Monday, 28 December 2009

A Tale of Three Cigarettes

We breathe the same breath, but the air is so different.
Mine heavy with unconcern. Hers, lithe and hopeful.


"He knows why you went for me, in truth.
I, something new for your something blue.
The perfect time and place, the perfect start
the perfect way to mend a broken heart.

So he takes your excuses, and he wraps a cocoon
Of bitter acquiescence, or the part of a fool.
But all of it is yours, so take what you will
No matter if his heart breaks, or tears spill."

Sunday, 27 December 2009

Of Sneezes and Split Lips

Whispers echo in spaces
Where quiet sits alone
Where eyes brim with joy
Hiding hearts, grieving heavy.

Smile your vacant smiles. Someone will find a way in sooner or later.

Thursday, 24 December 2009

A Question of Faith

There is a ringing in my ears
From the time when he kissed my face
And said, with a voice of broken china
"May god always keep you safe"

I held his hands in mine,
and brought him closer still.
Lips to forehead, tear to eye,
"Don't talk of things that don't exist"

Drunken Reveries

A quiet cloud hovers on the shoreline.
Tokyo is a strange place to find yourself alone.
Peaceful remnants of a mother's knots
fall effortlessly to the floor,
without a thousand soles tasting the texture,
and the safety of a prayer.

It is a time for timid reflection, she says out loud to no one. Her toes squirm. The smooth sand tickles, and the water is warm.

I sleep in her arms, and she sings a song with your name on its breath.

Are we to make the same mistakes we grew to hate each other for?


Now that he is gone
what did you guys talk about?
Tell me what you need
How am I to do without you?
Buy a new car,
get a new job
find a new place to live in?
Do I have a choice?
What is the point, darling

Monday, 21 December 2009

Severed Seas

I'll conjure memories of times
when we were still Siamese twins
joined together at the hip

And other times still
when we were torn apart
stuck by the skin of our lips

But all these memories
will never drown the sound
of you waving on the deck
as you set sail
on someone else's ship.

Sunday, 20 December 2009


"The hardest thing about heartbreak," he said with tear-stained eyes smiling at snowy pavements, "is feeling, ever so acutely, the need to feel another in your arms when you sleep."

She drew shapes in the mud with her toes, and took flight for the sun.
I set myself on fire with your name.

I woke up with ash in my mouth,
and roses, blossoming freely.

Thursday, 17 December 2009

Why Yes, Yes I Am.

She said she couldn't see me
So I stayed at home and drank alone
singing along to the voice of falling snow.


He saw them fucking through the window of her basement flat. She was gorgeous. The man on top had broad, muscular shoulders. He was driving in hard. She was in ecstacy. The desperate rhythm kept him standing there, till the beat came to a halt.

He chokes back tears all the way home.


"Ever stopped to talk to a stranger in the street?"
"Well, why not make this your first time?"
"Never wondered how you walk by people, and they might have lives, just as simple or as complicated as yours? Never thought about why you do the things you do, and wonder whether they do the same things for the same reasons? Come on, I'm not dangerous, nor am I a lunatic. Look, I'll open my coat up. There's nothing under it but my shirt. Look, I'll even open up my shirt. There's nothing under it but hair, flesh, and some bone."
"Unfortunately for you, I'm miles away from home. And I'd like to get there soon."
"I understand. I'm not doing anything. Nobody's waiting for me. I've got nothing pressing coming up. May I accompany you?"
"...You're not a lunatic, but you're definitely some sort of crazy."
"Can I take that as a yes?"

She says nothing. He follows, and she says nothing still, so he follows.

"My name is..."
"There's no need for your name. We're strangers. Let's keep it that way."


Grey sunlight is streaming in through the snow-frosted glass. She is sitting on a bed. She lights a cigarette, and he takes a toke, standing by the window.

