I stared at my open palm –
              purple speckles of a fossil unfrozen by the mere
              heat of my touch.
I stared at my hands –
              cold and dry come wintertime, layers of  
                          reptilian scales making my little
                          dinosaur claws rigid, unforgiving.
I imagine myself a warrior woman of sorts – eyes fossilised into icy hardness.
I stared at the sword in my hand and with a great swing,
              I slice the stone of youth down the middle, separating
              the old from the new, specks exploding:
                      red, blue, yellow,
       thrown across my hair.
Under layers created by millennia of pressure and grime –
      the mineral of understanding.
It gleams so that my cheeks flush red with blood from within,
                        And my neck             reaches to the sun,
             my          eyes          widen, beginning to melt and drip.
I close them.
I stared at the insides of my eyes, and
a speckled horizon stared back.

In times of solace and even not,
when the world shrinks at the corners
and the all-seeing-eye winks,
the hypnagogic takes over.
I disappear into my unconsciousness, and
I see all the beauty in the world.
I see the galaxies exploding;
impending rebirth in a
pastelar-spectacular combustion of planets.
The mechanical love-boat springs to life
and all the lovers,
with their brave questions and
buoyant expectations,
float, fly, free-fall into the fervour.
I see the promise of the future.
Yet, the desperate preservation of history;
drawing trees on paper (oh, the irony),
searching for the genesis in the fallen.
The black and blue pale moon
bruised by the cosmos
is waiting for something
(other than metal and bones).
I believe the bold hues of my being are
moments passed on the shores of promise,
but I know this is how we were meant to be.
I rest my cheek on Orion’s belt and
sigh at the splendour.
I see the ebb and flow of the heaving ocean
that I fear if I looked long enough into,
Neptune himself might drag me to the
wellsprings of youth and miracle, and
well, I might not want to leave.

Those frames through which he views the world,
That hair through which he rejects the expectations of modern man –
He’s glorious. Incredible.
Not a clue of the allure of his quiet charisma.
I want to envelop him in my summer arms and whisper in his ear:
“Darling, the enormity of my adoration for you, I have no such words.
And you no such artwork.”
He will not respond
But instead, remove his frames,
Envelop my sighs in his cheek,
And take my body as his artwork.
Filling in my emptiness with his hues,
Making my body solid as the bold outlines of his sketches themselves.
And my words of him,
Buried in his chest,
Shall echo in his dreams
And fight the monsters of his
Imagination.

Stuck within grief's gripping claws
for a dead mother
and a dormant love.
I may as well curb this anxiety
for the impending carcinogenic
destruction of *******
with that of my lungs.
He avoided my gaze -
I saw his iced eyes
melt - and he
apologised, apologised.
Speechless, cigarette hindering words,
and stark sunlight blinding vision
I suddenly felt sleepy.
As though I could melt
into the earth,
return to my mother,
and forget this perpetual
malaise.

This hysteria, raw desire;
Passion,
distinguished from love,
extinguishing a purity of my own.
Pull me down from the white heavens
away from the angel-headed cherubs,
long-lost devotions…
The tombs of forgotten, unfulfilled desires,
Lay dormant, as you
embraced me with your arms and heart;
showed me kindness, showed me magic…
Yet, the caliber of this soul – trapped,
Weeping at the romance of the streets –
belongs not to a time bygone,
but the shimmering soft peaks
of Today, Tomorrow,
and the glow of the heavy moon.

The things I wish to do
With him, to him,
I shall start:
****** him with my words, gaze,
My physique,
Bursting with desire, love,
Aching for his embrace –
Not unlike that of a hesitant boy,
Yet I sensed a dormant
Longing in him too –
awakened by the
electric caress of lips against
lips, cheek, neck…
pulling him down,
pressed as close as the growing hunger within me
we slowly begin.

Embracing
I, tugging at his hair
(wishing I could tug at his belt)
him, paced and guided,
guiding his hand lower
I wish I could feel him tighten
I felt myself loosen
Almost collapsing into his arms
Almost gasping
Almost neglecting knowing of where I was
(where I wish we were,
under my sheets,
him between my sheaths
moving like the waves
to the rhythm of the moon
drift sideways, in and out
tensing, pausing, the sun almost breaking through,
sea foam contracts and disappears
the waves in his eyes
dilute, dilate.
whilst mine, with body
retire with the satiating taste of his lips
on my own)
– where was I again?