a ringing, oh so soft,
yet so fragile, sits in my ear
a ghost of a reminder,
that you were once here

the flowers fall,
every year.
lilac raindrops
on sodden ground
turned to dust and
roadkill

the flowers fall,
every year.
beautiful death,
they called it,
as they trampled
on the outstretched fingers,
blue and purple

the flowers fall,
every year.
paint the outside
lavender and violet
crinkle to nothing.

the flowers fall.
see them, and catch them.
remember them.

He looks upon his beloved creation
invariable, inevitable self-destruction
a cycle of vainness and nihility.

He makes no mistakes,
no shots missed when
none are taken.

and on the eighth day,
He sighs...

Breathing life into a world
that cedes purely to death.

in those fiery eyes,
lies a spark of calm beauty,
like colourful death

a pedestal for all to see
engraved on its bronze
bio: “reader writer - carpe diem”

as i let the liquid slip
out of my chest into
the pillows of my hands
resting on the pedestal of my face

minimum bid starts at
“has dog and is nice”
but the empty hall
gives no comfort
except for stray flyers
begging for
the thing in my hands
to fill their negative
bank accounts

as time starts running out
so does the liquid
out of my hands
and i can only put it
on sale

my hands are at my knees
without the warmth of my heart
and i am left with no choice
as it leaks into the open mouths
of hungry, filthy holes

and i crumble to the floor

“cadaver - free real estate”

when you're up there
standing, proud
they'll be there too

oh, they'll hear you alright
they'll see you
they'll know you

but in the glare of the spotlight,
remember this:

Make sure they listen.
Make sure they look.
Make them understand.

when eventually I come to pass
I pray that they rip me from limb to limb
such as a flower sheds its petals
and that I may be more beautiful in death
than I ever was in life

for we only see the vibrant rose
in the fading colours of having been plucked

“We better just stop right now.”

the slogan of betrayal woven into a warning sign

but we are always too late to see it

as we crash past the red lights into the traffic of time

where mistakes cannot be rectified and problems cannot be solved

as the warning sign gets off one stop earlier than it should

and you are left on a one-way trip to nowhere

as you watch the stop sign crash into the front of the

like verbal diarrhea,
a poem is belched out from
deep within my inner workings
of the factory, ink-stained and
torn

sometimes i wonder if the title
is just a bright pink bow,
resting atop a pile of
trash.

i am lost, once again
in the candy floss
fantasy of his candied
nails, leaving caramel
trails as they flourish and
riposte upon the small
of my back

like a child, i want the
sickly sweet grape-flavoured
chapstick of his, glued to
the hairs of my peach-tinted
cheeks, lining the licorice
alleys of my palms

i want to remember and relish
in his flavour (that i have never
and probably will never ever
taste) - i want to store them
in display bottles in the back,
sugar crystals for my eyes
only

i want to be at the front of store
and i want to give him a
bouquet of my candy floss dreams
and wave extra long as the smell
of grape-flavoured chapstick
and caramel fades

he will never know me
as well as i do him

and he will never know me.

hollow and thawing
your embrace leaves shadows
in the snow of my heart
melted days and melting nights
a snuffed out flame, shallow
breath, through cracks of
lifeless vein and pointed,
deathly, killer
stalagmites

“I used to love too.”
My words leave cuts
On your already dead body
In my ****** arms.

The rubble of your bones
And the destruction of your
Lovely face
Leave cuts on my dead body.

The failure(s)
is/are on my part.

It’s all
my fault.

A touch of my finger
Leaves nothing but nothing
behind.

A breath from my lips
Kills and rots all life
That it reaches.

A shiver on my spine
Is the electric chair for
All that is loved.

A tear from my head
Floods cities storms worlds
And all I can do is cry.

As you bleed out on the floor
You flood my heart with your
Sweet, sweet blood.

And I enjoy every last bit
As you fade.
As I fade.

And I cry.

True love’s kiss
is the spindle on the spinning wheel.

