i love those
spacey rooms
where basketballs
echo like
an irregular
beating heart;

i love those
little rooms
with huge windows
and careful white
walls, that try
to make up
for narrow floorspace
with ventilated dreams;

i love those
vast rooms
with wooden floors,
and a mirror
that covers
an entire wall
along the length,
beside the
ballet bar,
and alternating
false pillars of
hollow wood
along the
lonely wall
that faces the mirror
so that music
echoes and
reverberates
to outweigh
the ghost footsteps
in pale satin
ballet shoes
that dance alone
through the night
in a resolute stupor,
occasionally peeking
through the
now-shut door,
awaiting the
gracefully grayed
shining eyes,
the off-white shawl
with tiny red
tulips like
summer theater,
and a walking stick
to waltz delicately in
at the break
of 8 o’clock tea.

i love those
cozy rooms
with an exquisite
mahogany coffee table
and a crystal swan
centerpiece,
the patterns on
the couch in a
range of shades
of coral to match
the snugly sized,
maroon, artificial
velvet cushions,
and a gray
stone fireplace
for when it snows,
a dimmed lamp
on the mantelpiece
beside the
mollified and dozing
black cat,
and the water-colour
painting on the wall
of a waterfall
with surreal
strokes of yellow,
lilac and rose,
a tiny framed
photograph of
a redheaded
young lady
with a green scarf,
her lover’s arm
around her shoulder,
their smiles, warm
enough to melt
the blowing blizzard
from the north;

i love those
overly spacious rooms
that come with
white carpets,
and white walls,
and white bedsheets,
and a brimming itinerary,
the glass window
that covers the wall
facing the miniature
open-kitchen,
a bright blue
coffee cup with
a tiny yellow
handprint rests
on the glass
center table,
and the faded
sound of pouring
rain and sleep
deprived keyboard taps,
the blankets in
the morning
smell of half-familiar
moisturizer;

i love those
smallish rooms
with a twin sized
bed in a corner
by the world map
on the wall,
the light gray
t-shirt from
the previous day’s
excursion with
uninteresting people
lies comfortably
on the chair,
a fumbling trigonometric
ratio beside the doodle
of a scratched out
name on the notebook
beside the headphones
on the floor,
an old piece of
ruled paper
sticks out from
in between the
yellowing pages
of the old dictionary,
that lies idle
amongst the
bizarrely ordered,
rewritten pages
with the ingredients
for that story,
with an old orange
crayon scribble saying
my brother
told me today
that dragons ar real,
and the dark
blue curtains
flutter only slightly
in the midsummer
night’s breeze
through the open
window, and the sound
of a far-fetched ‘perhaps’
in a psychedelic dream
that this was
the night when
the dragons
would return…

You really have to watch those liberal males,
they'll spend hours and hours with you having
deep intellectual conversations.

They'll discuss deep ideas, contemplate esoteric
theory and spiritual ideas. They'll make love
for hours and write deep and meaningful poetry
about you. Sure, they will probably wear their hair
long and most likely won't own a television.

But, they'll understand art and architecture and
literature. It's true that they probably won't give two
shakes about who won what football game, but they'll
dance with you late at night under the stars and they're
always looking for new ways to please you and usually
understand your deepest thoughts, often before you
understand them yourself.

They'll be your best friend and always treat you as
an equal, in fact, it will never even enter their mind
that you're not. They're almost always physically fit, too,
because they're usually the outdoorsy type and love to hike.
They never make fun of others, or discuss small ideas.
They enjoy discussing ways to improve the world and
the lives of others.

Sure, they won't slap you on your *** and tell you to get in
the kitchen and cook them some dinner and bring them a beer
while you're at it like those macho men on the right. Instead
they'll probably tell you to relax while they whip you up a
gourmet meal and serve it to you on the best dishes.

Yeah, you really gotta watch out for those liberal males.

and then

you look for

a way to

peel of your skin,

a candlestick

and a rusted

blade beside

the matchbox

because the

dreams were

too magnificent for

you to ever

grow into,

so you lie

beside it

in a corner,

let it pour out

like wandering

silver mist

from a stranger’s

lost cigarette,

too exhausted

to be another

hand-me-down;

teeming with

pride

like a writer’s

old notebook

that still smells

of old lavender

and almost

unused lipstick

and teardrops

and ink blots

and almost

unnoticed mistakes

and a little

too much sentiment,

outlawed by time,

ripped out

like a reluctant

heartful of stifling

frustration and

fragmented

with sarcastic

tenderness,

like gravel

that once

hoped to

be sculpture

in an ancient

museum of fine arts,

because, y’know,

everything

is fine

until it’s gone;

shine bright;

dead stars

were born in

the wrong

galaxy; dead

people were

merely unlucky.

does
the caged soul
in the lantern
make you wonder
if all things
bright and beautiful
were to be seen
but never felt?
or did your
scheduled interruption
of ludicrous
malcontentment
waltz right into
your empty mindspace
and pluck your
pretty eyeballs out,
because, well, i
obviously convinced
him to, and
what good were
they, anyway?
you never
saw me
storm into your
vaulted life
with half determination,
clear the dust
off your subconscious
so you could see
the constellation;
you city lamp,
it hurt your pride
when you learnt
to look inside
and found an
excavated void
of vice and
nowhere you
can hide,
tell me, was it
arduous to decide
to climb
the cliff
and learn
to fly?
i'll tell you why:
that vengeful
little bird
has acquiesced
without a word
to aim and
shoot you in
the leg, then
watch you grovel,
watch you beg
until you shatter
onto the floor,
heartbreaking
piteous and poor,
like a broken
autumn leaf
but it's not
pretty anymore;
molten wax
around your ankles,
i'll let you
ornament my
candle stand,
let you burn
right through
the night; i
should've known
my little
counting stars
were far too
bright, too fluorescent
for you, feckless,
worthless, bewitching
scrap of pretty, vain
frustration.

Calling my lost phone – silent vibrations somewhere