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Aug 2016 · 1.5k
the Sandman Aug 2016
They show me vast expanse of virginal lands.
They tell me words like breathtaking and lush.
They gaze at dusty trees and sprawling sands.
They point and gasp and they hum and they hush.
They show me all of Uganda at once,
Holding the globe in their palm and their whim;
They capture it with their drones, blazing guns,
Riding jeeps that cut jungles to a trim.
Their mirrors shine brighter than all the suns
They show me with praise and awe to the brim.
They rant about how clean, and how unbound,
How pure, as they yell and laugh and drop their
Trash, but not their attitudes, to the ground.
They cut through grass and leave cracks in their wake.
They screen their footage and their findings on
Flat-screens and talk of wonder and splendour,
Five-stars in forests and lights blinding on,
Massacring on hot days in December.
People who don their hypocritical explorers' hats, and gush about new places while destroying them.
Jul 2016 · 2.0k
the Sandman Jul 2016
I hold glass bottles to the sky
In thunderstorms,
I go home and shelf them for light.
I crawl up and back into you
In thunderstorms
and wrap in warmth till I can't breathe.
Drown me
In thunderstorms;
Hold my head down inside your veins.
Your goosebumps hug me to you, snug,
In thunderstorms
When I find asylum under
Your thumb.
In thunderstorms,
I love you again. Just for a while,
While my mind pours columns of cold,
In thunderstorms
That hang over my head and haunt
Me with self-doubt till I stress out.
In thunderstorms,
I watch the rain drip down my brain
And cut through ice and chloroform.
Jun 2016 · 741
the Sandman Jun 2016
Everything looks whitewashed
----Against the rain on panes---
---Of glass. Every smile looks--
----Painted on, and stuck in-----
-----Place, fitting in perfect------
----Squares of frozen 4 by 4.-----
Jun 2016 · 957
Brain Freeze
the Sandman Jun 2016
I have had ideas, many times;
I have had anger at all the world
And its plates and cups and knives and forks
And pots and pans.

I have used coffee scrub, up
To my elbows
And sugar scrub on my face.

I have stood over rose beds
With my legs far apart
And bled colour to the world below,
Trailing my hell along behind me.

I have had bitter blandness
Blanch the back
Of my throat and the roof of my mouth
Until all that was left was bleach.

I have held glass bottles to the sky
Waiting for thunderstorms.

I have whispered my love to the palm of your hand,
Then watched it drain out through the cracks into sand.

