i. (2010)

there are eighteen scars in a row above your wrist
pallid and shameful and white as bones and you’ve
counted them
(still do)
under the sheets with your lips moving around whispers

they remind you of empty hallways and
the cacophony of your steps on blue linoleum
and that you are alive the way your breath in pale clouds does
on especially cold days


ii. (2011)

sometimes you dream of colours
(soft and animate and comforting) but
there is only red against the ivory
of your wrist
you’ve read the stories, you know
about the wolves and what happens to girls in red

there are eighteen scars in a row
and you breathe
and you bleed
and you keep counting

iii. (2012)

you don’t sleep much anymore
you fill your nights with the synthetic emotion
of words and films instead and
bury yourself in their comfort
their fabricated sadness

a substitute for everything you should have felt
there is an emtpiness inside of you, a vast
pale space inside your chest
your breath can’t fill

iiii. (2013)**

you tell people you’re mending
not even you know what that means
sometimes you trace them
(quietly
and with closed eyes)

and there is only the white of your skin
and the press of your fingertips
and you breathe
and your blood keeps pumping

an inscription on the side of the door
that I didn't see
upon entering


I like visiting you when you spit real
you hop from moon to moon
and never tire of handing out
your remarkable brand of smiles
as you go


you see
the thing is, you
are probably the most rare
of humans
I've ever known
you're the kind of person
I didn't realise it till now
I've always been on subconscious search for
no longer bereft of beauty
I am



so many sides
and so much fire
sometimes, it's hard
to keep pace
with mental fireworks

out on rocky shores
some sweets can cut the tongue
my feet edge tentative
over uneven edges
and move forward
slowly


there's a golden child in a tunic
who walks miles to learn of this wonderful world
which dips its ever-pen into the inkwell-head
of innocence
polluting the sweet waters there
changing for all time
the complexion of healing time

there's always hope in the smile of a child
thank heavens for the eyes of children
yet, look what we do...


yes, he's walking to his next lesson
if he only knew what waits
when he grows up
something inside will die
something so beautiful and deeply precious
will simply perish

when we grow up, we actually die
innocence is replaced by blasé crap

young girls are advised to carry
silver spoons hid in drawers
to spark their chaperoned freedom
sleeping families never wake
as silent clouds settle insidious
placed by forces
no cherub wants to meet
the wicked are pardoned by the blind
and yet another child is trapped
and Babel's tower lives once more

the world is such
we **** our own
for the merest pretext

yet hope must live
keep candle of humanity lit


taking the time to find
that beautiful inscription
a prayer of infinite beauty
follow the steps to your heart
love comes
to light*




S T,            25th augs

Sometimes the poem
doesn't want to come;
it hides from the poet
like a playful cat
who has run
under the house
& lurks among slugs,
roots, spiders' eyes,
ledge so long out of the sun
that it is dank
with the breath of the Troll King.

Sometimes the poem
darts away
like a coy lover
who is afraid of being possessed,
of feeling too much,
of losing his essential
loneliness-which he calls
freedom.

Sometimes the poem
can't requite
the poet's passion.

The poem is a dance
between poet & poem,
but sometimes the poem
just won't dance
and lurks on the sidelines
tapping its feet-
iambs, trochees-
out of step with the music
of your mariachi band.

If the poem won't come,
I say: sneak up on it.
Pretend you don't care.
Sit in your chair
reading Shakespeare, Neruda,
immortal Emily
and let yourself flow
into their music.

Go to the kitchen
and start peeling onions
for homemade sugo.

Before you know it,
the poem will be crying
as your ripe tomatoes
bubble away
with inspiration.

When the whole house is filled
with the tender tomato aroma,
start kneading the pasta.

As you rock
over the damp sensuous dough,
making it bend to your will,
as you make love to this manna
of flour and water,
the poem will get hungry
and come
just like a cat
coming home
when you least
expect her.

They have watered the street,
It shines in the glare of lamps,
Cold, white lamps,
And lies
Like a slow-moving river,
Barred with silver and black.
Cabs go down it,
One,
And then another,
Between them I hear the shuffling of feet.
Tramps doze on the window-ledges,
Night-walkers pass along the sidewalks.
The city is squalid and sinister,
With the silver-barred street in the midst,
Slow-moving,
A river leading nowhere.

Opposite my window,
The moon cuts,
Clear and round,
Through the plum-coloured night.
She cannot light the city:
It is too bright.
It has white lamps,
And glitters coldly.

I stand in the window and watch the
moon.
She is thin and lustreless,
But I love her.
I know the moon,
And this is an alien city.

forgotten ghosts
flutter around
in the background
of crowded rooms

dead or alive
neither would change much

but there's another
a lost
forgotten ghost
just like you
searching
hoping
to be found

and maybe
through the crowd
above all the empty laughter
and meaningless conversation
you'll catch their empty eyes
and see a light

crowded rooms
are a lot
like a lost and found