Late night rendezvous
the carcass of hope
pecked clean by fever dreams
and relief in pain.
Their macabre passion
infused with action
evolves and invades
the pale, sick ecosystem.
Still, the waning moon
tells no tales.
Their urgency of need
overshadows the pull of light.
The night stumbles forward
beyond their collective consciousness
in her dead eyes
and on his swollen lips.
Mar 21, 2018
Mar 21, 2018 at 11:10 AM UTC
Alone at last in the dead of night,
he reaches for her under their threadbare existence
with one clammy hand.
She dutifully obliges.
Alone at last in the dead of night,
the girl is sound asleep;
the tiara is still askew on her head
after the day’s rabid celebration.
Alone at the last at the dead of night,
the boy takes the unrelenting road
out of the town.
And towards new adventures.
Alone at last at the dead of night,
the dog sheds its skin
and howls at the moon.
Oct 9, 2017
Oct 9, 2017 at 1:07 AM UTC
A slow twirl of hand
anti-clockwise
and Kronos does a moonwalk.
Earth 5111955
of revision and recreation
mistakes do not exist here.
And as mistakes do not exist
neither do courage, nor philosophy,
nor the humble desire that whispers in one’s ear,
“Be the best you can be.”
Sep 26, 2017
Sep 26, 2017 at 9:26 AM UTC
He is an earthy fool of morning—
makes the uphill trek of five leagues
and gathers anemones.
He is a fiery child of dusk—
arrives in the quietness beyond fatigue
and knocks at the door.
She is a flighty girl of night—
wears an anemone in her hair
and opens the door.
It is a deranged river of dawn
breaks the shackles that tamed it once
and rears its hood to strike.
Aug 21, 2017
Aug 21, 2017 at 1:15 PM UTC
Over the chatter of rain,
her vegetable shouts
are hardly heard by him.
The corner where the roof leaks
and corruption draws a perfect circle,
he finds his anorexic love
neatly packed in polyethene bags.
The window is missing a shattered pane
lost sometime last year,
he gathers the curtain into a ball to repel the storm
but rips the silk to shreds.
He’s gone in the stillness between the flash and the roar
that threaten to overwhelm her once more,
she closes her eyes and the door.
Jul 9, 2017
Jul 9, 2017 at 1:42 PM UTC
Set in its prurient ways,
the sun strips the rōnin down
in the vicious pause after—
the peasant girl stares.
May 14, 2017
May 14, 2017 at 10:36 AM UTC
It was the missing decade
of my life that came back,
late on one clammy night.
Wearing your visage
of a foraging girl
at the foot of a tranquil Vesuvius.
Spent though I was,
for those decades still with me,
I sat awake listening to the warmth of open windows.
The decade came for me,
in figments and memories
wheezing a few questions.
This room is known to me,
as is the night,
as is the flaying heat,
and the carved words
on the creaking charpoi
by some distant uncle.
I melded with the light squeezing through
into this dark, sulphurous room
like an exile away from my maker.
The decade came to me
and sang lullabies
of princes who never were.
I have kept my vigil
until the mirror ran dry
and returned to sand.
The decade wears me now
as I am, the hunting boy
by a shimmering Ganges.
May 6, 2017
May 6, 2017 at 6:22 PM UTC
Imagine, for this night, you are the queen of Fairy Tale land.
I, too, am a prince, from Make-Believe kingdom.
From beyond our cocooned proximity,
the night shimmers in, and thickens to a silken thread of moonlight
that the crone will soon spindle into her never-ending story
of billion constellations, both seen and unseen
by naked, desperate novas.
We, entwined, like the roots under a rabid rainforest,
pale as innocence, battering feverishly against the stones for ever afters,
seize Avalon, and reject Camelot.
The canopy of fireflies synchronises in raw euphoria,
a rebel Excalibur.
The wind matures around us.
Tomorrow may be an inevitable notion,
but my queen of Fairy Tale land,
my sword, shield, bow, toothbrush, unicorn,
worn-out copy of The Arabian Nights,
all lay bare before your lion throne.
This world was once a crevice between fire and ice.
Fire and ice run in our veins,
from me to you and back into the realm of drunken faeries,
where the bumblebee heart of the day
is yet to ignite the pomegranate sky.
Feb 17, 2017
Feb 17, 2017 at 1:37 PM UTC
At the silted banks of river Nile,
I'd sung to the glory of Lucy;
I'd soared high over the echoing Savanna
and fought and bled for Shaka Zulu.
I was first to push back abyss,
the last to be ripped away. I'll
return one day, I'll bring the rest.
Feb 3, 2017
Feb 3, 2017 at 12:51 PM UTC
The seed of my fall
was sowed when in small,
certain twist of fate,
both were working late.
Papers flew to frame you wings
while a hunger pulled my strings,
and in the blues of your gaze,
did my heaven and hell blaze.
Jan 25, 2017
Jan 25, 2017 at 4:42 AM UTC