Knowing only our words and dancing lips,
But not her thoughts, I pierced black with blunders.
Arrogant to assume our bright abyss
Between was traversed. As vein bells thundered.
Vaunting my vice and confidence as those
Weft waves vaunt of their temporality.
Great velocity bringing long shadows,
Charges, a Rhamesses' dream of history
Set surely towards shores of broken sand.
From an alien surface I see rings,
Like a silver tiara in her strands,
Divide black of night. My mind in foreign
Lands, where lust is lost among moondust streets,
Where I waltz alone. Memory's a wreath.
Sheets of Saturn, of silk upon the heat,
She was a white clothe upon our own teeth.
Flames of her furnace, her firmament crown
Hearth of my heart, I have forever found
To be somewhere between eternity and me.

To me you are the all new pop single.
Who I find everywhere I go and
Fills my heart with starlight when we mingle.
Although whenever others did demand
To know what I felt for you, I said such
That I can't stand your perpetual presence.
But this is pretense. You do touch me much
That when you pass, secretly I sway, dance
And feel your rhythm or I hum along.
Remembering your every word and simply
Enjoying to adjoin joyously note
For note and meet our meanings' harmony.
You, simple jingle, sweet pop single, float,
Brightening my feeble mind. Years may go
With a dying fall, but I will still say so.

Steal slides silently
To lacerate the tender
Arteries and attack
Bones with a blatant stab.

You gave me my first breath with lips which kissed.
I have seen you since in a fantasy.
Truly I am caught and cannot resist
Eyes that pierced me and showed me beauty.
Do you see I fiercely fight my features?
My fascade that won't betray my intents
Through portrayal of struggle down deeper.
Fights to fend off faces of discontent
You notice in a simmering surface.
Nightly I have not slept, kept up with thoughts
Throughout the darkness. So I must say this,
For better or worse, I am fully forced,
Truly entangled with you and I will never
Replace your lipstick red mark
With shades of surrender.

Even at eighty three and eighty four,
They still hold hands, walk with conversations,
Or simply sit the way they always did before.
They're content with silence, their objections
Only that they have to go home for tea.
Walkers by, hear them bicker and banter,
Memories spilling from mouths happily.
They like the cafes and polite chatter.
But they love the park, the trees and brown bark.
But this pretense of present tense is wrong.
Even at eighty five, she still goes out.
Every day, she is glad to walk along.
Her memories are fainter now
The smell of hot coffee in the Summer
And someone's soft words to warm the Winters.

I watched skyscrapers
Batter the clouds which drifted lower
In elegantly soft head butts.
They appear, like the utterings of a mut
That puff into frost.
A paradise lost
As the only city in the sky
Are towers, built up high,
And higher they build
And higher they build
Up and up like Babylon,
Reminding of what was undone
In ages gone.

And my window glows the brightest in my room.
Jumbles of jagged jazz jut in through odd nights
To dredge up the New Year with fireworks
Fine December's lunge upon the kind.
Shattered pieces break wine divinely inwards
In memory and boredom
Of sorbent, drenched days.
Where are you?
What's the time?
Old, sore, bent, quenched greys
In fantasies that brought fun.
Scattered leeches ******* insidely innards
I remember once upon a time.
Two dead husks end blue ears with wire ferns
Crumbled into dead glass, cut sinews of time.
Despite shadows, show the finest of my gloom
And my window glows the brightest in my room.
Humbled are the dead God's, shut off to old rites
Few with enough truth to hear conspired words.
Humbled are the dead God's, shut off to old rites

Wine and ember's pop up in this mind
Flatters her thesis. Asks for pieces
With crumbling questions
For a crumbling response

So I know
Canines inspire sheep in herds
To let them flee, a poor one
So sore, went the wrong way.
Where are you?

So, today wept on tomorrow's shoulder
Because yesterday couldn't stay longer.

Slowly, the Sun secreted days
That solidified into months.
Recall what the moons says,
That time takes no time off.

Despite that nothing's light like light
It still takes years to reach out eyes
From deep in depths of night
Where stars like to rest before they rise.

Although,
As stars recede, we will cease.
As all stars fade, we pass away.
So before final peace
Finds you
Find a new way
Not trodden yet.
So the future cannot forget.