But still I will eat
All my meals out of teacups/
I will let my blemished body be/
I will smell every flower
Growing along the side of a drain/
I will gargle before bed
With pinecone and cherry grain/
I will watch
Outside my window for hail/
I will whisper other things to you
Until the end
Of time
Or tomorrow --
Whichever comes first
-- and hope that inspiration strikes.
Jun 2016 · 428
the Sandman Jun 2016
I don't know if I should be
Ceaselessly hopeful
That I am understood
Or ecstatic
That I can finally understand you.
You, without me, outside me,
Much larger than life, and me,
Before me, far from me, unlike me,
Are magnificent,
Sweaty sweet,
Systematic and
Making a difference to the universe.
While I sit here,
Waiting for the world
To make a difference to me,
Making excuses that everything I'm thinking
Has been thought already.
This is an account of my reflections on first looking into Mikhail Bakhtin.
May 2016 · 594
Don't Look Now
the Sandman May 2016
I wait with you at bus stops
And down lonely roads that
Lie vacant, with watchful shops,
And one lone star follows the cars
Until they meet at the moon.
Flashes of light and laces of dark
Ribbon my face
And the split ends of your hair
Leaning down from the sky
Kick it every time I gaze
Orange spotlight dims from tall lamps
That stutter my dream sequence
Filled to the (brim) with
Sprouting teeth and gaps
Gaping at us.
Our friends follow us
In slow-mo
And I only miss you when
The road is running straight up
To the moon;
I'm afraid of the climb, but
Can't wait for the drop.
It follows.
My fillings have come out.
May 2016 · 3.8k
the Sandman May 2016
It is 1:20 am
And I am at 7%
And I have only one bar of signal
And my screen tells me
                              I'm 93% done with 'us;'
                              You have drained each per cent of my patience.
                              I'm getting mixed signals
                              From the language of your body,
                              And very few at that.
                              But I take a chance on us,
                              Another chance,
                              At this hour of lateness,
                              Maybe we can rebound and re-bond
                              And not just reminisce.
                              I reckon we could
Apr 2016 · 1.5k
the Sandman Apr 2016
You told me
(As I laughed at you for
Your draining phone memory)
That you have 7,936 images
Because you photograph everything
You fear losing.
                            I can't help but notice
                            In all our 2,190 days
                            You never took a photo of me,
                           ­ I suppose there isn't room
                            In your memory
                            For me.
March 31, 2016.
Apr 2016 · 1.6k
Shards of Light
the Sandman Apr 2016
                         in light,
                In blinding light:
Lights on cars; and buildings;
and lit up trees lining lit up streets;
             Houses with sills all lined in gold
And diamond; silver glitter glued onto mould;
Street lamps; and laser pointers; and
Towers; neon lights dotted with flowers
Of plastic sun; hoardings and billboards,
With bright teeth and skin and red words
Everywhere you turn,
Telling you what you want
And never knew you wanted;
Shop windows; chandeliers;
Presents for that time of year;
Cell phone pylons with twinkling,
Bright lights on top, like Christmas trees;
Christmas trees, with stars and angels
Speckled, Frosted,
Dusted on the tops;
Disgusting glare on sunglasses,
And a smiting gaze along the arms;
Bridges and fountains with gold poured on;
Platinum bands in every size, laying all forlorn;
Bedside lamps; and taxis; and taxi stands;
Every window, but the ones
Being jumped off of;
TVs and refrigerators, opened
Thoughtlessly at night;
Screens shooting onto impassive glass
That used to be faces;
Cameras, going off in quick succession,
Quicker than you can keep up;
I'm drowning.
We are taught desire, in light,
We learn to read in light
and scarlet letters of fluorescence
We are blind,
Now that the road is paved for us,
To the light that was before.
Goodbye, jungle of pylons and scrapers of the sky. I will live among your shards no longer.

My first list poem (that actually remained a list poem by the time I was done with it)
Apr 2016 · 1.2k
Ride to Me (haiku)
the Sandman Apr 2016
Love’s rising tide, from
Rest to rest; your moon-obsessed
Gleam rolled, on ripples
Apr 2016 · 4.6k
Plastic Crystals (haiku)
the Sandman Apr 2016
Lack-luster, in dull
Clusters, tall pylons reign with
Gods that look like you.
Mar 2016 · 5.3k
Trance\\Dance (haiku)
the Sandman Mar 2016
We will pirouette
On browned grass, until it turns
Into faery rings.
Mar 2016 · 894
Thought Bubble (haiku)
the Sandman Mar 2016
Leave thought of her-in-
Often-thought-of-you; Virtue
Makes way for torment
Mar 2016 · 1.1k
the Sandman Mar 2016
rewind; replay
    we're standing in a canopy of sunlight
    and laughing, constantly.
    our faces are tired of moving up
    but our eyes are used to crinkling;
    they fold, and shut, and open like buds
    with the spread and shrink of our grins, in
    and out, with our lungs.
Pauze. Zoom.
    Your nails are chipping now, but
    You're really a halfwit,
    So that doesn't deter you the least bit
    From scratch-scratch-scratching at their shook ends:
    They fall apart as we fall out.
    We're spinning, we're dizzyingly quick,
    Hurtling at the speed of 28,800 kilometres an hour; we're brisk
    At best. (Inconceivable at worst.)
    And I can feel, already, you slipping away.
    You're outside of my grasp; you're far out.
rewind; replay.
    We're ripping at the seams;
    Our faces are like bad make-up
    That doesn't move with our smiles;
    Our eyes stay impassive,
    Uninterested at best. Incensed at worst.
    The crinkles in their corners are crusted
    And new folds form on the frowns of our foreheads.
    We're smothering each other in pillow talk and blankets.
Flash-forward, play.
    We're bathed in rain, we're in a
    Canyon, in a chasm.
    We don't know salt from wound
    Or snake from bite. We
    Bring out the worst in our best selves.
    We're drowning in suitcases and bedding.
    We let it fill our lungs and we
    Don't look back.
Mar 2016 · 1.2k
the Sandman Mar 2016
Lost soul visits the store across the road
To pick up some rope and a stool;
He looks both ways before crossing the street.
Mar 2016 · 1.1k
Breaking Even
the Sandman Mar 2016
The girl you see on the train
With a piercing to commemorate each heartbreak
Has a few in places you can't see
— Because you can't know her relationships;
You don't know her heartbreak, or pain.
Instead, you count the suitcases and handbags she is lugging.

