The night unravelling,
caught in the moment of the earth's
dance on its tilt

when it's just as day
as it is the night; like light
appearing behind shut eyelids

who am I to trust
when the earth turns and dreams
turn into daytime reveries

will I wake up and forget
or will your elbow slide off the table
and break the spell?

This time is a perfidious lover,
so tell me,
whose side is it on

tonight?

my dear F,

i'm sorry things turned out this way.

as much as i want to believe that we are the ones who make our own fate, some things just became too heavy for me to carry and i wasn't ready. and believe me, i tried. i tried so hard but it's hard to brawl against something i couldn't even see like destiny, or whatever other word people have for it.

see, i haven't been doing too well. when i look at myself in the mirror i see a houseplant that is about to die. the guilt consumes me more than anything. other days i just feel like a lit candle dying a slow death and this, i accept. i'm sorry i hurt you while i was hurting. i have been a dreadful person.

and i'm sorry this is all i can give you -- another futile attempt to gather my thoughts and then turn them into something not even mildly coherent. but this is all i've got... for now, at least.

i don't know what to say anymore; i just don't want to cry on christmas eve again. i'm sorry i can't go back in time and fix us.

maybe in our next lives, if i'm lucky, you'll find me again.
or i'll find you. either way, i will be waiting.

but i understand if you hate me.

love always,
N

They call us when things are bad.
When no one else can help.
When all their ways have failed.
When life is over.

They release us.
When war is inevitable.
When the enemy was won.
When all is lost.

They force us to help.
When they can't help themselves.  
When bad does more than good.
When plans fall to the ground.

They call us the bad guys.
Well we are bad.
But not evil.
We have honour among thief's.

Who are we?
The last option.
The one who are thrown under the bus.
The Suicide Squad.

This is how it goes babe
Feeling nauseous from the cheap liquor
It's that I promise
It's not me
It's funny that your sober
And I'm nowhere close to stable
Music blaring in my ear
Cops waiting in the hall
Liquor is slowly relaxing my blood
Allowing me to be drunk on life
This is how it goes babe
This is the closest Icarus can get
To the synthetic sun
And synthetic happiness

the cicada's have begun to emerge
after seventeen long years as a dormant miner

they arise, pushing through seveteen years of dust
and compounded muclch, breaking out into a brave new world

and for seventy two hours, if they are lucky
they seek to mate, to consumate  to extend their species

some become garish decorations on truck windscreens
some become exhibits in a small boys jam jar zoo
some become waylaid and sing their cacophonial opus
on barren concrete patio's
some become Sunday dinners to peckish nestlings

some succeed gloriously, then die happy
some don't...succeed...and die wondering

but apparently seventeen years ago...
a lot succeded...
if the booming base opera being performed
is a gauge of the primeval drive of the cicada

it is summer eve in the burbs
and the living is..... noisy....

The Beast slants in to the girl in yellow
Her brown eyes smile, as wide as her lips
With candles the light of the hall burns mellow
In dappled light Beast leads Belle by the hips

Across the whole majestic hall
The couples glide and slide like water;
The burnished flicker on the candle-light is tall
In its background, a million shadows saunter

Gold-gilded hands in spiralling dance
Like Catherine Wheels spinning on parade
The guests whirl in their waltzy trance
As billowing notes of the music cascade

Free at last, Beast recites his verse
It banishes the witches’ curse

Move him into the sun -
Gently its touch awoke him once,
At home, whispering of fields unsown.
Always it woke him, even in France,
Until this morning and this snow.
If anything might rouse him now
The kind old sun will know.


Think how it wakes the seeds, -
Woke, once, the clays of a cold star.
Are limbs, so dear-achieved, are sides,
Full-nerved, - still warm, - too hard to stir?
Was it for this the clay grew tall?
- O what made fatuous sunbeams toil
To break earth's sleep at all?