I've crucified my left hand
And I'm trying to strum a guitar with the other.
In the middle, I could understand
If someone thought my mouth's made to be a gospel singer
But instead it just sighs
"Mum, can you sign this?"
What a sacrifice?
What a waste?
At least, this poem's written online
So it doesn't waste a page
Of paper.

There is, in the bath, not time, but moments
That stretch out with transparent reflections,
So days echo through splashes and silence.
Dreams, memories and conversations
Stream, imaginarily from the tap;
The gushing senses rushing into descent
To dive downwards, down from the gaping gap.
There is, in the bath, not time, but moments.
Fears festering in depths and splashes heard
In this wet pit where memory filthies
Words with worries and shapeless world with words.
Then stand, streaming steam and vapour leaving,
Those thoughts forgotten beyond believing.

My mornings begin with smoke.
The tea leaks with a vaporous lather
And nebulous swirls grey has smote,
As tar dancers unfurl from my cigarette in mixed layers.

But by this ember’s embrace warmer my night grows.
To the side shadows curl and on the wall uncurl,
And for a moment one feels the fire burn away the smoke.
There’s a lingering of fingers and swirling flows
And as trembling sapphires unravel, a semblance glows.

There are remarks and reservations
And promises and expectations
To mingle in the cooling air of Autumn,
And hold things warmer till Summer is again.
The superfluous, frivolous, glorious things
All glitter in the beading sweat,
Yet are vapour in the morning.

The day is made of light
And sounds create the night.
In the darkness, a text
Blinds with meaning, regrets
Inevitable and
Burning with bright command.
To find your flaws in agony
And your faith for better in sacrilege.
Then a jazz melody
And written in it, God's undeciphered passage.
Our cosmos, but a wrinkle on God's side
And so I bargain myself into pain
Again and again
Over a girl of my third eye
And no more.

Incredulous city's lights, and loud sounds
Crescendo and billow to blow my mind
As though those Marco Valdo's mushroom clouds
Pouring, bursting from vehicles' behinds.
Blue light on the chapel's crown,
Do these images cross Christ
As dances on disintegrated bones?
Fool, ask the blue light, "What's right?"
Neon siphon's psyche, soul or sorrow,
What is left like a Hiroshima shadow
On the ***** white wrapping of his corpse?
My views a metaphor's meteor shower,
A star high rubix cube kept from collapse
In a glass skyscraper, flowers
Like perfume in vials labelled colon
Or a thousand shattered, scattered shards
From photos of photon lanterns with golden thrones.
I must embrace shimmering facades,
As if more glimmering mirages
Would water this soul with images.

That’s the way the light echoes
The moonlight stretching out in a lounging shawl
Like waves whose cusps fold and foam to kiss the sea,
As they roll away and the way to shore,
In the broad arms of the breeze
And their faint disturbance of surface romance.

The men at the front of the boat, cruising along.
The women singing a song that was famous long ago.
The sound of the song growing.
The sound filling with wind and interwoven ocean strings.
Telling tales which were living long ago.

One man thought.
‘Of my life tell only a few stories
Burning brightly with my virtues and vice
For lights are only passionate flurries
Those last lights before the eyes
Of he who sinks beneath the ice.
Telling tales which were living long ago.
That’s the way the light echoes.’

Major and minor harmonies crumble
Like disintegratable solutions
That dissolve to sweetness. Amiable
Feelings of fulfilment melt ambitions
And the curves of my guitar greet slim fingers.
I don't care for my poor technique or flaws,
Knowing the simple sound simply lingers
After slim fingers have strummed and struck chords.
This wooden thing, strummed summer instrument.
The fair dust of fairies the very notes
Releasing and ceasing the incessant
Torments that are elevated to float
Harmlessly above and about my ears.
That is release, that is peace beyond years.

There was one,
Infinite and singular.
Who split in two.
One was the mother.
One was the son.
One was the father
One was the daughter too.
One pulls strings from the null
And played a tune
So one would sleep,
Dreaming of the song,
Of stars across the dark sky,
And a thousand sparkling eye
To see them through.