I used to love too.

stopped my heart
but you didn't stop walking

stopped your heart
then you stopped talking

there's a catch in my throat
a lump, a bump, a sudden
crosswords of air and thought
and the notes are suspended
midair, empty, a vibration
with direction but no motivation

there's a catch in my throat,
a hurdle in the road, a pothole
of accidents and apologies
and the music abruptly pauses
a welcoming dissonance,
warm but jarring

there's a catch in my throat,
and I can no longer sing,
and the rhythm has tumbled
and fallen, and I cannot catch my breath,
but still the silence goes on,
and I can only listen

walking down cold streets
with colder faces

i am unnerved
as my own cold face begins
to crack and fall apart

i am not surprised
when i shatter and collapse
their cold faces turn colder

i am pleasantly shocked
as their frost freezes me to the ground
and i become the soles of their feet

stone walls guard scattered calls
of the birds tied down by their own broken wings
and they wonder why birdsong’s in its grave

the others whimper and squeal as
the walls move in and close in
nearer and closer
and run over the flurry of feathers
like exploding pillows and torn blankets
their screams seeping into the bed

some seem to be smarter - they crawl, their broken wings dragging on the floor as they drag themselves across the floor as the walls run across the floor
but broken they stay, a pair of broken bones wound across their backs into their hearts

the bravest stand firm stand tall stand against the unbreakable tide that breaks the unbreakable
but in a gust they are reduced to the shrivelled corpses of bright lights and brighter dreams

they have yet to realise a(the) force stronger than them

the wings that they dearly long for are really the ones that are tying them to the ground

the wall of feathers and pointed ends rushing towards them and they rushing towards it

the muffled bang as reality and reality collide

don´t
splash the walls red
tell me to clean them
then blame me for the stained floors

i am already in your grasp
already suffocating within the metallic throes
the walls are red with my blood and yours
spill more, and drown

don´t
ask me why i am bleeding out
tell me to clean it

the cut on your face
was from your glass face
so fragile a word can break
so sharp a heart can break

don´t cry your diamond tears
sell them away
then blame them for buying themselves out

i am dead within your hands
don´t ask me to clean it up

they look at it like x marks the spot
in a cradle of apprehension they are caught
in a chrysalis of fear and self-fulfilling prophecies
disturbed sleep descends like cold blankets on colder memories

they fiddle with the dirt with their calloused toes
an imprint of hope on the sands with their soles
the fleeting winds chide them with gales in the night of day
once a broken mind, a broken heart you’ll stay

turned head twisted neck on the floor broken back
from the burdens of many, their condolences in a sack
tugged along for many years to come,
a mission long lost, aimless as the sun
travelled paths leave marks like many stains
of fights long lost and won, of broken limbs and pain
weathered faces carved into fallen pebbles chipped off a boulder
made for something big, something more, just resting on your shoulders

when you're scared
to go home

is when you know the sun
has left the sky

and the moon has drowned
itself in its own reflection.

how vast the ocean
how miniscule a drop
in the endless, rocking
throes of dawns and dusks

how wide the skies
how tiny a bird
wings grabbing nothing
going nowhere

how immense the earth
how silent a tree
swaying, yet rooted
cry their teardrop leaves

how tiny we are,
in the infinite universe

yet how unfathomable
how unending
how beautiful
the depths of our hearts,
limitless as the skies, seas and earth.

and like death,
sweep upon your victims
like a cold wind on
a frozen night

bring sweat to palms
on rocky mountains,
bring fire to dying forests,
pluck your flowers,
graceful as you go,
and decorate your gardens

oh, sweet sadness,
how beautiful, how deadly.

wake someone up,
and bring someone down
day and day again,
you never fail to bring the night.

a mountain of bricks, glued by memory,
hand-built by you, hastily put together,
mistakenly given life, a glossy trophy,
i am a mountain of bricks you walk over

a splash of dye, a spill of ink,
i lie red, white, black and blue,
you cleave crumbling edges, watch me sink,
profanities in cursive, defamed by you

i bleed over the cracks, paint over the lines
as you take me back, piece by piece, brick by brick,
scatter me to the earth, burn down the signs,
i am a mountain of bricks, sweetly sick

once, it was like a knife
grabbing at my insides,
cutting up my thoughts,
my heart, my mind,
a clear line of chaos spliced
into this line of fire

now, it is but a teardrop
left uncried, sitting on my
eyelid, a muted feeling
that rings harmoniously
through my soul.

bury me where the sun can't see
where its rays have never gazed
hide me away in the unknown
never thought of, never thought about

bury me where no breath has been taken
in soil where no root has defamed
a garden where nothing grows
is a garden where nothing dies

bury me like an unwanted memory
like a recurring nightmare, an endless dream
if extinction is forgetfulness' child
then remembrance is my nemesis
bury me where they won't know I'm gone
and where they won't come looking

bury me not like I've lived
bury me not like I've died

bury me like I never lived
and like I never died

it's the shiver down your back.
the background screaming, muted,
but shrill in your shivering heart.

the shouting across corridors,
echoes along corridors,
silence aside corridors.

not creaking doors, no
but ones that shut and never open again,
and the others that stay open forever.

not vengeful spirits,
but broken ones, beyond the point
of saving, broken ones that can't save themselves

broken glass may line the red carpet,
fire may eat at the walls,
frost may gnaw at your digits

but never waver.