"Sex bores me now, but I still want it."
"Bores you? That's a first."
"I'm all kinds of firsts. How many times have you had a stranger in your house before?"
"Don't mind me. I have no problems being obnoxious."
"That's obvious."
"I'm sleeping with 3 women right now."
"You're awfully forthcoming."
"You don't know my name. You might never see me again."
"You know where I live."
"I'm prone to boredom. I might not want to come by again."
"*Sigh* so the 3 women..."
"A musician, a banker, and an artist."
"Variety, as they say..."
"Eh. It's more about ease and availability."
"Nothing emotional?"
"The musician is in love, and I'm breaking her heart..."
"I was talking about you."
"There is one, but she won't see me no more."
"I'm surprised."
"Your sarcasm is much appreciated, but I kept straight and narrow."
"However did you become Mr. Promiscuity?"
"She wasn't attracted to me anymore. Chose someone else."
"Hm. I think you're attractive."
"...Thank you. I think I'll be going now."

The awkward silence hangs for a bit, and proceeds to follow him out her front door. She sees him turn the corner, and whispers "I await you, stranger. Even though it's time to move on."

Wednesday, 16 December 2009

Race In, Race out

Curt and to the point.

Like glass, shattering on the pavement, and wine, staining your wedding dress. Or tumours, which aren't funny at all.

Tuesday, 15 December 2009

Trailer 3

He has her letters, stored still, secrets shining in dulled ink. She has not called for nine years. He wonders if she has his, messy, hurried, honest.

In times of longing, he goes through every scrap there is of her, and puts together a shadow he can hold and love, and kiss.

"Dinner's ready, papa."
"I'll be right down, Julia."

He gathers the pieces of what was, and stows them away. He isn't even sure whether she's alive or not.

It's a sad thought, he thinks, knowing that you can put people away in a box, but you'll never be able to forget them, whether it's a stack of memories hidden in the back of the closet, or six feet under ground.

Monday, 14 December 2009


"I take that I might break, I'm discovering
that there's so much still worthwhile.
But most of all, I've learned to hate
that I'm still stuck on you."

He sings baritone, and she smiles at him, not knowing he sings of another.

"I'll miss you." are the words that form on her lips, and fly to his ears. "I miss her" is the sentiment singing in his voice, but the words that come out sound like "let me cook for you. But something new."

All the old dishes are hers alone.


She has no use for her eyes, so she drops them in his palm.

"When do I see you next?"
"Does it matter? I'll never see you again..."
"Let me cook for you...But something new. I'm tired of making the same old dishes..."

Tuesday, 8 December 2009

Scream Hallelujah in the key of Dmin.

I should cherish this.


Because you can't actually see what I feel when I remember the way you smelled in my arms, and how even the simplest of this pleasure is now denied to me. No matter how I might try to fight for it.


She's lost in me, like I'm lost in you, and you're just lost. It's a funny thought, that. Seems masochism comes in all shapes and sizes. Ours is simply more suited to abstraction. Like your words, my music, and her voice.

Her voice. It rang in an empty room, like your words echo in my empty head. They swelled into a crystal ball, and there she was, held in the palm of a ghost, arms extending from my eyes. She looked straight into mine, and saw moats, telling her not to cross.

She walked right along, my arms, her bridges. She looked into the mirror, and saw your face. She knew to leave, but she knew she couldn't.

And now, I sit enclosed, and as I play my music, she sings to me a soulful melody, short of Ti and Re. With every vibrato, she sheds a tear on the breath that bears my name, and I plunge myself deeper into heartbreak.

Sunday, 6 December 2009

And now all your love was wasted
And then, who the hell was I?


Wednesday, 2 December 2009

Monday, 30 November 2009

Yes, Ok, and Alright.

I'll find you that.

But you'll have to find me there.

Tubes and Chutes

Earth in beauty dressed
awaits returning spring.
All true love must die,
Alter at the best
Into some lesser thing.
Prove that I lie.

Such body lovers have,
Such exacting breath,
That they touch or sigh.
Every touch they give,
Love is nearer death.
Prove that I lie.

Tuesday, 24 November 2009


Your tears, they
singe my skin
and I
feel so fragile
tumbling in the wind.


He folds his fingers into the cracks in her face. She digs her nails into his sagging shoulders. There is a stillness of momentary concern, of feeling the pain wash in, and breathe out. It lasts for that moment.

"A piece of you for a piece of me?"
"Darling, I'm going to take all of you. and nothing will stop me."

Thursday, 22 October 2009


He cut her loose, so he ran. He ran as hard as he could, through walls and corridors of open air freshness. He ran harder than he could, his muscles rushing forth to drag his ailing faltering body along. His lungs split at the seam, and his heart rode to his head.

