Sailing soft, frozen in time--
Sat on your chair where I could've sworn
I saw a past life regression flash along

Your face. Stuck there now,
I'm alone now and forever forth.
For years I stored half my cash into a box
without second thought
just to end up spending it all in six months.

that last crash erased all the academic pablum
that proved less required reading
  more distraction.

Just a border now,
head against an extending wall,
Witless and stonecold sober;

At ease with every unanswered craving
And coexisting with a life where nothing goes
   according to plan.

Her mind was in Hawaii,
Dancing under waterfalls,
Wandering through rainforests,
Picking tropical flowers and
Braiding them into her hair,
Simmering on sandy beaches,
And gazing at the stars.

Her heart was in Normandy,
Eating crepes and sipping lattes,
Strolling through spring green fields
And along lazy river banks,
Kissing the walls of castles,
And scooping up scallop shells,
Soaking up French syllables.

Her hands were in her pockets,
High-fiving friends and
Running through her lover's hair,
Sewing, cooking, washing,
Punching, tearing, scratching,
Caressing and confessing,
Catching the very first drops of rain.

Her feet were on the streets of Seattle,
Tapping to the rhythm of the bass,
Shuffling in and out of the rain,
Dodging puddles and strangers,
Observing art and sculptures,
Chasing down a taxi or her dog,
and embracing the crisp autumn air.

Her lips were on the edge of a soda can,
Singing along to her favorite songs,
Whispering sweet nothings into the air,
Empowering the impoverished
And scorning the injustice,
Kissing a forehead, lips, and hads,
And stonecold silent as her mind does the work.

Her eyes were fighting back frosty tears,
Swallowing scarlet sunsets,
Painted in yesterday's make up,
Tracing your stoic silhouette,
Rolling like thunder before the storm,
Lapping up dizzying moonlight,
And buried in words, and words, and words.

Her body was in Los Angeles,
But, she was on a metanoia,
Breaking free of past and future
To find herself a presence
That would always be worth fighting for,
To reach sophrosyne, namaste,
And to put her frantic body to peace.

The truth I hold,  took years to unfold, locked up and never told. Now I speak for I am done being weak.. A story I will tell, awaking the pits of hell. Pinned against the wall,  being 14 years a little small..  Tounge against my cheast you can imagine the rest.  Touching, feeling, my eyes rolling to the ceiling. I push away, forced down, I am here to stay and pray. Nights always full of fright..  Kissing, *******,  non stop *******.. Crying,  weeping, always happened while they were sleeping. Was I that bad of a girlfriend? Why couldn't I speak? Tricked into the arms of a pervert…  sitting in a chair he was. Smiling by the messyness of my hair and my eyes stained by the streaming tears.. Nobody cares about you he said, cutting my wrist wishing I was dead.  He's right you see, all these years no one ever gave a **** about me. A puppet I am to him, dangling limb to limb. The years pass on by, I have no tears left to cry.  I escaped this hate, no More videos to tape..  Visits became less and less, I am staring to grow up a mess. Drinking here, smoking there, my life is hard to share, making friends with the drunkies, partying around town like diseased monkeys… every day that goes by, I feel ashamed and left to die. I tried to share my story to those that I trust, but all they wanted was my lust.  Met a boy,  come to find out I was just his toy. I wanted to help his soul,  but instead paid his toll. Being punched in the face, always leaving without a trace.. Left in harm's way, wasted with no Place to stay. Wondering the streets, giving myself to him but never pleased. Crying while we ****, gasping for air the more it struck.. Pillow in my face, cant hear me screams. It was you who ashamed me..  No respect for myself,  no medal to place on the shelf. Falling down to the dirt, clothes stained, blood stained skirt. The cold making me shiver, drinking out of the flask and damaging my liver. Why should I care about my life, here I go to carve myself with a knife..  Blood dripping down my tummy, hatred fills me like a high. All numb cant feel at all. All numb can't feel a thing, the morning doves ready to sing. I am not dead, just hanging my a thread. The ambulance speeding so fast, all I can see is a movie of my past. All stiched up & ready to go, put on your clothes you stupid ***. Here I go to this life I lead to know,  take a seat and watch the show... Dancing for their eyes to see, please god set me free. He took me home that night, my green eyes sparkled full of fright.. He was addicted to me….  Leaving me in the streets, dreaming I was frolicking in the meadows. Touched and abused I was, just so he can get a little pleasing. Breaths filled the air, the *** smell is hard to bare. Watching him smile was a sight.. The nights so dark, its all black. His eyes so plain,  pinning me like a thumbtack. The years passed on by, still living my past as a lie..  I did survive this life, I have now retired my knife. Scars still their, people stare here & their.. I am sad at times, past full of crimes, smiling to all, putting my hands out, breaking my fall.
I would like to share my voice, but its up to me to make that choice. I understand I can write.. Its my passion, But for now I express through this text. I will speak out to those only willing to listen to my story. I don't need sympathy from anyone or petty from others…  I made it to where I am and thats all that matters. Yeah I'm pretty so I've been told, but thats all i have left.. I don't need acceptance from others..  Because beauty is also found within. I don't judge, but I do sin. Being with me comes with glory & paraise but for those who think that being me is perfect and all very glad to be… think once, twice, or three times because let me tell you.. Its not so great to be me. So before you judge or cringe at my presence, understand I don't care because I am stonecold. I'm no longer here to please anyone but to thrill, and speak for what I need to say…

