It is here
in this bottle-necked existence, locked
into days captioned by ticks and tocks,
where time resides in each of us
until it stops,
rotating the same hands
inside the same third dimensional clock;
it is here
where every breath exhaled is a universal kiss –
it is simply one moment and
the space in between this
that binds together our journeys, which,
as uniquely defined as we feel each is,
are all chapters of the same book
we write to reminisce,
primed and pained with the same theme we
create to self-exist,
scrawled by the same pencil, held
by the same hands as we persist…
each of us artists
with the same precise and leather-bound twist
It is here
where we long for real purpose or true faith –
to believe that something
‘other’,
external,
or
majestic
awaits…
but in nothing we trust
yet, cry blame for our fate –
each a different monologue of the same hate;
the same distracting soul state;
the same periodic and prolific bait –
God would not want us, at any rate
It is here
in darkness, arms around each other’s back
that war hangs overhead in stasis,
circling, cycling on a track and
wearing thin our patience
while it leaks like yolk from all our cracks
(we watch it drip indifferently as we huddle tight within our pack)
S
I
L
E
N
T
L
Y
preparing
for the next surprise attack:
we, like wolves, insane
and seeing red with every flash –
our lonely pain inciting hunger,
our deep abyss as black
It is here
in this cosmic explosion,
and it is now just as it was then,
that peace is nought but a tragic parody
of the dreams of passing men,
and nothing changes but the theatre of stars
in lines, in queues, end to end,
enemy to friend to
ENEMY
for decades once again,
consuming pain like greed as our bellies all distend,
living every angle of the lie like it is money we MUST spend,
the broken tales of each of us
portending, true, our end;
dangling one more burden
like a dog-tag for a past we’ve penned
at rest beneath a headstone
in a yard of human bookends
Apr 13, 2017
Apr 13, 2017 at 10:09 PM UTC
He said those words
I can't
and my heart fell out of its pocket
like there was a hole in my
chest and
that very last stitch
heard him speak
Our mobius strip
lay suddenly flattened
- I on one side and
he on the reverse
like destiny and distance
were the same bridge to gap
Now I want life to end
as I lean down to hold
what's left in my lungs
- my final breath leaving as
I fall beyond the edge where
by some miracle
this leap of faith might save me
and I am captured by the arms
that wait beneath
- my fate finally showing its purpose
until the only strip that remains
is the one where
we remove each other's clothing
Apr 10, 2017
Apr 10, 2017 at 1:49 PM UTC
With you
I spent my years like money
and what is left now are the shells
of every decision afforded;
the skeleton of time
the only backbone we could manage
not to crumble. Our own had weakened.
For many years
tears would leak like suicide
and I became an expert swimmer,
the apostrophe of all my strength
the board on which I’d surf;
later, the oar with which my raft would be paddled.
I cried an ocean
but still couldn’t willingly drown.
Of late
I ceased believing that I lacked worth
and stopped just existing to pay the karmic debt
my reasoning concluded I must owe.
I unshackled and chose to live outside the cage.
Giving up on failure gave me purpose.
Without you,
the tangible clutter we gathered gets dusty
and I can’t decide if I should blow it clean
or leave these fingerprints to remind myself why.
In shedding the weight of commitment
I am no lighter, but my kaleidoscope
now dazzles like a jewel.
