i’m not sure what it is
about being a stranger
that makes them all seem so beautiful
the faces in the crowd
blend together
but not before i notice
every single one of them.
i’m not sure what it is
about abandoning their identities as strangers
that makes them all seem so beautiful
strangers are strange
and i think we all become strangers
to ourselves at some point
and so
aren’t we all beautiful to ourselves
at some point
too?

She rises and falls like a reposed breath
before an entire world's visage
in her encircled arms.
The incandescent glow of the stage
has an intoxicating quality to it,
the music being
something liquid, viscous.

As notes thrum in tender and soothing caresses,
her legs supple, twirl like petals
cascading under the weight of raindrops,
giving way to a lush surrender
steeped in a language of love and need.
Her very fire
and impassioned soulfulness
lifts her up above the crowd itself,
burning for all to see.

In this moment now
her timelessness enraptures me.
Another part of myself awakens to her grace
and renders me
gratefully whole.
A sense of euphoria slow dances its way
from her being to mine,
consuming every piece of my body
in a fiery bloom—
charging me with
a crackling, electrifying force
unlike my mere own.

I can see now
that this is what she was born to do—
to be on pointe, seeing everything.
Any instances of worldly fear
is left to the dying.
The rhythms of her old pains,
tribulations of past destructions,
are now buried beneath her feet.
And her radiant smile while she dances
still speaks to me gently—
that to be free
is to be wonderfully lost
in her waltz with destiny.

© BT

Heaving into the airless room of your heart
willingly, I sat on the bone-cold floor

subsisting on chaotic peeling inches of light
in the dimly lit corners of your diaphragm;

but I have grown old inside the succubus
stomach of these walls, and I am drowning

listening to you speak of your emptiness
as you bathe all around me
in the holy waters of narcissism
the cathedral of your sorrow eats

itself; I tethered a promise into the middle
of you, and I could yet spit at salvation



the lock on the door;
I could spit at salvation
but I have tethered a promise
deep as this imprisonment
masked as a woman.











into the middle of you

is where I am most alone.






my father is dying; of the many times
I chose to stay, this is not one

you have abandoned me within you for
the last time; I forgive

but you are not the god

Consumed and spit out many times
through the unlocked door of salvation,

the cathedral of your sorrow eats
what of myself I have cloistered there

not so I could be a sacrifice on your altar;
you are not the god of my promise to fill you

but my father is dying, and you are a prison
and heartbreak can funnel no love.





but a prison has become you.









I appreciated the slowly peeling inches
of dim light in your many hard corners,

growing old in the succubus of these walls,
drowning on the inside
listening to you speak of emptiness.







as you speak of empty




and I appreciated the peeling walls,
respecting
the dim light in the many hard corners;

but I have been growing old in this bitter love
where you say, and I listen of your empty

where I am prostrate, drowning in walls
so as to lessen the sting of your sequester

but I could fall through this door
you have opened; I could sink
without a struggle to our grave

where the cathedral of your emptiness
would truly become a skeleton

see, the sinew of it is not in self religion
but that love is the heartbeat.








too.












where I will no longer be stifled
in the asphyxiation of your self religion

breaks my hoard











but the anti-gift lies in my cloister,
and the world moves as I am misappreciated



and I listened to you tell me how empty
you are, and how you invite, but how
no-one comes

and I bathe in the bitterness, as well as
the love, because this is something which I
have promised

but I am drowning in a room,
a room that talks to me of walls
and of ceilings, and of floors

and of itself; but never of what is given
by not walking through the unlocked door

into a place where the cathedral
of your emptiness
may preach, aware, that the sinew
of love
is the soft aorta if you are the skeleton.










but the cathedral of you I will worship
even as I sever the love

melancholy eyes glaze over
the old honeycomb wallpaper pattern
and the mottled ceiling, paint peeling
noting every crevice in your new apartment
my consciousness dips in and out
of every nook and cranny, catching
fragments of the conversation.
you should always be the centre of attention.
i'd tried to entertain the notion, you'd noticed
my eyes in the ceiling and ushered me back
to the boring evening tea room with a gentle
fingertip or two pressed to my wrist.
do you wish you were somewhere else?
would you read my tea leaves and tell me,
what does the future hold for us?

the daughter of Apollo
whistles back at birds
reminding them to stay close,
she knows that Icarus
was a dense
bloke so it goes, they circle
in the overexposed
sky and come back just
shy of the shine, and the cicadas
always know when it's time.
then she says, "come along,"
and they all know to go,
following the whistle
of the daughter of Apollo.