The girl who got a new piercing each time her heart broke
Has more smile lines on her face than studs,
So you can see she has had a fair measure
Of good moments:
She is not all rough edges and elbows.

But what you don't know,
And can't tell
From looking at her alone,
Is that she got a tattoo
Each time that she moved on.

The girl with as many piercings as heartbreaks
-And as many tattoos as movings on-
Has eight pieces of jewellery
Strung through her skin,
But only seven markings
Inked into it,
Because she knows she'll never quite get over
The one she can't quite forget.

You'll have to speak to her to know her—
A stranger on the train—
And let her tell you about her life;
And one day you'll hold her hand
As she gets her eighth tattoo done.
Break out of your bubble, if only because
One day, eight heartbreaks in, you'll help her break even.
Mar 2016 · 754
the Sandman Mar 2016
She was in her heavy, heavy
          Auspicious reds
On that cold winter's night,
When he arrived in white.

She stood shivering, dreaming
Of domestic bliss
And watching mindless films
On new couches with the plastic still on them
And pitter-pattering little feet.
She didn't know the names
Of some of the things she wanted
But she wanted them anyway.

All she got was barked orders
Of "have tea ready by 6 am sharp,"
And "you missed a spot."

And she is shackled
Under the weight
Of her oppressive reds.
She is scrubbing; she is trapped;
She lines her forehead every day,
Right where her hair is parted,
With the red of her blood
And devotion.

And he whispers to her
In the silence of the night that's on their shoulders by now
When they're at a traffic light,
Waiting on the blink,
"I'll send you a bill,
For each day and
Feb 2016 · 1.7k
Big City Dreams
the Sandman Feb 2016
Our city
of forts and malls and cinema halls
is littered with the filth of our minds
and our mouths.
We are lost; we are broken;
we are muffled and soft-spoken.
Big city dreams
of art and changing the world
slip away every time we wake up
on grimy beds we’ve never seen before
with soot on our feet, and our hands
bound with ***** hair,
backs bent under the weight of all they’ve left us.
The mud in our fingernails leaves us a mess,
in the shapes of the night's sticky, grubbiness:
a twisted Rorscharch inkblot.
We see it all replaying,
—flickering, as we’re swaying—
on grimy ceilings, where the light bulb
seems askew, and dangling
in an effort to hypnotise us,
left, and right, and left.
Every day is a repeat of the same,
chai glasses, and cigarette butts
with redlipstickstains,
rickshaw rides (exactly thirty rupees steeper
than the rate on the meter),
cat calls that slap in one ear and slip spit out the other.
Our roads are lit by TV-light,
a muted glow that follows us everywhere.
Anonymous blankness follows blankness
and the dark dankness
of grocery stores and souls
that can’t recognise each other anymore.
Silly young things dreaming of bliss,
And new couches, and tiny feet
Instead hear only
"Scrub harder," "Needs more salt," and
"Turn over; come closer; be quiet."
Bare feet in splotchy grass
with brown and green ankles
are replaced by sore heels and push-up bras.
Pens scratching on paper
are replaced by knives slashing skin
and flesh and bones
hitting sharply so that the onomatopoeia
of the shlick-crack-crack
draws out delighted laughter
from blackened, smoky mouths
— and peals of screams that no one hears,
the afterthoughts of parking lots.
The fire of fingers leaves marks, scars;
and their tips grow spikes
into the goosebumps on our arms;
knuckles peel away skin,
everywhere they trace;
and fists clench
around our bodies,
that don’t belong to us.

