Strike flint to enflame,
let the lines take flight,
They bite at the dark,
they shoulder the light;

No throne for the poem,
no chair for its nerve—
It walks till it bleeds,
for a poem’s a verb.





.

Stay with Me

Your touch is arson in my bones
Melting steel, surrendering throne
Choose: my chaos or endless night
Either way, love
— you’re my excruciating light






.

We’ve watched the tide turn,
not with the grace of moon‑drawn water,
but in a churn of noise that drowns the shoreline.

Once, the air here was salt‑bright with exchange;
now it’s thick with echoes of the same refrain.

We keep to the edges,
guarding the memory of what it felt like
when a single, well‑placed word
could still command the room.





.

poems for money,
no kicks for free —
ink on the counter,
pulse on a fee.
y ‘want the spark?
then tip the key.
poetry’s no money-tree

"An Ill‑FittingHalo"

tilted— never quite resting
where the light intends
edge catching on stray hairs
like thoughts
that refuse to be tamed
a slip of brightness
sliding into my eyes blinding,
not blessing

I walk with it anyway—
crooked grace
clinking faintly in the wind
sometimes it spins
like a coin still deciding
which face to show the world
and sometimes
it is only shadow remembering
the gold it once held





.

parched wind, salt‑tongued
from the far edge of the bay,
licks the last drift of
mauve jacarandas.

in the tin‑roof blush,
I hear the slow heartbeat
of soil— patient, cracked,
still keeping the memory of rain.

I walk the market’s narrow spine,
hands grazing mango skins,
the laughter of vendors lifting
like myna birds into a sky
just beginning to remember itself blue.

and when night comes,
the stars lean low
enough to touch my forehead—
reminding me this place
is both root and horizon,
a country that holds me
as much in absence as in light.





.

You spoke first, or maybe I did—
the sentence already half-shaped,
like a bridge built from opposite shores
trusting the air to hold its centre.

Time had worn the corners smooth,
but its echo still rang true—
a low note in the hollow of memory,
your cadence arriving before your name.

glass sweat /
brass vines breathe /
sun-caged in clock‑teeth /
one amber falls —
the quell is whole

“a clockwork orangerie”

gears click  
in humid glass  

copper vines coil  
around brass struts  

oranges glint  
like captive suns  
hinged to silver branches  

steam drifts—  
a hiss-purr among pistons  
petals unfurl  
to the pulse of time  

shadowed aisles  
radial rods pumping  
light into crystalline blooms  

one dimpled fruit  
slips free  
into a glass basin  
and rings  
into silence.






.