I closed my eyes to watch the darkness dance.
Then opened them to candlelight. She laughed,
"Who the ****'s happy?" "An old acquaintance."
Her date replied, smugly. "You get one draft,
You know?" They went on, talking casually
About their prescriptions, doctors and thoughts.
"I mean, each date is a new draft really?"
She smiled and boasted for her retort
"You'll never get a girl crazy like me."
"Yes I will. They line the streets nowadays.
I still find kids picking up a ciggy
Only to be edgy and unhappy or always
Pointing to laugh at those who are. This year
Ought to be aborted. These kids impeached,
Replaced by some good kids. With an ear
For commands and gratitude for their reach.
This generation that lives the longest
And can't tell how to live with happiness."

My skull is empty on set.
A studio light casts shadows
In through windows.
Burning an iris as I pirouoette.

Do I want to play this game?

My thoughts have descended
I dread to confess,
Down to drown my heart
To dwindle stars before they start.

Do I want to play this game?

Blame circumstance.
Dance! Dance! In circles dance.
Cram yourself against every puzzle piece
You like to look at.
Crash with foreign bodies
Then regret, you reckless idiot.

I think humans are very silly.
I think we gave angels wings,
Then realising we were their only company,
Told them "Run! By God, run for your lives!"
Just to have them turn around and say
"Then why'd you give us wings?"

I know lonely girl
It isn't this simple, but if you're single,
In love, tell the boy, let him stay or part.
Why not? Must you wait till your last wrinkle?
If he deserves your heart's pieces and parts
He deserves to know what you have to say.
Simply said, since his fire burns inside you,
If you don't let it out someday,
When darkness closes In, it will burn through
And you will regret the light left dwindling.
If only it were easy to confess,
Lonely girl, you could paint your thoughts and feelings
And send it to him, with the secret needed
To see inside, being his love for you.
It's never easy, but it will be true.

Yes antique ones,
My future lies in the dust
Among the lazy and the dead.
Upon the ink pegasus
I careened across the sky,
Streams followed,
Old God's intervened,
With my rebellion, fed to old dogs,
Incapable of new tricks.

Grey is the ash.
Green is the blood.
Gilded is each dusk.
Grey is each speck of dust.

The sons of Ragnarok
Chase the moon, race after the sun,
The stones and rocks,
Tradition and a foreign notion,
Chase me around the fire
Chanting "Don't throw away your future."
And "It doesn't matter."
Simultaneously.

Grey is the horizon.
Growing is the shadow.
Shrinking is the sun,
Under the apathetic flow
Of raindrops evaporated
From dry eyes.
Grey is the day.
Grey is the gay flag
From grey eyes.

How easy it would be to dive deep.
How easy it would be to sleep.
How easy it would be to dive in shallow water.
Chanting "Don't throw away your future."
And "It doesn't matter."
Simultaneously.

At the source of these cancerous
Grey twirls that unfurl
There is a golden

But
I was not born for this.
I was not born to die, nor born to cry,
Although each black dot has its sentence
And each dawn it's dusk.
I was born the golden Prince
Of life, of my mistakes, of my victories.
So bring me my inheritance,
With all the weight and all the golden glories.

"IF I die,"
I replied.

Please, pardon my prayer,
Leaking from lips like grease from hair,
May Apollo ride along,
May muses fill me with song,
May Zeus strike me with the creative spark,
May Cupid strike my heart,
Till my shin, legs and shredded head
Lie in decomposing composition,
Yet let my tongue live longest
To taste that inspiration.

Two men stand where a glade meets a clearing.
They hold their guns strong in the evening,
Shaking shoulders attached to their stern arms.
They pull triggers to **** and cull the calm.
Hence smoke ascends in burning fireless rings.

The forest begins breakfast before and
During and after, with simmering dawns
Breaking like bubbles on the sea.
Boiling to leave a smoke which stretches out
His hand to cover his yawn for centuries.

Two men stand where a clearing meets a glade.
Their guns raised as to secure security,
And yet one watches his father's smoke fade,
Lowers his gun and extends harmony.
So the other shoots and clearing takes glade.