But we know, one day,
our spring will come
and we will leave the heat on our backs
in dust.
We will go down with Persephone
and take our flowers with us.
We will swim upside down
so we feel like we can fly.
Every rock laying unturned, we know,
has a cosmic universe throbbing
patiently under it.
We will lie, resilient, awake at night,
dreaming cautiously, softly,
so no one hears,
but dreaming nonetheless.
Dreaming of our wings melting
over and over again,
when we get too close to the denied,
day after day, until
we can build wings strong enough
to hold the heat of the sun
inside them, and then propel further.
We’ll show them
— tell your sisters and daughters and friends!—
we’ll show them,
Because your sticks and stones
Can break only our bones
And not our minds. We are
Goddesses, even in a dimly lit bar
Or the back of a fast car,
Just as in temples. We are
Goddesses, whether we whisper in soft tones
Or shout it in the streets,
Whether we lie in strangers' sheets
Or break our backs bending
to ***** feet.
When we're beaten by a spouse,
Or changing tactic,
We'll be both your angels in the house,
And your madwomen in the attic.
Feb 2016 · 3.4k
Hallowe'en (haiku)
the Sandman Feb 2016
Hallowe'en night's here!
The kids go out in costume,
Dressed up as Muslims.
Feb 2016 · 957
We Are Not Alone
the Sandman Feb 2016
“Two possibilities exist: either we are alone in the Universe or we are not. Both are equally terrifying.”
That's Arthur C. Clarke.
My wife always believed we are not;
She was convinced we are not alone.
11 months ago,
My sweet wife said to me,
“Wouldn’t a pair of tiny feet
Pattering around the house
Sound so sugary sweet?”
10 months ago,
The doctor told me how
My count was pretty low and
Asked my wife about a bike accident
From when she was 10.
My wife cried a little, and then
At home, she cried
More than I’d ever seen her.
“I don’t want to be alone,” she said,
But I told her we’re never alone,
As long as we have God.
She told me, in one of the worlds out there,
We are complete.
The ‘S’ in universes keeps her hopeful,
And content.
8 months ago,
I sat in the waiting room
With my sweet wife who had
Been puking and aching for weeks.
The doctor called it a miracle
And said our lonely days were gone.
My wife said she was glad
We weren’t going to be alone,
With just her and me.
7 months ago,
My wife ate right, and exercised,
And sang to her belly, and
Did all of the things
She was told to do;
But it was not enough, because
1 month ago,
My wife — my sweet, lovely wife —
She tripped on the staircase-
That last creaky step I swore I’d fix-
And fell, and bled and bled.
The doctor said he was sorry,
That my wife, she’d be okay, but
That there was nothing to be done
About the young one.
My wife cried much more
Than she had cried 4 months before.
She said she didn’t want to be alone.
“But we are not alone,”
I held her and I said,
“We have God in our midst,
we are not alone.”
A week ago,
I put out a sign
That declared ‘Garage Sale’
(Unabashedly, as if mocking us)
And lay out a motley of miniature clothes and objects-
Unused cribs and
Tiny, unworn shoes.

One day ago,
I said all the right things,
And loved and supported her,
And held her through her tears, but
Right now, as I cry
More than I’ve ever cried before,
And ask why I couldn’t be enough,
She is packing up her trunk,
Saying she can’t take it, saying
*“I just want to be alone.”
Feb 2016 · 1.5k
In our Alternate Universe
the Sandman Feb 2016
The US will drive like the rest of the world,
And declare peace on the Middle East for all times ahead;
Good films and books will be successful;
And punk’s not dead.

