I am crashing on the plane we know
but more than love. When truth outside honesty
scorches our skin and scars them

hiding tattoos on the inside. Rings of
hearts and haloes, wings of silver lined. Devils
are toed and grinning deeply.

Rain and acid flecks, they choose whom
are beyond this clasping granular grasp, and I like
this pain which is scratching wounds into my

soul. I know
that is broken to be whole
when I pierce with my tongue holy knowledge.

© 20th April 2013

Hardly any little
darlings come over to us. Of
having seemed to be hurt or maybe they are
dreaming of times so past

that they sound like tiny lullabies.

Have you thought of keeping
me in tight holding arms or lying right beside me
in the pain? But something that

you couldn’t come to relate. Never you’ve
been like that, how I feel that reality comes
into parts. Soft little face, huge brown eyes

uncover the surprise that eyebrows comprise.
Longing to be held so soft but never there. Beating
hand on your heart and the

Affliction of Love to us.

Sickling in the things that tie me in so many
miles closer to you. Open up your wides, pupils
dilating to take in the very first, who came this close to

melt your loving heart.


© 2006

She lay with her back to him, face to the wall, says: “Nothing is black and white. All shades of grey. I wanted it to be… just wish it was white.”
She placed the cracks in her voice at calculated places, hoping but no reply expecting. He is usually not aware of her subtleties, the hints to the real state of things, with her. Then he lays his arm around her as he says: “At least it’s grey, not black.”
Her eyes widen in the dark but do not flinch, and she pulls him by his hand closer onto her, wishing it was the only touch she needed to bring her the ultimate comfort that she wanted, that she needed.
“But I’m afraid, the black will seep in and make the grey darker.” She swallows, suppressing her fear for speaking fatalities. “Sometimes it seems like it has and does.”
Silence falls over them as she waits for an answer; the black stylised curls he drew on his wall gaze back at her, with still, reciprocating wonder.
She reminisces to how she drew curls on her own wall, with the artistic charcoal she got for her fifteenth birthday; it was a meagre gift from the one to whom she would lose her virginity barely a few months later. Now, the curls are gone, and her contact with him fell away soon after the fact, reduced only to sporadic visits on her part.

Finally, listening to his steady breathing in sleep, she is convinced he had given up the conversation, feeling comforted that he reassured her enough for now. Her eyes remain open still though; they peer through the darkness as if it held her fortune, solitarily illuminated by the stars shining through the skylight above her. It is relating conflicting prophecies however.
If I was as pure as white, no black could – would contaminate my love for him, she thinks. But white is for virgins and she has been in love before.

© 2006

Bike so hard, my heart could
break through my chest, rattling its cage
and cracking ribs, one at a time, while lunging

forward and back. My breath scraping as
though I had been born with iron lungs coughing up
the resentment of myself. Tried so

hard to make my thoughts leave

the conflict of fire combined with water.
Hissing inside my heart and head, making me feel
as though I would crash of this overpowering

emotion that consumed all the
innocence I once held. Everything that
made me real had been a farce, was

as predictable as a badly written plot.
Taking every step as outlined despite
the wind whispering a tale quite

different. I fell, while it was howling of
imminent despair during my bike ride, over a
broken promise, a not kept word. I told

myself I could have him.


© 2004

That was all that we knew to
latch onto. This certain sensation of
what we knew to do, and how we can
match a mode of discontent.

All that we knew was that the grimace
of peaces surfaced the pain of underlying greed.
Not all with the food of gratitude, none left
of who could turn themselves into a single thought.

We are broken, and through our teeth we
grab what was past and smash it into
resistance. When screams are faltering to reveal
a song of latitude, all across the world we will

fall and rise from the ashes that were thrown
to blind us. But we have the guard of protection,
from a screen of human feelings so deep it is
impossible for the ruling classes, minority of

the masses, to possess.
This war cries to jubilation, when all we know
has fallen to replace our own souls with
a being completely free in collectivity.


© 27 March 2013

It will not help at all, I know what I am looking for. This hand, this piece of paper to begin with. What it is, if all it is. But the core of my existence. Faltering in light and the unfocused lenses of my eyes. The wisdom to capture not the moment as the moment lost itself when beginning.

So where, where are we now if all that is lost to us comes to pass? Does it perpetuate in endless frailty, when this piece of paper is burned to shreds? Nothing exists of nothing save to fail ideas, illusions of eternity. If all that we are is an ending then that which will remain is part energy, part form. Jumping from one atom to the other. As in a dance but is not really of us only all of what makes us. Into a here, into a now.  And the illusion of time perpetually never ending is laughed away by nothing other than the true meaning of Being.

If only I would not resist.

© February 7, 2011

Please be careful with me, I feel like
a fragile soul. In reveries and new music, does
the feeling flow through me like an aching
of hands growing tired. If you lift me up I

could snap in your grasp. So please, be
careful with all you do to me. In your words I see what
I think comes from me. How can you make me

feel so untired of you?

Delicately, and then you leave and make me
think of that lightness, I feel like it is fragile as the
heart that beats inside right now. Leave me alone, with the
words I have to keep you in my mind

still. And as I sit, I become aware of my
toil and spinning, don’t know what it is that holds me
in your lingering. The promise you never told
me, I don’t understand; do you want to be

with me, here and reach into me blindly whilst
sitting next to me? As I sense my fragility and the life that
comes from me, feels cold and shaking. I wanted
something to be warmed with, but the soft light you

shone only gave me a frail picture
of it.

© 2004