As our chapter ends, the page crescendos,
It's shadow so long as to loom over
And cover us. The last words, no one knows.
Paper between us and sunset. Brothers
Composed of light, wait on the horizon,
Unknown and unseen. The last words unsaid.
Weaves of dreams sweeping over and upon
Us, volts against the current. Yet when red
Signals dusk, it dawns over foreign seas,
Like life in the water or blood in the womb.
This chrysalis, these images, fantasies,
And uncertainty's fierce shade, are no tomb.
Friends' voices dwindle into the distance,
Yet I'll never surrender remembrance.

A fly dots the paper white wall.
So close to real, he might even fall.
The paint of that splot
All but taking off.

Across black, my dogs run like stallions,
Stretching and contracting limps and tendons.
Then as I return from work, I find they brighten
Draining, darkening ends of evenings.
But the weak sinews of monkey's flesh
Compel us. To them it is the tempest
Of a thousand lifts and falls in a mess,
Indistinguishable barks in a mesh.
As we shout, dogs must think us mean creatures.
Someday, what will my wordless child observe?

In the day
When there's enouth light in the air
To bathe your every inch of skin and wave
Of hair.
That's when you have to be perfect
When everything shown must catch the eye like a net.

Yet in the night
When I walk alone by the streetlights
And the light is scarce,
I just want just enough
To shine on your smile,
To see it gleaming white
And more importantly,
Happy.

Spontaneously another human sprouts out.
Another hair in the beard of the Earth
Who greys, wanes and weakens.
Only there because they fester too fast
To be shaved off in waves of hurricanes.
Only there to catch food with greasy hands
And a greedy grips to grasp the lands.
Lonely where they spill out.
Homely where the hills represent
An Earth they push from the planet.

My wings are unburdened
But I fly not.

I see no seashore.
Just water, no more.
Swimmers among the shimmers
Murmur about the glimmer
Glittering above a drop.
I know what I'll do.
I'll build a tower of water up high,
Above the waves and weave of turbulence.
A reflection behind my closed eyes
Always flowing to this current moment.

Forget the question. Please, please, please. Don't think.
Build your tower before you sink.
But alas I think. I think and I sink.

Sometimes I stop to be swallowed below,
To fall to forgotten, forever nights.
The deeper you go, the better you know
How dark our sea is and how brief the light.
Both fast past and fleeting future shrivel
Shrink, sink, fuse together with tomorrow.
Shimmers on the sea and this revival
Are but surface echoes, not heard below.
We're just splashing around before the sharks
Slither from bottomless shadows of dark.

Why?
My wings are unburdened
But I sea nowhere to fly
But towards the end.

They all laughed beautifully.
They all smile with pearly arches.
Yet she moves me.
She soothes me.
She smoothes my scars
And she lets me be
And she, beneath her fuzzy tiara
Smiles for me.

I carry my ukele to the toilet after midnight
So if monsters attack
I can threaten them with a beating
And if they aren't scared by that
I can play it.

There is no number of wishes
That can restore these images.
I could not feel it forever.
So I sequenced references together.
But no series of breaths
Or ink curvature
Can capture the experience.
All the same,
Tonight I felt the depth of our universe.

It cannot be imagined,
It cannot be understood
How far till stars end.
Yet if it could,
To truly know the sky's ebb and flow
It would bestow madness.
All the same I perceive and believe it
On occasion.

Tonight I saw brightness across the sea
I saw it was a ship's light shining towards the shore and me.
Opening out like Heaven's door
A ghostly poltergeist.

Vastly tired, I planned to retire.
Ghastly light sinking away into night,
As I surveyed the beach and conveyed
Myself towards warmer shades of home.

Then adrift the earthling wind
And dripping from the star's tendril pulse,
Came a feeling I have not yet determined
That emptied me of impulse.

Silence, moonlight and crumbling waves
All singing our seaside harmony.
Either way, I am free to fall
As synesthesia echoes through an endless hall.

Science, starlight and lunar cast shades,
To me, a piece between abyss,
Pouring consciousness upon me.
Gazing on I could not say
If I were on the seafloor or her surface.
Although why care? For I am free to fall
Home or away,
In any direction.

