Against the canvas of green
churning out shades of wet brown,
silhouetted
the late crow atop a streak
of another bow of shadows. Canopy blue
islanded in many shades of grey,

ruddy ruddy grey:
crimson light dancing on the darkening tips
of leaves, still wet after the downpour,
fluttering in the slow wind;

Till you disappear from the edge
of my smudged mirror; Turning back
then, I wait on,
and catching a fading glimpse
of you walking away, for moments more.
Life inverted; Fluttering in wind.

Heavenly angels
that descended into the earth with the rain
burst forth now as the copperpods blooming
late now at season's edge

That at last when the night is
falling asleep, and I hear voices
muffled, concealed
in corners, oh my despair
the day breaks in, like a thief ambling
across, it is morning already...

going to war to prevent war

they say every man will defend
when in fact it's a means to an end
something egocentric
a valour
a glory
a small gain for uncountable loss

a crusade ethos of the government
when the governor's meant
to be a guardian of interests
yet to guard his own interests
he'd rather tear a hole
in the only things some people know

a hero, a death
a medal, a death
an honour, a death
a victory, a death
or is it the other way around? i forget

a strong-hearted media
which will only feed to you
a story to spin an election.

and I can wholeheartedly say
the only state
which I possess the mind to believe in
is that state in which you've left this crater

devil's land once called home

What is Love?
Is it a strong like? Sometimes that's all it feels like.
Or a weird hate? Based on the burning and aggravation when small things go wrong
Is it a sneaky lust? Because you know what I really want right?
Can it even be trusted? Many people say it one day and nothing the next.
Maybe its just a word, a word for manipulation.
The truth about it is Love is what you make it. Nobody can make it for you...but that's just what I think

We, stayed up late;
Saw his shadow cast away
a distance. Sung his song.

We, rise alone:
Clutching the fruits of
imaginings. Sated of hunger.

We hear birdsong
& bees, pollinating the blossom,
in everlasting harmony.

We watch steam
form clouds around us,
alighting over our morning cups.

We stir, refreshed, tasting nectar anew.

the pen and the paper are lovers
the pen whispers and the paper remembers
the paper wants to forget

The pen traces the forbidden heart  
the paper and the pen are lovers

there are traces of you all over me - tells the paper to the pen
How do you know what is to love somebody the way I love you?

and I am still working on this ... any suggestions?

I was trying
to say that
the ocean and

the night sky
are two of
my closest friends

that we are
called to be
two of the

dreamers, of
those on the
paths of silence

who often find
themselves with hands
and heads pressed

up against the
wailing walls of
a world where

man has power
over man to
his hurt.

Yet Love waits
like a pool
of stars on

the ocean’s face
waiting for us
to step into

it; friend,
brother,
I was trying

to say:
Christ never leaves
me orphan nor

you

Left bank beards
in Beat hotel rooms,
a boulangerie breakfast
down the street and to the left,
and for lunch fresh baked bread and brie.
Letters sent home to fathers and mothers
singing sweet serenades of Paris
dressed up in autumn shades,
cheques for the royalties that'll
get them to Belize to write and swoon,
chat up ladies in the early afternoon;
where hotel fees that are treble those in the 5th,
bookshop stalls that'll never be found
another closing-down-establishment myth.

They were climbing with oxygen
long before we came along,
base camp poems written under
floor lamplight right before
the eyes of others.
Jett powered prose and wine in the light
sleight-of-hand punctuation and uptight
editors looking for finer narration.

In the burning right hand of the bald city,
denizens frame calories and count instagram blessings
while beacons of hope refund inspiration in USADA *** cups.

Abyssinian maids wail over yesterday lovers
who wore Ginsberg’s skirt with less  pizzazz
and watched bedbugs **** blood off knee caps
wondering, what if Jesus Christ drove a Nissan?

As bullets of paragraphs fall Vietnamese pesticides on my head,
The dusts off my breath sing homilies
With letters of broken leather whiskey,
For even in the most dishonest jest,
clandestine toothbrushes are overrated
and every first false lie is the only truth.