Justin Bieber will bottom all the charts; Pink Floyd'll be back together;
Bond will like his martinis stirred, not shaken;
Race, gender, class and orientation will be nonsense words;
And there’ll be no sequels to Taken.

Teenagers will fawn reading Tolstoy and not Meyer;
Old, black men will order the "extra whip, non-fat, caramel latte, venti;"
Art galleries will be closed to people over 21;
And poets will feature in the Top 20.

There will be equal jobs and opportunities for everyone;
Humans will give up on colonising mars and the moon;
We will bring down the imperialistic, capitalist, racist, misogynistic hetero-patriarchy;
And you will love me, tonight at noon.
Feb 2016 · 546
Stages in Recovery (sonnet)
the Sandman Feb 2016
When you fall asleep by TV light; and wake
Without coaxing whispers or suggestive
Pulls, realising the ghosting, restive
Fingers you felt were only ghosts raking

Over your skin; when you pick up the phone
Every time you see a droll pick-up line,
But hear just "Leave a message at the tone,"
Don't find yourself all by yourself, but find
Yourself, all by yourself; smile wistfully
At echoes of past weaknesses; learn bull-
Fighting, or pottery, with tickets you'd bought
Together; fill your minutes with you; and when

All else fails, console yourself with dreamy
Leads, cheesy films, and tubfulls of ice-cream.
And the sun will again sink into the West, and the day will again melt in the night, and summer will freeze, and I
Am in love with you,
And will be,
As I look you in the eyes and tell you, "I'm over it."
Feb 2016 · 289
the Sandman Feb 2016
never am i a pessimist
but you could never be
quite as dear and lovely
as you are to me,
and have been for each year
i have dreamed in wake of you,
without certain conviction or
form, for i never saw or knew.

Desnos and i have dreamed,
and spoiled you.
early 2015
Jan 2016 · 464
Hand held
the Sandman Jan 2016
I'm a
Puddle of emotion
Trickling through your palms
As you clutch me upright.
The fire of your fingers leaves marks:
Scars; tattoos,
And their tips plant flowers
Into the goosebumps on my arm,
everywhere they touch.
Your knuckles peel away my skin,
Everywhere they trace.
When your fist clenches
Around my heart,

I come undone
In your hands.
Nov 2015 · 336
Shower Thoughts
the Sandman Nov 2015
She says
Let's go
Live in a big city
And make art and change the world.
She can say this; she is art.
But my hands are bound
With ***** hair;
They cannot make.
He says
Come, run with me
We will live on the beach
And watch films and all will be love.
He can say this; he is love.
But my heart is strapped
With suds that wrap 'round it;
I cannot love.
They say
They are leaving
To live on the hills
And sit and think about life.
They can do this; they are life.
But mine is whirring and swirling
And whirlpooling
In a black drain.
Mother says
Get a good job, and marry someone
Who thinks like you and earns like you,
Eat, and breed, so your rabbits, too,
Can eat.
She can say this; she has bred, and earned, and eaten.
But I am held
By threads that catch
And tear on the jagged edges of my body:
Shoulders and eyebrows (sinking and rising,
in submission and rebellion).
Apartments constrict and choke;
Beaches drown me;
Hills are voyeurs with sharp surveillance;
And mansions
Have golden bars, that cling too tight.
For now though
— Shampoo, soap, drain, dry —
Monotony holds comfort
And museless function runs the key that jolts me
museless- uninspired and uncontemplated
Nov 2015 · 536
morning garnish
the Sandman Nov 2015
I pepper
Your face
With soft flecks
Of kisses
In search
Of the spots
Of acne cream
(Rarer than the spots
Free of acne),

Like it's a game.
My freckled,
Toothy queen
Is still behind,

four years,
and love swells
From out
we have in common.
Nov 2015 · 294
films; conversations
the Sandman Nov 2015
I will tell you
                        inane fun facts
That I'm over-brimmed with
About what you didn't notice in the film
The first time you saw it,
Because you suspended your disbelief;
But *what I want to tell you

Is that when you're entirely suspended
Is when you look most beautiful
Because you are entirely you then,
Unconscious of what you want to be.
I contemplate telling you when
You tell me
                      this is your new favourite film
And I'm crushed
Because if we don't have the same favourite films,
We have nothing,
And so I keep silent.