She stood waiting when he turned the corner home, holding up to the glow of a streetlight one thread she hid away, so she'd always find him when he wasn't looking.

Wednesday, 21 October 2009


"News is, she's back in town again. All the boys are begging for her."
"And what about her?"


She just wants to pull at smokestrings, and decorate their pretty little skulls with pearl necklaces.

Tuesday, 20 October 2009


Whatever could it be that has brought me to this loss?

He stubbed the cigarette out, and stood in place, staring at his shoes. Another year, another memory. A card, a sweater, a picture. Chocolates. Flowers. A purple poker chip. They were no different, but they weren't quite the same. The wine was still surging through his mind, like the pressure on his lips. Seven years, and still no trace, but the sensation remained.

He breathed mist, holding a photograph in one hand, fire in the other. The smile on her face hurt him, as the flames licked her skin till it burned his fingertips. He stayed to watch the celluloid char cool down, bent like their souls on a warm winter night. He could set fire to her, year after year, but It would not make him forget. Her kiss would still linger in his skin, until the day he'd find her, and have her kiss him again.

Your love will be safe with me.

Monday, 19 October 2009

The One, Single Objective Truth

He stopped playing, so she stopped writing.

Now, all they do is dance with questions marking tear-stained cheeks, holding each other's lies close to each other's chests, holding each other closer still.

What's the point of this song? Or even singing...

Sunday, 18 October 2009

Friday, 16 October 2009

I Know This Won't Count for Much

Rough hands slide over soft eyes. The stench of blood and sweat dances with her supple skin, and he drains into a puddle in her lap. His tears are stars on her night sky dress. She runs her hands through his hair, and coos comfort in his ear.

"Let's just live through this night."

Sunday, 11 October 2009


"Come. Dance with me."
"No thanks. You know I don't do dancing."
"I don't believe that, you know. You're the coolest person in this place. How could you not dance?"
"Watch me."

And so he stood, not dancing, coolly leaning against the beam, smoking his smoke while she was drinking her drink. They stayed in place, like weary statues, till the house lights came on, and the party went off.

He heaved a sigh, and held out his hand.

"Care to dance now?"

She did not refuse. She knew he only danced when no one was watching.

Wednesday, 7 October 2009

Into The Mirror.

"Why do you continue to haunt me?"
"Is that what I have been reduced to?"
"Yes. You're a ghost. A memory, lingering in the shadows. I can't see you. I don't want to see you."
"Then maybe it's the right time for somebody new."


He always knew what was right, or so it seemed to her. She looked in his eyes, and lost herself countless times. His words spun webs, and she gladly flew into his traps, the sheen from the blinds too bright to ignore. He'd run his finger along her jaw. She'd sing to herself, so his words would disappear. He'd cry so he didn't have to look into her soul. She wept because he could see right through her.

They made love that night. She, with daggers in her eyes, and him, with vacant orbs, empty cages where he wished she wouldn't mind seeing herself.

Sunday, 4 October 2009

"I feel nothing when I look at you", she said plainly. He kissed her sweetly on the lips, and complained of her cocoa-hazelnut taste, and how he loved it.

They held hands, and swung their legs in tandem, just to show the world they weren't in sync.

Saturday, 3 October 2009


I peel my skin into flower petals, and lay them in your wake.

Thursday, 1 October 2009

Will his hands know what mine did?
Will her body like the fit?

Wednesday, 30 September 2009

Tuesday, 29 September 2009

Monday, 28 September 2009

Return to Start

I am, once again, a shape made out of pillows, a kiss of feathers and fluff, an interruption mid-dream, a comfort while I'm gone.

Just for a little while.

I love you.

Friday, 25 September 2009

We sit as far as we possibly can, just enough so that we're close to each other.

Thursday, 24 September 2009


I said something and it sounded really deep. But that's for me and one other to know, and you to wonder about.
I shouldn't bother writing anymore. It's an art I've lost to her.

Saturday, 19 September 2009


Where things were once about fate and parallel universes, they are now about luck.

Where there once was a lover, there is now a friend.

Where there was once affection in your voice, there is just impatient hesitation.

Where there once was a lover, there will never be another.

This place is no more.