"where night is....love in the shadows or the freedom of the wind"

night, dark shadows swept
under the trees that scatter
whispering that they are
soaked in the ice-breath
of the sky,

the night has fled,
her dreams the fleeing
wind, questioning the
skies where the clouds
fade to nothing, kings
of the crumbling hills,

if i tell you i love you
you'll always love me
back because it is in my
seams, seamstress that
i am of island flowers
and strange ghosts,
flower of ink where
the darkness flows away
and the stars trace their

silver maps. i hold all my
love in a quiver and like
a god i'll slay you with
just one arrow if you
ever leave me like a dust,

link my arm as we walk
so boldly through the
dark shadows of the
night, where the wind
flees and the moon
steers her way through
our passions and trials,

we cry out to the wilderness
that breathes us,
and while i cry i kiss
your neck, your eyes
your lips.

"where night is....a violet bird stretching drowsy wings"

i.

night, strange bird of metal,
sinking like a sea whose tide
drifts out, down through the
sky, wild honey and flowerbeds
full of stars.

ii.

i dream of you, revealing
everything of me, i am nuts
and bolts, i am sweet and
sour, i carve my name
on your wrist where the blue
snake rests its head.

iii.

my breath is fire and flowers,
longing, a song forgotten in
the mist, crazy day, bitter and
sweet night, shadow steed of
a circular world.

iv.

kiss me, sweet love,
my skin aches for
your touch like a night
flower twisting petals
on the wind, in love
with your love.

v.

rise like a ghost and
sweep me away, the
burning dust of my
ribs, my very last kiss.

"where day is....a dragon of the sun"

i.

melody of a wild sky,
burnt to ash, dark
keeper, longing for
light.

ii.

you wish to please me
and i'm caught up in
your arms, i fall to
the dry dirt earth,
i reach up, stretch
wings of stone.

iii.

summer is creased
at the edges like a
white shirt, it borrows
its golds from the melting
sun, and my path follows
yours, i am the echo of
all your steps, we run

up the stone staircase
that beckons us, we
run along corridors
and unlock doors,
my lips breathe fire
like a dragon,
my wings stretch out,
fabulous and wild.

iv.

i wish to please you
with my fiery kiss,
kisses and smoke,
i smoulder trapped
forever in a moment,
the moment is you
and love is my heart
singing in tune with
yours beneath the pebble
sky.

"where day is.... dreams of a summer sky."

i.

the sky floats up,
gazing out with lips
of steel, a
shiny branch
surrendering
to summer’s sigh,
her iris a cats
eye, marble blue,
her pupil a dark
wand.

ii.

play with me,
draw me out of the
dark,

let me sing to
you a sea-song
where the waves
somersault and
crash to the shore,

where the wind, wild
as wild, faints to breathe
the wakening sky.

iii.

see how i write in passages,
faint-waves  of
summer’s mists where
the rain dips her pen in
the grey-ink cloud.

iv.

searching for your ghosts,
the deep whirling of the streamy sea
with its wine-red roses like
coloured glass
dance as i gather
whispers of strangeness
and sun, blossoming,
shrink-edged like an
opalescent pool, all
of it, you.

v.

days of watery rags and rubber
tyres, red snake of
summer’s ribs, the
stones of the stormy sun,
gathering the landscape
where tonight the
moon will rise for love
you will loosen my hair
and i will kiss your throat.

She was made up of earth and poetry
a silk garden of flames
that bloomed flowers of soft lust
the sun had adorned her skin
with small kisses that stained her face
with stars shaped like freckles
and the moon wove its magic
from the colors of her eyes
she was goddess and muse and woman
and all the things that made life feel beautiful
her blood ran with the indigo rivers
along the mountains of eternities horizon
and she hypnotized with slow poison
from the drunken haze of midnight ***
and her velvet lips could mend the broken
and raise the dead with just a dream of a kiss
and she only had to show the skin of her neck
to make fools out of mortal men
who let prayers of sin seep from their hardened
and wanting desire to know who she was
under her jeans and shirts and nakedness
when she unfolded and dripped and moaned
and took and gave and offered and devoured
from light morning kisses and drowsy eyes
to bending over the kitchen sink
with just enough skin exposed
to plow and grunt through the day
and fall into frenzied sheets
of ***** deeds under the moon
and exposed secrets of lost pleasures
only known by those that have swallowed
the fires of sin and the blood of honey
and in the aftertaste she lingered
with a hint of her earth and poetry

She
bathed in moonlight
stirring stars
from
silent river beds.

even in our best
light, we, as humans
are irrepressible

even in bodies
made of stardust,
bodies that aren't ours

at all,
we still are
wildfires

think, what
is ours,
what is truly ours?

and what is impermanent
as the stars in sky
just ready to collapse?

there are rivers of us
on earth,
there are bodies who has dissolved

into said river,
and filled everything up
into some unholy flood

even in our best light,
we as humans
are irresponsible

isn't it funny
how nothing
is real?