         I will never tell you
What I want to tell you
Because you told me then, that your favourite films
Are always the ones you watch
On your favourite days,
And made me decide that the film
Wasn't so bad after all.
Nov 2015 · 398
the Sandman Nov 2015
I can never bring myself
to tell you goodbye, so I
will carve into small, blue stones
My farewells and Promises,
and leave them behind at forts
and cinemas:

All the places that were ours
Will continue so to be.
Slumbering, undisturbed,
obedient stones will lie
until one of us, through brooding,
goes where so often we used to be;
or, oh forbid, the other
chances on them, with another,
fresh-picked love.
Nov 2015 · 618
the Sandman Nov 2015
You promise me your Watchlist
on IMDb
Will tell me more about you
Than dessert and another round of coffee
Ever could,
But I know a Shazam history
Will reveal nothing at all,
So I then order
—for I must—
That coffee and dessert
And stay until
They tell us they're shutting down.
Nov 2015 · 341
the Sandman Nov 2015
My cup creaks of ceramic
And you walk up smelling like cigarettes
While I'm smelling of coffee
That someone else spilled on me
And that's all I can think of-
Of how well we go together;
And how I want to go with you to
Your next haircut
So I can scoop up
All the fallen flecks
To remember by them the days
When They'd curl into your eyes
And you'd lift toned arms to brush them back