dis- (negation of) -ease can take up so many forms of expression, the likely venture in a coffee shop with espressos variants and mocha coffee, or the lattes and something else.

which hardly means Paul McCartney dreaming
up *yesterday or Robert Stevenson with dr. jekyll and
mr.vhyde - when the weaknesses of yours
express themselves naturally - you accept them -
the only riches are bound to health -
all others care nothing - take away the able body
or the mind - and you take social realities -
i remember running wild with Peter and Ciarán -
slobbering off car parks on people's heads with spit,
surviving mugging, getting underwear-wedged on
park fences - deciding to smoke *** aged 21 for
the first time - listening to Limp Biscuit while
playing pool and donning Samuel L. Jackson Kangoo
hats john otto, take 'em to the matthew's bridge -
****'s sake, the who?! long gone. moths frantic right now -
we walked the mall, the bought artefacts before
digitalisation took over - and the book was lost
among toilet-paper heaps - 'cos when you need
a ****** to wipe his **** you need to write a book -
to feel seminal and human.
like the way Ilford high-street changed from Jew haven
into Bombaystan - that Ilford is mythical -
clever cue to suit a hardened worth of wearing tuxedo -
Maggie in the Sky filled with Piggy-stockpile Metaphors -
white boy rap - coo or undo clue - the same
**** precipitates into brown men in autumn
salivated together with oak drop leaves -
so hey ***, how's my solo? good or not good enough
to churn a mirror scene at a party?
'cos the cool kids "hang out", i guess **** of butter either.
as abandoned poetics had it: ensure it rhymes.
but it was me Peter and Ciarán on the weekend -
hell-raisers before i started smoking dope -
oh come on! i just turned 30 i'm allowed slang -
it's not unruly to rule the rubric with some sentiment
without wish for retirement -
ah man, that ****** in South Park - Ciarán just
hanging there in mid-air - got a g-string to boot -
i have to admit, the smart ones in England got out
of the education system aged 16 - the dumb-*****
made it to university - connectivity came in even if you
excelled - the smart ones got out aged 16 -
dumb ones like us with immigration a surrogate
family of ideas kept it up to university level and received
jiggly-squat of **** to get bothered in encouraging
attention to the idea of society - gave up, rebelled,
started singing X Ambassadors' song like Christmas carols -
readying ourselves for our parents to die,
watching our parents watching their parents die -
readying for the squat - as i once said:
i know a place where i can bottle clean Evian water -
you have to pass the centurion guards that might
kick you in the head if you try feeding them your
hand rather than a sugar-cube... but that's fresh water -
some *** left a ceramic tomb where the stream runs
free. or the maxim from high-school:
take a picture... it'll last longer;
it doesn't matter, aged 18 through to 21 i was sticking
******* into my mouth to imitate a Roman rite of
passage -
just when Eminem came out -
and wrestling was a beehive with Kane and the Undertaker
and StoneCold - cheeky chic wahwah on the turntables -
but **** me that ****** on the park fence
by a centimetre missing Ivan the Impale(r)'s tactic -
at this point can come like an e-mail,
that @ stamp can **** itself... i'm ready...
it's the cinema that no one bothers with -
there for the taking - spitting on a man's head
from a car-park uppermost level -
getting ****** for the first time with white lightning
cider. Pete? lost his teeth, got a mother of a beauty's
worth of **** last time i met him in a pub -
Ciarán became a nightclub door gorilla -
well, you know my story -
it's hardly the twinning of the Krays -
although that was on the cards -
last time the high-school people were together
we were at the Beckton bowling-alley
jumping into plastered fake walls head-diving
until i broke the wall with a cranium of an elephant's
worth of horizontal canon-ball gravity propeller;
mind you, Beckton stinks of **** in the high
season of the recycling harvest - A13 via Barking?
i'm not too sure - i never bothered to learn to drive -
i took the Chinese route - bus stop wankers? sure.
bicycle wankers? tell that to the Beijing horde -
shame i boxed Ciarán's kidneys in once before
we were lessened in B-tech queuing to enter class.