Don't be scared of being scared.

different isn’t special.

in fact it’s quite very normal.

ironically it’s the same for everyone.

it’s the dawn
finally broken
into half

the sun sett(l)ing
down forever

the moonshine fading
in the dimming glares
of the stars

i can see everything
in the imminent darkness
that is now

my tears
are black like
the sky against the world

my smile is tired
of the frowns and
the laughter

as the clock strikes 12
and i fall asleep (forever)

i am rudely awakened by
the sun screaming
into my half closed eyes

once you gave me flowers
radiant like your eyes
stark against the soil
of what I thought was
a scarred face

i watered it day and night
scared to drown you
scared to dry you out

i gave it the sunshine
of my life
so that it would turn towards me

then your back turned
and all of a sudden

the petals became fabric
and stalk turned to plastic
and the flowers turned
away

“their bright colours still
remain on my sill
next to my bills
a bloom of ill will

they never seem to die
no matter how I cry
a plastic smile for life
but it’s dead as your lie”

many are left in wrath
in the wake of Time's path

he seems a foe, seems like
Death's master

treat him with no respect,
try to get away with neglect

he will seem a foe, seem like
no other

but hold his hand, and take your
Time, for

he will be a friend, will be
not asunder

know him all the Time, embrace
every moment and place

he will be your friend, will
walk you till your slumber.

awkward smile sticky wave
both stuttering in faked honesty and false sincerity
words crafted and sewed to fit around the other
perfectly like a blackened cardigan
lined with sweet sweet poison

killer eye contact keeps you out
and keeps you coming back for more
the risk and danger of falling into the grasps
of a worse person than you
is tantalising like munching on melatonin morsels
while dancing away from death’s ***** door

when backs are turned
smiles die and waves collapse
into the sweaty twisting of fingers
and the twisting of mouths into large long grins
ready for the first conversation the first contact
traps ready they turn around

with even bigger smiles
starting with the sharpened hook
of a fairytale introduction where
one came from antarctica and the other from hell
giggles and laughter only serve to make hair stand
cringing inside so much their stomach is a braid

poison and sarcasm don’t drip like honey
they slide and slither and burn like snakes
in the grass, camouflaged in the already dark night
up they go into your brain your mind your soul
feasting on your fear your weakness your love

then comes the main course the connection
the stories of broken childhoods in succession
not stopping for a tear or a comment
flowing like the poison flowing like the river
of thoughts that fall from your head
as the story goes on, getting stuck in the endless
ebb and flow and tide and spiral of hypnosis

it’s too late when you realise
you’re in his palm his hand his fingers
a puppet for pain of pain by pain
the strings no your own strings
wrapped around your own hands your own feet
your mind caught in its own trap

just a tunnel to the other side
a flight of steps in a thunderstorm of rickety
elevators to be stepped on and off
crumbling to dust in the very end
an underpass to the above, just the cement
crusted and turned to stone frozen
in time, unmoving, resigned

and finally you sleep
in your own cocoon you made for him
tighter and tighter the strings are
the more tired you become
falling into the eternal rest
barely slipping from the dancing fingers of death
slipping past it into a place
your place, faraway
lost in your own dreams and nightmares

The point of games is to play, not win. Not many people realise that.

We don’t ask people to win with us. We want to win. Why should they? We ask people to play with us - so that they lose. All we care about is the triumph, the podium, the trophy. We are blind to those who watch from the sidelines. We are blind to those who stand in the shadows, waiting for us to slip off the stage.

Life is a game we are all playing. You’ll never know where you’ll land next. Some people find this thrilling. Others are too scared to move - they forfeit their turn. Because one wrong move might lead you straight to the devil.

Out of the corners of your eyes, you espy the people cheating. Their hands are empty... or so they seem. Fingers stained red from paper-cuts and stab wounds are hidden under sleeves of things that really aren’t theirs.

Those that are caught are sent straight to jail - you see a group of them huddling at the corner. Only a few manage to get a double roll - the others rot there for eternity.

Then you have the cliques. You are in one yourself. Uniform in uniforms. Groomed to perfection. Groomed to win. You have an anger, a slight enmity for the others, that tints your eyes red. You don’t know where this comes from.

There are the lost. The losing players, the already lost. They wander around like ghosts. You wonder why some of them are smiling. Why should they be?