Thursday, 17 September 2009

Heart Attack in a Layby

Talk of how our children will have your nose, and whispers of "we'll grow old together" quietly creep into secret hollows we shaped into promises and left carelessly on the edge of a table, so the children of others could knock them down, so we could stand with sadness in our eyes, and stare at the fragments of what we had hoped for.

Friday, 11 September 2009

Don't Panic

It's hard not to scream when you're in the backseat of a car going 90 miles an hour, and there's no driver at the wheel.

Wednesday, 9 September 2009

Saturday, 5 September 2009

She stood, with long dark tresses that rolled to the shoreline, and a kiss that tasted of stomach acid. Her hands held his, and his fear stung her eyes. "Place your faith in me." she said, with a voice of kindness and grace.

His lips thinned in resolute decision, and he peered over her shoulder, over the edge, into the waters, into the sea. "No." was the cracking response.

Her eyes dilated. His hands grew cold. Her face felt his fear. His face felt rage. His "goodbye" trampled on her silence, and her flowing mane followed her into the cold murky waters beneath.

When the waves quitened down, he found a lock of her hair, clinging onto the the ledge. He untangled it carefully, and put it away.

"You, I'll keep for me."

Thursday, 3 September 2009


Pan sits on the floor with outstretched legs; his back to the bathroom door. Staring drunkenly at Dee as she strategically, almost perfectly, places herself onto his lap. She takes the shadow off his face that cast over him while they were talking about someone he didn’t really want to discuss. Her finger drags in the opposite direction of the stubble growing on his chin, leaving fingerprints on his nose, his cheek, and his half-closed eyes before dragging it back to his lips where she gives him a tongue-less, over-whelming kiss. Pan sighs in humble disbelief.

Monday, 24 August 2009

Born And Raised

It doesn't matter what we will eventually accomplish with our lives. The painful truth will be that It won't be miles within reach of what we had wanted it to be. Nobody will be around to care. Neither will you. There is no consideration beyond yourself, because there is no one you love. You are subject to contempt and hate, much like everyone else in this rotten tribe you once called a family. Lovers will hate lovers, sisters will hate sisters, brothers will hate brothers, mothers will weep, while fathers wither silently, stoically, heroically.

It's the weight of the world, and we'll be struggling to breathe.

Thursday, 20 August 2009


He picked out the prettiest of the lot.

He thought they were opals.

They turned out to be Sapphires.

Sunday, 16 August 2009


"Why do you come up here if you don't like it? You've always been afraid..."

It's not fear. At least, it's not a fear of heights. You see, the stuff legends are made of have always been about invincibility. All gods are immortals, and so the mythologies of countless civilizations have honoured their vitality; Zeus never killed Kronos, as Kronos never killed Ouranos, as Atlas could not be seen to let go of life, instead suffering eternal punishment. And so the divine pursuit of infinity-ism is kept sacred in the imaginations of mortals.

I, too, am made of legends. I, too, am immortal. I feel it. It crawls on my skin, it bleeds in my gums, it tenses with my sinew, it shrieks in the night. It brings me up here, it runs through the very ground. When I gaze down, it calls me, dares me to come closer. It defies me, it wants to look me in the eye.

I am so tempted to look my essence in the eye and own it. But I am afraid; what if this feeling is an illusion? A trick, played by the gods seeking laughter and ridicule of a lowly mortal? Where has this divinity of mine come from, and why have I not seen it before? These poison thoughts cloud around me, and my breath catches; if I was immortal, why would I choke on these whimsical notions?

This is not a fear of heights. This is the fear of falling. But fear I shall no more. These are only the first steps.

"...What are you doing? God, stay away from the railing, PLEASE!"

No. The time for hesitation is gone. I must find out the truth. Until these voices go away, until I am mine...

"Look, CAN'T DO THIS!"

Watch me.

...Goodbye, my love.


So this is what it looks like when the ground is racing to meet you. The truth gives me vertigo. Wow. I wish you could've been here. Well, I mean, it's not safe for you, but this My eyes are screaming, my skin is unraveling, the wind (is it wind if I'm the one moving through it?) gives me clarity, and the rain's falling into the sky. I hear you up there, somewhere. You're shrieking. Calm, my love. This is not my fall. It is now the truth which cowers before me, as it will soon have to stand in plain sight of the world, shamed and unveiled for what it really is. It's almost here, I'll be able to reach out and touch. Almost there, almost, now is the moment of...