the fireworks trapped in his eyes
freed by the tears rustling
dried out within me
spark by dying spark
all had fell the same
& here we are tonight, one
not-long-ago night
we were here
you looked through me
as if I'm an everbright light
& our firefly hearts
ignited into the wildest
of fireworks
we surrendered
all our withheld lights
to a shallow sky
the way you faded shadow-dark
in the stonecold
of a hollow fire
while I'm still here
we're but back here
where we fell in love
then out of it & now
I look like the brightest light
running out of you
we were but just mere men
who fell in love it was
when we fell in love
that we fell in love only to tell
goodbye

that man...
he's a goner trapped in a physical flesh
he trusts no one
well, I guess
and hatred is feasting his soul
he's a stranger everyday and no one
knows him
that man...
he's good at deprecating himself
in his mind, you'll find an eccentric kind
of chaos
in his heart, it is over a negative hundred fahrenheit
-- stonecold.
but that is my man
he is a beautiful chaos
I see him as precious as a water to this earth
I want to hold him moreover a forever
until he bleeds no more
until he could smile a genuine one
until his heart becomes warm in my embrace

but my man clothed himself
in thick sheets of anxiety

yet, I will reach brokenness to cover him
with my love, I'll do it until it fix him

yes, I really love that man.

Man starts dreaming—
greedy dreaming.
He begins to burn
a different kind of fire.

His heart like an ember
can be fiery and fervent
can burn a silhouette
a shadow in love
a ghost in grief
all in his deep shades
of crimson blue.

Here he is
here he's been
here he will be
burning memories–
photographs and things in pages
curling into black
the stench of obliviun
is one with the smoke
that is how he builds
a different kind of fire.

Plunged his hand
it shines in his very eyes
dancing gracefully
like a wild gloriosa
rustled by the winds
restlessly,
like a scarlet swan
in a lake of stonecold ashes,
as if the only thing at peace
in a holocaust of memories.
Then stares back
before it sways back
into being the ordinary flame
it was.

If he would listen
the fire has a pulse
a flicker beat
almost like his.

The flame did not burn him
as if it has always been
a part from within
as if he was made out of it
as if it was made out of him.

He felt the soul of the fire.
It's pulse—

felt like home.

Remaining in a state of suspended animation
While life goes on before me
But I, like the thinker
That stonecold
Untouchable
Nobody
That resides
In the stonecold
Emptiness of nothingness
Strangely where it all began
Void of my happiness
And touchiness
A nothingness
That knows itself as everything
Who are you?
You pretend to be God
All knowingness
Then you pretend to be me
All neediness
Who are you?
I have pled
And I have pleaded
And beseeched your help
You kept the mirror held up
I didn't fall in love
With me

So, I’m asking you, God
They tell
Do tell
You tell me
To love me
You love me
Till I love me
We can never be
Then why God did you create me?
For company?
Please answer me.

the midnight wind howls

a petal is plucked
from the lotus' heart

it drifts away

the reflection of the moon
snow-white
on the frozen pond—

illuminates
the lotus beneath the ice

it's stonecold lonely
when you're only a touch away
but we're forever apart

when there's no ripple anymore
but blossoming thorns of ice;

as the midnight wind lulls

the last shred of hope fluttered
from the frozen, sullen heart

it withers away

across the sky-deep, empty hollow
to the infinite darkness beneath

scentless

& snow-white