Tiny tiny
Bubble of silver
Beautiful in the half light
Caught for a fleeting moment
In the rays of the sun
Adrift
Spiralling upwards
Towards the light
Air bubbles
Tiny bubbles of air
Escaping from the void below
In each a word
A single word
Perhaps
‘Hello’
But more likely
‘Drowning’
Travelling silently
Until
Finally
They reach the surface
And
Burst!
Without a sound
Lost
Among the waves
Silent words
Silenced

Her hair was as black and as shocking as burning tyres;
And her pastel-hued eyes that once surveyed the dawn,
Could set the world aglow;
And her skin as white as alabaster and soft like the new found snow.
Her voice, oh, her voice was as cool and clear as ice,
Probing and touching and reaching like wanting fingers.
But she left...
She had left him with a life like a ruined photograph print,
One half burned to ashes and the other half torn,
And containing only the single, voiceless image,
Of a pair of red shoes moving in the winters breeze.
Outside,
The moths spin crazily across the slate-dark road;
In the midnight a puddle was ***** by the wind.
He plunges into the obscene night, taking the backroads,
His hands naked against the starry cold.
The leafless trees accosts his soul,
And the icy wind shears the skin from his body,
And all the while;
She looks down at him, there all alone;
Her body limp and swaying from her hanging tree.

She was simply there,
An incarnation of herself.
No longer a nexus of adjectives
But pure and present noun.
I noticed the little fine hairs on her legs,
A speck of sleep in the canthus of her eye.
No longer Our lady of the Enigmas, but a girl,
Just a girl.
And somehow by being suddenly there like this
She made the things around her be there too.
In her, and in what she spoke, the world,
The little world in which we sat.
Found it’s grounding and was realised.
It was as if she had dropped a spreading drop of colour
Into the water of the world and the colour had spread
And the outlines of things had sprung into bright relief.
As I sat with my mouth open
And listened to her, I felt everyone
And everything shiver and shift, falling into the most vivid of forms
Detaching themselves from me and my conception of them.
And changing themselves instead into what they were
No longer figment, no longer mystery,
No longer a part of my imagining.
And I, I was there amongst them, at last.

The vision :
(dreams torn, torn)

A picture came to me in the darkness of night,
Of myself in ten, twenty years time;
Worn out with the struggle, weak, and no longer able to fight,
Finally giving way to the forces ranged against me,
Sad and grey and defeated.

The sketch :
(in harsh charcoals)

This dream that came to me,
Was as though I had finally and sadly, late in the day,
Lost my innocence.

The Canvas :
(Life, existence)

I had been high-minded and apologetic,
Full of enthusiasms I didn’t quite mean,
And guilt’s I didn’t understand.
And now I stand looking at the man I could’ve been.

In Oils :
(violent colours)

I had spent years thrashing around in confusion
As drowning men pull each other under,
As wave after wave we are swept away;
Our cries obscured by the thunder.

My signature :
(...)

See my writing on the wall,
There’s no one to catch me when I fall;
But Death was on my side:
Suicide.

She made a show of hesitating on the threshold,
Leaning against the doorframe.

She regarded him with a small, false, enquiring smile,
He said nothing, merely looked at her.

And still she advanced, still smiling,
The expanse of skin about her collarbone was mottled.

And there were hairline cracks in her make-up around her eyes,
Stop at the window, consider the view.

The sun shines on a glitter of green,
And summer strides up the hillside.

He watched her where she stood with her back to him and her arms folded,
As if she were holding another, slightly self clasped tightly to her.

He noticed her poor bare feet with their stringy tendrils,
Once the world had seemed to him, a rich, coloured place.

Now all he saw was the poverty of things,
And the ghost of a love past.

Run away with me
at dusk
Let's drink boxed wine
and laugh together
over stupid memories
and forgotten friends

dancing in the London rain

I want to love someone
       h u n g r i l y
I can't get enough and
I want nothing but more.
              The
L o v e
              The
    C o n n e c t i o n
               The
         F l o w
between souls.
We need to drink
one another up.

anything is possible. i don't mean this in a good way.

will you look at me while i'm talking?
not like that.
i know you are.
i want you to see me. i want you to keep up.

i could go completely ******* crazy.
i could never speak to any of my friends ever again.
i could join a fundamentalist christian cult.
i could drop out of college.
i could look into the mirror and see my own eyes reflected back to me, or gouge them out to be free of the burden. i could do anything, but it's all a matter of actualization.

you have to know what you're looking for
before you go out to find it.
the story the eyes try to sell you is always leaving something out.
you want this to be easy. you want the mirror to have a purpose.
don't we all?
you want to know what you want, but we are all stumbling blindly through this desert.
alone despite being inches from one another.
i'll try not to get too cocky,
because the only difference between you and me
is concept, language;
life is a whole other beast to cage.

don't get too hung up on definitions.
definitions are for law. this is poetry.
this is me building a mirror just to break it.
it's funny, how that always turns out.
realized desires are boring.
we get what we want
and we break it.
every mirror shatters in the end
and we all die a solipsist,
wanting and narcissistic.

I long for the majestic
sunset of your hair,
windblown, dancing across my cheek…
The burnt orange and lavender…
I want to consume every drop.
I’m thirsty for your
footsteps near my bed, parched with
desire for your presence—your essence.
How long until you wet my
tongue, and quench this fire?
I stalk slumber like a shadow…
my only release from the
hunger and yearning for your
moist lips, like peaches
pressed against mine.

mucus-like slugs, thrown to the wayside
ejected, from a chamber waist-high
a prideful ******
once full of lust
now listing for the coming
daytime