You are so different
From what Desnos and I imagined
But you're better still
Than that that You could be,
For you exist
                       -in my reality.
Each cup of coffee
Reveals more distinctions
And with each cup
I love you better.
Nov 2015 · 857
the Sandman Nov 2015
You reach for your fifth sugar cube
To drop into your third cup of liquid gold
That holds more sugar and ice cubes
Than actual tea.
Tumbling cube after cube
-of sugar or ice I've lost track,-
You pause mid-tumble in contemplation
Then start to fidget with one,
Turning it over
In dry palms.
Neither hear the cacophony
Below our bubbled balcony.
My bluewhite, brown-streaked saucer
Is hopeful, and holds your gaze,
Its dripping brownstains braver than I in that.
My every clink-a-clink-a-clink
Of spoon on cupedge
breaks your concentration
And you have to start over
(With what, I'm not certain)
And we both know I'm clinking on purpose,
Counting beats with the cuckoo clock,
With a heart as full of hope
As your cup is with hexagonal once-cubes.
When you look up again,
I can feel inside me
The number of universes in the world
Double instantly,
     and I wonder
          Which one we're in--
Will you say what you want
Or what (you think) you should?
Sep 2015 · 803
the Sandman Sep 2015
I bleed outside the lines
from the insides of my knees.
The thousand-at-once ******
of your mild affection
that paint my sore, chafed skin
take my breath away- Like
you've never done before.
Your hurt hurts me more Than
your loving ever could.
You're the corner of the table
that I keep bruising my thighs on,
but it's a round table conference
&nd; they're telling me that love
is just around the corner.
I have to climb over the corner
of bruising, vicious love!
But my table is round;
how do I get over you?
~when love is "around the corner," and you're trapped in a round room
Sep 2015 · 650
Seasonal Breeze
the Sandman Sep 2015
You are winter afternoons;
You're light jackets and khakhi shirts;
You are long fingers twined around a cup of chai;
You're the authentic exotic experience without the strings.
My cool heat that stings the back and caresses the arms,
You blow hot/blow cold
When you're hot
And my hands are stuffed in my pockets,
You are gentle and intense
And full of purpose
But with the spring,
You whirl away in dust,
Leaving your tropical wonderland
Bitter, barren and absent.
My Persephone that retreats to the underworld,
You take away my flowers
Too soon.
Let me have May with you;
Wait for me to catch up.
Slow down.
I'm counting in clicks of the clock
Our ons and our offs.
Sep 2015 · 366
Disgraceful & Disoriented.
the Sandman Sep 2015
I like the way your name
Fits inside my mouth
When it rolls around,
Swishing gainst my
teeth, like a forbidden
candy kept, in younger
days, tightly pressed in
under my tongue, melting
there- into caramelised bliss.
It fits so perfectly behind my
Curtain lips that screen it off-
for one Clumsy moment only
-and then it is unleashed,
Lost, released. like you
and me, as teenagers,
Looking awkwardly
at each other- For
One uneasy beat,
frozen- and then
A pair
giddy frogs.
Aug 2015 · 462
the Sandman Aug 2015
you are running water
Spreading, seeping slowly down the holes
Of a drain, and
You are holding a slim pencil
Between two long elegant fingers
And ******* its tip into your mouth
So that its pink rubber end
Disappears behind your pink pliant lips.
Your every sleek movement is sensual
And I am ignited by
Every turn and tilt of your head
And the drawl of every unwakeful stretch
That pulls the skin over your forearms tight
And makes the sweat on the back of your neck
Glisten like imperfect rhinestones
Sliding into
                           ­               inaccessible
-How I wish that territory
were accessible-
You lackadaisical beast of the mornings,
With sandy eyes and ambling legs,
Wrap. Wrap!
Aug 2015 · 364
the Sandman Aug 2015
We will drive
In fast cars, and climb over fences;
But when you and I ride bikes
Down speedy hills, we feel
The wind in our brains
And our arms and your fingers,
Wrapped tightly around the handlebars,
Will be red and blue and brown
And I will love you
Like mountaintops
And rolling wheels running languidly,
Round after rubber round,
My love, oh
Tender Love.
When we are doing nothing
And your fingers are
Drawing circles on my palms
-And then they're in my hair
And then they're everywhere
All at once, and fast and strong-
I will love you wholly, quickly,
On roaring hilltops, and shout
In the vacuum of our
My tender Love.
Jun 2015 · 782
Sleep (a haiku!)
the Sandman Jun 2015
I have risen but
Have not shone, and will not do.
Remind me at noon.
Jun 2015 · 645
the Sandman Jun 2015
When I love, I
Don't just fall in-
I trip, and land
In face-first crash.
May 2015 · 368
the Sandman May 2015
When I was younger I thought
These bars, they keep out something fearful.
What lurks out there?

Now I'm older and I know
They're to keep the monsters inside, this side.
I'm trapped, held in.

I was born and I will die
In this red bricked prison.
May 2015 · 423
the Sandman May 2015
Or, I Loved You.

The clouds did not look in any way oppressed that morning
when a table held teacups and saucers all scattered about,
Staining light brown on the fine bone china.
Scraping cutlery, cutting deep.
Leaves of a crisping newspaper thumbed through.
Polite guffaws and 'gentle' conversation.
A man lay out a map
at the table and smoothed it down.

Slurp, clink, ah.

Whips lash, sweat breaks.
     Backs break.
Skin glistens, brown grunts muffle into screams across millions of miles.
Lakhs of kilometres?
It's the weather that's oppressive, I'm sure.
     while: "Spices and gold b y  t h e  f i s t f u l,
                  get your bags of gold and spices here!"

Tea, poured into saucers from cups.
Thickly accented words, in a foreign dialect,
sitting oddly on strange, dark tongues.
Men that, years later, were imprisoned for keeping silent
Hanged those that did not.
What are we aping?, echoing in the streets.

Shattered cups and splintered saucers,
strewn neglected on the ground.
A heel crushes out a stub of ashy clove
and the bitter smell of stale coffee
lingers overheard.
May 2015 · 456
the Sandman May 2015
The cradle that joins
your rough throat of stubbled skin
to the flesh of your clavicle
holds in it the earth's ends,
                                            (and the universe is contained
in the lengths of your arms).

