i have held with
fascination, when i was young,
  all of my toys.

a parallel universe of
  marvels. imperial is the mood
of these ecstasies!

i remember my cheap svelte revolver
  back in 1998 bought from
  the festive bazaar in the marketplace at the dreary heart of Bocaue when i was
consumed by the thought of brutal force and how swiftly, in the hands of men meant for twisting open
   the doors, welcome death
or the metallurgy of it.

i used to run off into the sunset
  toting my gun high with pride
   shunning the Sun, and the
reprise of my carousals is my mother
    soldering in her white hands
a "walis tambo" and summoning me
     homeward with a churlish grin
on my face, triumphantly ecstatic
   over my rendezvous.

now my gun has withstood the
   tatterdemalion of dog days
and in one corner i felt its
  brokenness as it yearns to
  be retired early in the peak
    of my youth. happiness wears down like a chip on the old linoleumed floor and i tinker with
  it to unsheathe the grime
  of the unspoken stucco concrete.

  i placed it in a box, my black revolver, together with the toys
   that i once laughed with
when only bliss is as simple as a juvenile love, or the easy picking
    of a santan over the fields
      where i ran off into
the viridian laughing with the verdure of the world that i once knew as something so beautiful
   and intricate.

i heard my black revolver went
   somewhere behind the macadamized wall where i dreamt of having a basketball ring nailed to.
   only i knew how to play
my revolver, and now that i am
   caught within the heaviness
  of all things that mean greater
  than all other joys,
   no other days could ever
surpass how
  i made
    a hero in myself
mighty with the tales
     that i keep.

good ole black revolver, 1998.

I am a Lego
Build me up brick by brick
Build me strong, build me weak
I could be pretty
Or I could make you sick
But a 4 year old kid
Shouldn’t touch me
Cause he’s not ready
He might as well be chocked
By swallowing me
Or changed his mind
And decided that
He wants other cheap toys
*To play with

the damage
has already
    been done
by the time
  brass tacks
rise to
  the surface,
and all the pretty
maidens are stacked
   like Russian wooden
       nesting dolls,*
in an insatiable
  hunger, yearning
   to possess
     the most toys

Mr Finn
was talking
history

Saxon stuff
battlements
and castles

listening
I recalled
the toy fort

that I got
for my 6th
birthday gift

with coloured
lead soldiers
some with swords

some with bows
and arrows
and after

the school day
on the way
home I asked

Janice if
she'd like to
see my fort

you've a fort?
a real fort?
she asked me

as we walked
together
along St

George's Road
it's a toy
fort I got

for my 6th
birthday gift
has it got

a drawbridge?
sure it has
and towers?

5 if you
count the one
over the

drawbridge I
informed her
I'd love to

see your fort
she said so
I took her

to the flat
where I lived
and showed her

the toy fort
and soldiers
and we sat

on the floor
and my mum
brought us drinks

of Tizer
and biscuits
and Janice

said to me
maybe you'd
like to see

my dollies
at my place
Gran likes you

then we can
have a tea
party with

my dollies
I liked her
but going

to a doll's
tea party
how could a

young boy live
that one down
if the boys

on the block
found that out
so I said

maybe one
day I might
when there's not

a moon out
in the night.

Draped,
in a long sleeve
shirt,
to cover the evidence


And painting an expression
of contentful bliss

But it is simply an illusion
for the sake of others


Denial the easiest act to employ



Crimson tears stream down
and pool on the floor

A slight shudder
from the sting of the razor’s kiss


Momentary reprieve
from the turbulance in her mind

This pain her only time of joy



But the outside world only sees
the smile on her face


A subtle attempt to make it seem
like nothing’s amiss

Her false expression
of happiness forever a burden to her

Because no one wants a broken toy…

Thrown away carrom men
Hunting for the queen
Grey white turqoise marbles
a spinning top on the table
an electric motor a gadget then
bifid nibbed fountain pen
Cassette wheels and a chip of steel
ran faster than ritzy hotwheels
tazos and trumps spurred triumphant jumps
peacock clay in redolent sandalwood
I collected and carry in the treasure of childhood

Evolve us
Wind us up
Like a little toys
Or a music box
With a petite little ballerina
Eternally twirling
With her arms never tiring

Evolve us
The human race whispers.

Don't play with broken toys, Mama used to say,
They're twisted and rotten, leave them be,
They'll rob your soul blind, and leave you that way,
Till your world no longer exists, just you wait and see,
Their wind-ups are broken, and their springs are twisted,
They'll bleed you dry, and leave your heart blistered,
But your porcelain flesh was unblemished,
And your springs worked just fine,
So I played with a broken toy, and when I was finished,
You bled me dry, and my world was no longer mine,
I fell for a broken girl, and now my heart is coal,
I fell for a broken girl, who broke my soul.