Someday, as the night arrives
Glows grow from Afremovs on leaves and blades,
Then they turn to nocturnes after the afternoon.
Birds chirup, chirp and serenade.
A whistle. A wrinkle. A tune.
He prepares strings to sway, persuading air
Knowing, it's his final chance to tame time.
Shadows move through grassy hills' hair.
Finely, he siphons wine and life through lines
Of nylon. His fingers are old, they're cold, yet it seems
Linger long enough for a song, some songs maybe.
His melody akin to dreams.
Maybe a single sound's plenty for eternity?
Eyelids embrace, but black covers not the soul.
His last song, soon lost forever long.

If I can do it, I love what I do.
If I don't get lost looking for reasons to.
If paper skyscrapers don't get in my way.
Finding nothing in intervening grey
Streets, like dull, entangled, eternal snakes,
Struggling to seem even more static.
But when I'm not doing everything I do,
I really do love what I do.
Don't you?

I do?
What commitment is my life?
What conviction is my life?
'I'?

I always flush the toilet
Before I use it.
An old habit
From years of finding the ****** bit
Before I ever got a chance
To feel relief.

She's a midnight coffee
And although I'll never get to sleep with her
She'll help me with my poetry.
This reminds me of a song, or the uttered
Idea that manifested in fantasies of a non-singer.
The story of a man who finds a trolley
Down in the river.
He decides to pull it from the debris.
For what a strange story it'd be.
So he could have that metaphor
For a speech or some eulogy.
About the trolley that was pulled up
Out of the river.
Because, he'd like to think
Someone would pull him,
Despite that he stinks and sinks and thinks
Too much on stupid stories.
I think I missed the train of thought there,
But here she comes again, so fanatically fair.

Let me say 'farewell', old friend.
As though you could hear so far.
Let my gentle wish to see you again
Not be shun upon by the real's dark part,
That part between us. Let me draw the rust
Into something sentimental.
Do not stir within my dreams so hushed.
Do not leave me so ill.

The entire night sky.
The deepest of the sea.
A sheet of leaves.
All could be the distance
Between you to me.

I will not waste this wish of farewell
On you.
I will sprinkle it on myself
Like a honey dew
To sweeten and glue
These broken pieces.
Sing a lullaby. Bring him by.
In my dreams at night.
So that I may rest.

My heart's feeling really heavy in bed
So I'll roll over to crush my innards.
Wrecking ball, cardiovascular head
Hurter, damaging organs with its words,
Pressing way too hard when the beats too fast.
I need to ***, but with this ball and veins,
So passionately disturbed by the dark,
I'll stay right here. Guess I'll just risk the stains.
The scary voice in the silence, it says
"You're the weight on your family, useless
As a used ****** to holy preachers."
The voice whispers and slithers and seduces
Me to self-loathing and pity. But I
Don't know whose it is, it sounds just like mine.

I think it's important to go walking.
Motion quiets motionless inner chaos,
Since nothing's as exhausting as talking
Myself to sleep or forces for focus
That fail to no avail like tests of maths.
Sleepless nights, reckless regrets, cowardice
All insights of my petrified past,
While my hair festers with blood like head lice.
I can't surpass the past as it passes
Through my mind in a myriad of grey
Clashing in the collage of mirages
From ages long gone into yesterday.
But when I walk, I see clearly that there
Is none to fear, I see I don't need care.

The canvas is stretched out.
In this Bosch I see
Among shades of red
Demon tongues stabbing at me,
Among shades and the dead
Licking through contorted snears
Like leeches leaking into ears.
Years and years and years and years
Of violence and vile and all the while
In these moments
I feel no taunts nor torchure nor torments.

I take myself home. Delicately
I position the record and release.
There I hear rusty metal
And as the night quiets
To a hush
The rush of some Satanic narrative
Gives peace in pieces spiked in falsetto.
With crescendos of Hell
And some false ghost of lost belles.
Then reading Eliot
And sipping tea
His Preludes pirouette
Dismally
And he leaves the world and her people
Empty.

But I am not worried
Nor concerned.
These are the jagged pieces
That fit to my soul
Smoothing to soothe my edges.

The rabbits gathered on the shore
Like small, restless pebbles.
She was so unsure.
Were we to tremble?