Apr 7, 2017
Apr 7, 2017 at 5:37 AM UTC
In waking sleep we all expire,
remote organics built to tire –
searching lusts for something more
to fill our souls beyond our core
We lay awake inside a dream,
asleep within a constant stream,
alone, in part, to wander, lost,
with passing time our only cost
We play as shadows holding hands
with eyes wide closed and few demands,
our every moment briefly clashing;
fast forgotten memories flashing
Here, we count down from our birth
with time a thief upon this earth –
purpose teased at every corner,
Chinese Whispers our informer
But all will realise when we’re gone
that we were dreaming every song –
that death becomes another story;
a painless world of allegory
I fear we write this book forever
as single pages bound together
to lay inside our reader’s minds
in passing paragraphs of time
Jan 20, 2017
Jan 20, 2017 at 3:34 PM UTC
Her honey'd hole a wet, wet dream,
her liquid gold a silky stream where
sliding thrusts were mounted, hot,
and arching bodies dared not stop;
where moments flowed into the next
and both were drowned in comfort ***
and eyes were riding each one's soul:
his quest for freedom her only goal
And rather than come up for air
this fiery passion sank them there,
(as both an anchor, 'twined like rope,
and locked in pelvic gyroscope)
her swollen thighs around his waist,
her nails embedded, tongues embraced
and fishing for that final taste
with every touch, in every place
Fused as one with melting cores,
(her curling toes demanding more)
his urgent need to plunge her rightly
sealed them closed with hearts bound tight, and
all around them
walls of water washed their sins
in quickening waves that locked them in
with swats and spanks
and gentle yanks and saucy stares
while skin to skin and hand to soaking hair
Like rolling tide to rocky shore,
(her legs thrown wide, his pelvis sore)
the crash and grind of karmic ties
were deep explored and fast revived
- with whispered greed they came alive -
awash with ***** un-restraint and
thrived, un-reined, with fate to blame,
their pulsing needs through every vein,
infused as one and charged by same:
her wild release on which he came
an ocean, calling out her name
Jan 9, 2017
Jan 9, 2017 at 5:01 PM UTC
Journey across time with calendar wings,
moments packed like spare t-shirts
and extra socks,
passport in one hand and
a window seat to the right;
an empty notebook penciled by thought -
its white void the clouds
that fuel your glorious lungs
Honeymoon with more sky and fewer limits,
bound at the ankles by freedom
- and spontaneity, by chance -
the fresh juice of destiny
your north in every glass of south;
a stomach full of butterflies
to take you to places the maps won't
Voyage, gift-wrapped in mystery,
each sunrise peeled apart with branching arms;
that new car smell
to steer you upon the magic
of rhyming skies and watercolour footprints -
companionship in purpose
embedded into the souls
of all who climb the peaks of your dreams
beside you
Jul 22, 2016
Jul 22, 2016 at 4:58 AM UTC
Words I’ve left unsaid
collect like tombs inside my mind,
resting wide awake
without a sound
to pass the time.
Blind beneath the surface
losing purpose, long repressed,
my words now sleep, unspoken,
lacking passion,
unexpressed.
Just outside my reach
my words are hidden, cast from light;
without a voice to feed them
they recoil beyond my sight.
Depleted words
– malnourished –
thin with hunger while they grieve
and when my lips re-open,
they, destroyed, refuse to leave.
Resigned, my words inside
have lost their courage,
weak, deformed;
destined once for freedom,
now detained alone,
they mourn.
These broken words whose author
still retains the will to thrive
return instead to thought form
in an effort to survive.
In fluent tears,
these wordly souls
– admirers from my past –
expire rolling from my eyes
to fare me well at last.
And left with me,
a silence,
for my naked void to dress –
the lingerie of alphabets
strewn high upon my chest.
Jul 14, 2016
Jul 14, 2016 at 3:20 AM UTC
Led by foreign madness, we
- to long expected sleepless graves -
will swim to sink and drown in numbers
weighted down beneath the waves
with nothing left inside but shadows;
no-one left of worth to save
In one end and out the other,
warring with psychotic pride, then
born again and made to suffer
- karmic purpose ill-forgotten -
each new chance at life, a buffer:
"Next time: change..." we chant inside.
Cycles written, history leaking,
sorely weeping through the pores
of growing wombs and offspring born
- another child of soulless form -
to breastfeed lies, imprisoned, shrieking
time again: disease repeating.
Sin ingested (soup for poor)
- the bile of shame and burden lost -
as people starve and lives are sold
and terrors planned to mind control...
and all the while our sickened bodies
hover, rotting, rank with worry.
Toll the bells - it's time to breathe
and **** this horror from our conscience;
steer ourselves towards a pardon,
pave the way, resume our garden
seeding spirit, heart, and mind
with growth to bloom for one last time
or we, the people, incarnating,
won't survive beyond our mating.
Jul 9, 2016
Jul 9, 2016 at 8:28 AM UTC
this moment will slip away from me
drowning out my fears in a raft made for two
oars afloat
beyond my cramping fingers
and nothing but my shadow will be revived
Jun 13, 2016
Jun 13, 2016 at 6:27 AM UTC
I have, once more,
jailed my vision,
splicing diamond-cut thoughts with this
cross-bred and violently bleeding doubt that
feeds from the stomach and shreds the sanest of minds
It is here this rampant indecision
squawks in wordless tongue,
lashing its disposable fancies
(arrow-tipped precision)
at my shaking core,
bowels emptying
alongside any creative thoughts of semblance
All that is left to bear witness: a sweaty palm or two
– and silence –
as the webbing of my fingers um and ah
hovering, like midnight fireflies
over the speech-impeded womb
of my QWERTY keys
And, inside, I hear laughter
Jun 13, 2016
Jun 13, 2016 at 6:21 AM UTC