You look up, and the casino called “Love” flares and glares in your eyes. You’re not allowed in yet. But you know what goes on inside.

Catcalls and shrieks are daily occurrences. They mix together to form simply a distraction. Some people walk out of the minigame with laughter and love. Others stay forever.

The rolling of dice clatters and clashes. You watch as cards fall, as cards slit throats, as cards splatter onto the ground. You watch the people you thought you knew turn into monsters of want and desire. You watch the blood-red eyes mock the world. You watch the floating castle in the sky, perfection encapsulated. You know it’s all fake. You watch falling stars crash and burn.

This is the rhythm of your game. Of your life. They tell you to stick to the rules. Play the game obediently. End it well. They say all of this with a huge curve on their lips.

It’s your turn to roll the dice. It’s your turn to play. It’s your turn to win.

and i thought i could hold out long enough
to keep you alive

but you're burning me out
and so I will, you

you look out the glass pane
as your own face is reflected back and forth
as your voice echoes back and forth
in the fragile wind

you can see the world
but you can only see
as you fingers press hard against the transparent block
and they can only press

you can only hear
as your ears are flush against the colourless wall
sounds of your breathing echoing
in the fragile world

you can only hear yourself
so you scream

and the world shatters around you like the fragile wind and your voice is out to the world raging like storms and blazing like fire and the glass shatters and finally finally

you fall out the window

i sit amongst the wreckage and her sisters
destruction watches as i run my fingers
along an old scar, opening a fresh wound

i ***** every finger on every edge i can find,
trying to find some semblance, some feeling
of what used to be

the dust only reminds me of
how long its been, yet no dust
has settled yet on my
mind

within my fingers, i clutch
a fragment, glossy and new,
another one of the hundreds
i've created, one that i am
finally bound to love

right?

The grooves of the door handle
clasp too perfectly about your
fingerprints. Push, don’t pull

and enter into my splendor.
The expanse of the corridor
is slightly familiar to you. The
gait, the wait, the bate
of your breath and the silence
that follows and the violence
that crashes through the expanse
of my corridor are
slightly familiar to me.

The master bedroom is
straight down the street and
a left turn after two blocks,
past the cafe you irregularly
patronised for all those years
where I could get but a glimpse
of the sunrise through the window.
It has a his and his, a walk-in
wardrobe and easily removable
wallpaper. If you would like to tear
it down because the deja vu
is too strong then I have about three
hundred other instances of solo
interactions between you and me, and a
colour palette no other interior
redesigner could ever possibly imag-

You peek past the slightly neglected
washroom, clinical scents wafting out
like blood washing off wounds that are
never meant to stop bleeding but
rather are orifices we pretend to
not understand. The leaky faucet hums
a tune you played on the harmonica
three years ago. You recognise off-white
tiles from the freckles of your face. I am
in the medicine cabinet, just waiting
for you to reach in and patch me up
along with the ever-bleeding orifices but even now
as I ****** the faucet with a hundred
unfinished melodies the bathroom is still
flooding.

The living room is a graveyard. But you
can’t smell the bodies because I set a
reminder for myself to put on deodorant
every alternate week when I stumbled
past you to get to the same side of the street as you
but each time a different car
would kiss my knees and colour my bruises in and
each time you would
already be
gone.

This next room is under construction.

This next room is under construction.

This next room is utter destruction.

-

I reach into the medicine cabinet and grab at nothing
and suddenly the wallpaper is just the pattern
of my shirt sleeve because I have long forgotten
the name of the cafe I saw you in once.

I watch the expansive corridor become
fragments of impossible sidewalks and
mono-coloured zebra crossings. I can
no longer see the sunrise through
the window. I have never seen the sunrise.

Do you know my name?

-

The grooves of the door handle
clasp too awkwardly about your
fingerprints. Don’t pull, don’t push.

Enter into my splendor.

it runs

all over me

clouds

soft, silent, sifting

through my messy and *****

hair for the

light bubbles and tousled curls

enveloping me in a breeze

of heat and warmth

falling onto all the

ugliness and dust

burning right down to my

heart of

stone, cracked by the cold

and i stand there for

years, decades, centuries

until it finally runs out, and

i collapse under the frozen burden

of air all around me

i shatter

without the

warm

running

water

a reverb in the
back of my mind

rhythmic breathing,
beating hearts till they break

echoes haunt me,
ricochet in the night lights

dissonance like rain on sunny mornings,
glassy eyes till night, till broken dusk

the chorus, the ******
has arrived and I will ride until
the day ends.