I rest my faults on my tongue And though it is textured as glass The taste is of raspberry Or blood I fail to distinguish My throat hurts From the cuts The bed is warm Like unwavering ash Like a tired pyre And I search with numb fingers My eyes; closed now For this is a dream I am not dead For this is a dream There is no bed The room I wake up to is all ochre And I am naked waist up Breath fills my belly And I shiver as the cold air claims my hunger My lungs, this ribcage holding together Heartbeats tearing to escape Stands out Like fingers from my skin I am a man no more Just random thoughts on a paper And my infinitesimal existence Like rings of rising vapour I remember being beautiful I remember being a being I remember writing those lyrics Which no man could ever sing But it is cold now And I feel I am too old to be young Now it is cold And I know I am too young to be old The winter is at the window And it is not going to wait The fire is long gone Now I am just a butterfly under the blanket And I would have closed my eyes Had the pillow not snored back Whispering to me All the things that I lack Privy to my dreams It does so on my behalf So when my dream does shatters I am not alone when I laugh
I do not desire To lie naked in a rattrap life And lubricate my verse with victorian words; Filled with awe inspiring acts Led by mundane lust Of Angels and Men alike Nor do deep desires murder me Nerve by nerve Peeling away my eggshell skin To illuminate the onion within; A coiled rainbow, boiled white Neither am I a shadow Fallen far from crowded feet Awaiting on indifferent paths For a heavenly retreat If at all I were to bare myself and be One thing that should suffice how I see Myself, in this crystal world Of self reflection and askewed insight I would be a thoughtful statue Sitting alone in a far off land With infinity in my head And nothing in my hand
Thoughts of you A wounded prism Bleeding rainbow blood From skin the colour of acrylic Water upon water Wet upon wet (Random noise; My pseudo poetry, Commas and semicolons limping across the verses In a desolate frequency Like an empty road echoing; The silhouettes of silent wheels The smell of burnt rubber And the touch of gasoline) I long to stare at your face that stands stark against the sky A newborn moon; unblemished Rolling upon tethered horizons Like a dime in the dark
O how I ache to be in your arms now To be your ice and your fire Your utter despair and open desire I wish I could hold you Like ink in my paper palm Like an unformed word Like a fleeting thought I wish I could know how you see me Am I an anchor that keeps you calm Or wings that sets you free? I know I heal as an afterthought And you are careful in remembrance And although we have met few times These moments that pass This liquid life Is reshaped by our every touch For the fire that burns us feels the same Today, tomorrow, after an eternity again
I remember being Your dream When you were wide awake A flower trapped within sunshine And I know I am not destiny’s choice For my voice That dark tobacco of my baritone Is neither honey nor nectar And my eyes that reach out Through the veiled carcass of some velveteen night Belongs to shadow and to spectre But love Through the shards of slow time That ebbed our feet away for many days Now we walk With our two hearts disguised as one
The walls aren’t painted And there are orange pips on the table Arranged like a ten o’clock shadow Of an ornament left in a glass case And I dare not disturb Her architecture The tainted texture That peers out, as symbols, as summations Meaningless veracities, punctuated by punctuations.
I cough And the dust coughs with me For the echo is swallowed By the floorboards Beneath our feet So I dance, I tiptoe I jump and I let go To remain suspended An unlighted chandelier Burning butanol or some such nonsense In my pockets
My garden has gone grey The flowers; asthmatic Now wheeze in the wind Wrinkled and waiting For the next iteration of spring A seasonal afterlife That feels no soul smile and say; I will let you live If you follow my way
Curious is the world’s design They who smile never know why And they who claim that they do Knows in their heart that it’s a lie Is happiness something That can never be found Like corners of a map Of a world that goes round
If only I had Eyes that could see all Every thread of a thought From even streams and the stone I think I know What I would have known That this all, this enigma This play supposed to go on Is not worded by us We who think we have won For each life afterall in the end is the same Closed eyes, broken breaths And lost dreams with no name.
I am, The face you never see, On posters and billboards, Half starved, naked, Beyond beautiful, to be Served on a silver platter, For you to touch, twist and take, Morsel after morsel.
I am, The laughter you never hear, Stirring lives, Rubbed together in plastic embrace, Made alive in the objectionable agony In the chimera of chemicals Praised at pawn shops By asthmatic Archdiocese To fall, to drip, Lip by lip Throat by sore throat Through hollow chests And wasted waists Of fools painting tears Upon torn faces.
I am, The play you never see, On streets below your tinted windows, Staged for the world to witness, For free, though None stays to admire, Too paltry, they say, too plain, Too painful, coarse and vain, This drama, That reminds us of our own lives.
I am, The speeches you never give, From proud pedestals, and altars, Like a speck of spit, Luring the sea of men, With words; carved and honed, Too bright for us, Of clouded eyes, To warm these hearths of our own.
I am, The truth you never know, From beyond your walls, And the sanctum of your own asylum Where you pray To the earthworms armed with earthquakes To the dead; dead from too much death To leper’s liberty To chronic charity Never to arise From the ashes Or seen through the uncertain curtains Of your marble eyelashes.