Thursday, 13 August 2009


Walking. London. A mop, a broom, and a sense of humour. Indoors somewhere. Outdoors now. Going somewhere else. Free rounds. Choosing drinks. Beer. Whiskey. Vodka. No money. ATM. Have to fight. Pacifism. Somehow money. Why the money, though? First two rounds are free. Fight a battle. Need to win. Manipulation. Elaborate dramatics. Lies and deceit. Fake victory. Confessions of love. Amazement. Impositions. Premonitions: true or false?

Need a vacation. Need some papers. Need to go to school. School? But I'm in university. School, university, what does it matter? So school. Unlit hallways, dusty classrooms; Summer holidays. Letter of inclusion. Need to do some favours. Monkey-faced boy sits in monkey-faced man's office. Need to do a favour for the Monkey-faces. Night outside; tubelights shine down. Dust, lines of dust, armies of dust. Room after room after room. Found what I was looking for, don't know how. Go back to the monkey-faces. Give them what they want, got what I want.

Walk out. Bright daylight. London. or is it Lahore? London. And Lahore. Seem the same, can't tell the difference. Got a ride? Got a ride. Not too far, just towards Mayfair. Been a tiring day. Black door, gold knob. Get out. Thanks a lot. Apartment building. Open the door. House on the inside. Open plan groundfloor, seats in a circle, half occupied. Older people. They know me. I know them. Others. They don't know me. I seem to know them. Talk of four years. Absolute exhaustion.

Hunger. Need a fix. Find a fridge. More people coming in. Some I don't know. Some I do. Open the fridge. Bread. Cold cuts. More people. Far too hot. vest and boxers. still routing through the fridge. Cheeses. Lots of them. So much variety. The cold cuts, too. Salad. Two slices of bread. All the while, more people. Olives. Cheese. Turkey. Cheese. Cheese with olives. Chicken breast. No, the other cheese. More people. Relatives. Indecent attire for the number of people there. Need a change of clothes. Presto; shorts on the chair. A shirt and a waistcoat too? Sister superior is present; I look funny. Must be the waistcoat. Get rid of the waistcoat. Still looking funny. Bare-chested now. No one complains. I don't feel odd. Need to finish sandwich. Looking for relish. Gorilla knocks me on the knee. Has to; he's on vacation. Who else would do it?

Back to the fridge. Need to find the right size. Still holding slice of bread. Find perfect cut of meat. First the cheese, then the meat. Interruptions. How's it going? Dude, just one more year, yeah, I can't fucking wait, I don't give a shit, just one more year, and I'll be done. Mind is on the fridge. Too much conversation. Aunts and acquaintances. Neighbours. Relatives. Sisters. Friends.

Can a man just not be allowed to make and have a fucking sandwich in peace?

Wednesday, 12 August 2009

The smell crawls in concentric circles, and tickles my lips as I sleep. The taste is all wrong. Languages dance with tangled toes, in erratic patterns traced by the wildest ruminations of a tattered streetchild. We step lightly from our lofty castles into heat-baked gullies, surrounded by mudhuts and hungry eyes. Duty-bound, we do what we must.

The smile on your face hurts me, you know.

Friday, 7 August 2009


Memories shed like skin, taut across the knuckles, bleeding from blisters into the great uncertain. The writings hold within themselves potent meanings, indecipherable for all their worth. Cars rumble by raised gates, with quiet whispers of foreboding seeping through the cracks. The houses with the lowest gates and most welcoming thresholds generally have the largest piles of skeletons in the various closets littering the warmth of a humble abode. Somewhere on a second story balcony, sacred words mingle like the clinking of glasses, and the flow of spirits disrupts a different flow of spirits. White on black on white, and arcane silences break into hearty expressions, deceptively heavy with raw emotion, and the emptiness of misery, despair and desire.

A quiet boy sits in a dark room, counting bruises, cuts, and knicks. One for everyday, all for a lifetime. All for the things he hates, and none for those he loves. A kind spirit presents itself in glass slippers, promising to save him from the pain. His yearning parched lips part for the flood to come forth, and the malevolence burns with every drag of this liquid flame.

He yelps through the night, as the kindly spirit turns away to help more stricken with desire.

"Tomorrow again, my child. I am all you have."

