drawn,
Of best fit, closest conformity,
Tracing both forwards and back
To when you were younger,
Your smile more bright, your
Eyes open wide to a
World all your own.
To see your features weep and sigh
Beneath the weight of passing time
Is naught but devastation.
I invest ungodly hours in
Charting your decline; I
Both wallow in despair and
Cling to hopes of latter-day grandeur.
I dare not look beneath the surface,
Or cast mine eye to past events,
Lest I see further evidence of
Decay and regress.
I fear I could not survive it.
I fear you would be lost,
To me, to this world which
You once so vividly called your own.
Sep 23, 2011
Sep 23, 2011 at 1:14 PM UTC
Glass is everywhere.
The empty road; between shrubs
And upturned wheelie bins.
It's in your hair, like dust
That sparkles slightly amidst the auburn highlights
And the blood from a **** above your
Left ear.
You can't hear so well,
All is ringing, squealing, high
And resonant above the sirens
And screams, the shop-keepers
Cursing the Gods, the
Church bells from another world
Calling out for dawn.
Oh! Take us away.
From these rivers of black,
These haggard drapes of
Bright lights and broken
Panes. This carpet
Made from discarded electrical goods,
Shoe boxes, wine bottles, and
Ash.
Who are they to do this?
To lay claim to all we have,
To lay waste to that
Which came before?
No fury from foreign lands, nor
Raging strife by nature's hands,
Has ever done what has been done.
The rain doesn't come;
Our summer is finally here,
And the skies are clear.
No clouds in sight, save for
Rolling colossi of acrid smoke. Flames
Pointing accusing fingers at an uncaring sky,
As England burns.
Aug 10, 2011
Aug 10, 2011 at 8:36 PM UTC
I sit in the dark,
Surrounded by distant noise,
Echoes of dead men.
In fields of grey ash,
Of broken glass and stained dreams,
Made by broken men.
I turn to dim light,
I drown in periphery,
I sing to deaf men.
This concerns you not,
My quarry is not your own,
Discard heavy task,
Ascend to vast planes untouched,
By all these silent, dead men.
Aug 2, 2011
Aug 2, 2011 at 6:13 PM UTC