It was dry and barren
when first we met, but
I have watered it
                            gently, c a r e f u l l y
every day, with my eyes,
and buried my nose in your chest.

It has grown, a lush
garden. Now, fuller than ever before.
             But it is my garden,
             do not forget-
I will twist its vines 'round your
May 2015 · 633
Swimming Pool;
the Sandman May 2015
You do a simultaneous favour
To spiderwebs and fire
As they dance in your depth
And I skim across your surface
Watching the blue flow up into blue
And the blue sink down into blue
Reaching fingers reluctantly down, and up,
Broken only
By the water-colour green in between-
I want to be the surface
That only I can break,
That holds the horizontal
Between you & your sky; I
I want to be within
And outside of your
Deep, light body
At once
(Till I can no longer feel the hot burn
On soles and blazen palms)
And then stay so until spiders
Build their home on my shoulders.

I'll stay still for them,
And you.
So you can make patterns across my arms-
Cobwebby patterns of (strobe) light-
And I will fly inside you,
Because you are my sky.
This is why I now only swim
Because I feel like I am flying
Apr 2015 · 409
They talk of beauty.
the Sandman Apr 2015
The taller kids told her, fevered, in math,
Like they'd been telling everyone all day,
That if you swing all the way 'round a swing
It turns you inside out, the legends say.
She grew more and more excited
As every slow second passed
She could hardly count the moments
Until recess would come at last
She ran right out to the swing set
Didn't stop- she was almost there; she cried,
She screamed, with joy and fruition,
"Now my beauty will be on the outside!"
Apr 2015 · 455
the Sandman Apr 2015
You are the only water left
in the world
when I cup you in my hands and
drink you in
But when I try to
grip and clench you
to pull you closer to me
or just hold you
you slip away and run out
through the gaps between my fingers.
You're a stormy sea I can't tame.
I'm an unskilled captain
but I've bought a new boat-
Let me be a blue raft and blend (bleed) into you.
Apr 2015 · 405
the Sandman Apr 2015
Twined, a vine, delicate and proper
-The one point of softness in you,
I swear-
Around a cigarette that whispers its
Spiral tower wisps
Before it sizzles when you bite it
By accident (you say)
Before it whimpers, and gives-
The best way to die, surely,
To die on the pad of the tip of your
Finger protruding out your
Lovely balmy palm-
Look pretty fab I think! I want
To jump into them
So you can hold me so close
And I can crawl over, unsteady
On new, shortened (further!) legs
To the point on your wrist where
Your heart throbs the most
(And set up camp there).
In other words,
Be mine.
Apr 2015 · 381
the Sandman Apr 2015
There's an alternate dimension beneath my left eye lid
And a parallel universe under the right.
They stick and cling as they swing
From lash to lash like twisted vines.
I see them behind my lids each time I blink
And enter their world for a moment
Apr 2015 · 411
the Sandman Apr 2015
And we left faery rings where we danced
And giggled, in old classrooms.
And what we spoke, in soft murmurs,
Was poetry. More than the ramblings
Of our teacher could be called.
Every word we whispered
In uncertainty, up on tree branches,
Was poetry.
Poetry was the words we mumbled into each other's mouths
On balmy, rooftop evenings
Following our days in labyrinth-like malls
And each time he caresses my face
And tangles his skinny fingers in my hair
All I can think about is you
All I hear is whisperings of your name
Even when i sit with pen and paper
And write with conviction and structure about his dusky caramelness
Your eyes break through in my words
And your face seems plainly written,
Hidden between lines,
Mocking me till I spot it.
The rustly pages whisper your name to me.
And the words about him
Change slowly their meaning
And evolve into adjectives
Singing about the sugar in your voice
And the warm love of your arms.
It is a slow transfiguration/ a transformation
Like a children's flip book
With the torso of a ***-bellied clown
And bottom half of Adonis
In the way that, slowly,
The lines become about you.
Giggling secretly to each other
In disjointed horizontals.
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