The sea, she welcomes me.
She is so sure.
But she is so very elderly.
Perhaps she only appears to be so sure.

If only I owned this wide life.
With all its tides and strides and strife.
The dust swindled in the wind.
I should be so living. I should be so alive.

I should be sewn into this tapestry.
I should be so very calm.
The current in the water
Unaffected by the waves.

Cold is the dawn that rises to raze.
Old the worn and woven waves,
Sure of their destination
To damnation against the barren stone.

Cupid has missed my heart
And pinned me through my spine
To the wall. My back bone is but shards
And my legs dangle, paralysed.

All because I left open the window
To let the cool change through.
I gave the winged fiend his show
And he has killed me with the view.

The cool change came
And so has the rain.
So have the snakes
And creatures of the blue.
My red mixes and my body’s but food.
My red fades and my bones are but a buoy.
I have let my body want with but eyes and wither
As though I have painted myself red and died of anaemia.

I tried to write Selah on my phone
But the machine corrected me with delay.
The word means rock, the word means stone.
It means wait and ponder,
It means ache and ruminate.
The word means dry thoughts in a dry bone.

I seek a sleep so deep the seas seem to shrink
Beside that night, with white, silent, fire to drink,
From dark glasses resembling those trembling hearts,
We sold so long ago, alone in the dark.
The shade of flame and heartache rained like snow tries to.
We seemed to dream, quickly deceived that we'd too
Have these deep histories between you and me.
Sixteen, seventeen and soon we'll see eighteen
Leave. My ages like centuries bereave me,
This lost soul growing old, with no growth to show.
So, I'll seek sleep so deep oceans grow shallow.

Welcome to awake time.
Be disturbed by the peeping light,
Now night has shriveled and receded,
The hum of silent sleep ceases
And the thoughts no longer rhyme like
"Darkness reaches. Starless images."

Nine o' eight, you're definitely late.
It's just another note for mum's email.
Carbohydrates and fixing your tie on the way.
Punk rocks you from sleep again.
You have entered the shell with hives within.
You smell brick and baritone existence.

Classical music puts you to sleep.

We were assailing city streets as was usual.
The pitter patter of passing feet all around.
A place solely described as bilingual
And beautiful, took her casual attention.
Acknowledging her distraction I asked, “There then?”
“I love the decor, all red, black and gold.”
“It is very pretty, interweaving
Fake, artificially antique and old.”
“But looks can often be deceiving.”

I looked to her, reading the sight before
Me. Her own dress like precious noire decor.
Dark tresses arranged in a precise mess.
Her faux french and her fox fur raincoat,
Clinging on with a concealing cologne,
The accent she had and the way she spoke.
She the precise princess of images
With a thousand evidences to say
That she was perfect in a way.

“Yes, I suppose they can be.”

You are my bow
That with finest finesse
Fills ears with floating notes
And echoes with vibrations and vibrance.

Yet you are also your own bow
That stretches back
With the stern arrow
And sends me low
With arrow blows
As you straighten to throw
With conviction and vicious intent
And echoes with vibrations.

Four flakes fall towards the warming Earth
While white flickers. One knows nothing at all
And falls. One knew all the world at her birth
And falls, forewarning herself of the thaw.
A leaf elevates herself with the wind;
Released from rest with upward, forward force.
The crumbling of crust from leaves and crying
Skies, mingling a monotony with the course
Of a raindrop crescendo. Oh, to know,
The beauty of books and blade cutting grass
Blades, to cleave away green and to show
An empathy for everything. Pass
Me by knowledge and yet infiltrate me
With each day forcing me into belief.

There will be time to rise and raise a child.
There will be the night to rise and write
Loves and lives that were wordless in daylight.
There's a season to Spring to life and wild
Bursts will bobble from our seas who simmer.
Blooming perfumes with flowering flavours
Will sway like winds in our trees who shimmer.
The grassy Earth coloured as it covers
Hills from place to place in grassy embrace.
When your enslaved pieces, break free from hate,
The glades all softly supporting your pace
As you walk toward the canopies gate.
Though this is not today, nor tomorrow
Those fires begin low, then they grow and glow.