He clings to himself, wishing she would come cling to him instead.

Monday, 3 August 2009

When I Am An Old Woman, I Shall Wear Purple.

It is only when you are sat in an unlit room staring out a window facing west, with nothing to look at but other people's houses, that you realize what people do for people; but at least you do. You think of how children tether themselves to stay in check; how brothers keep silent for the sake of their sisters; how mothers hold themselves late at night, crying for their children; how daughters dishonour their parents; how a son frets over the paranoia of his mother, because knots come undone; how fathers bow their heads in their daughters' favours; how strangers share joy and misery; how lovers sit worlds apart, staring at the sleepless dark, rocking in silent self-consternation.

And you realize we are all the same. You realize it is all the same. We are all broken. Weary. Kind. Good. Hopeful. Lost.

Saturday, 25 July 2009


In coils and shapes adrift at sea
In sounds and words, lilting in the breeze
In hopes and hurts, in a bruise or a scar
In the prayers of a child, flitting in from afar.

Close your eyes, let the pulse swell within you
Hold them tight, don't let a sight confuse you
Open them now, and find the world ablaze.
Feel the heat, voice your fears, hear the flames.

Know that, here, there is no beauty to be found.

Friday, 24 July 2009

Save Your Scissors

I am desperately searching for the words that will describe what hell this is I have put myself into. From one hell to another, like gaping thresholds entangled in a kiss, I float with no sense of reality to tether me to the blessings I have in this life.

Please, reel me in. Please, forgive me the mistakes I made in moments of weakness, of solitude, of loneliness. Please, find a place in your heart, a place for me to hide from all the world and its evils...

Thursday, 23 July 2009

Of the gifts i have witnessed
The thing i most miss
Is the shape of your warm lips
Sealed in a kiss.

Being A Safe Place

the words tease me, and my soul sways in some perverse contentment.

This calm will only last for a moment. Before all hell breaks loose again.

Please, someone stop this spiral from turning.

Tuesday, 21 July 2009

In the Water

From within, he removes the cardioid vessel which he hopes will keep him alive. A swift sharp knock on the apex sprays a shard here a splinter there. The vessel is now ready for the process. With jittering hands, he tilts the vial gently, till crimson flows to fill one vacuum to create another. The thin liquid quickly spreads out from the tip at one end to the curves opposite, until, fully occupying the cardioid, begins to leak out from the crack at the apex. He takes several shallow breaths, trying to carefully return the glass-cracked heart to its plinth.

She watches him walk back in, his skin pale as milk, stretched taut over his knuckles, sinew rippling in spasms. He sits next to her wordlessly, and responds to raised eyebrows with a shake of his head. She suspects something is wrong, but she never pushes him. These moments are fragile enough when shared without intrusion. Her fingers dig into his palm, and she draws them back to reveal red-tipped nails quivering in remorse.

Someday...she would pour this blood into his heart.


He walks in late on the tips of his toes, careful not to make a sound, and cause a stir. Black Oxford shoes slip noiselessly off his heels, resting up against the entrance wall. Rather than hang his keys up, he gingerly takes off his coat, and rests it on the back of the couch. Cuffs slide into pockets, wallet sits on the center-piece, muffled by a pile of magazines, issues of TIME, The Economist, and WSJ all playing their part in this translucent deafness. His weary memory serves to recall which stairs creak and where, so he steps up to the loft without a single groan to disturb the delicate sense of balance.

He finds her in bed, asleep. Her heat tints the bed where she's drawn out his shape in pillows, duvet, and creases in the sheet. He sighs, short but heavy, and takes the three steps up to her side. Her eager arm lies ready to curl up around his chest, but he takes pains not to let her know about it. With careful consideration, he fits into the outline she's traced for him, his face close enough to feel her hot breath streaming down his cheeks. He kisses her forehead, kisses her cheek, and kisses her lips tenderly; she responds with sleep-stained mumbling remonstrations. He smiles softly, and continues running his hands through her long black hair.

Sleep can wait. But this, here and now, definitely cannot.

Monday, 20 July 2009

Little Girls Pointing And Laughing

Keyholes are tampered with by pins and needles, poking prodding minds tracing secrets with their eager lobes. A worm crawls across the floor, scripting arcane gibberish in some secret gesture of omniscience, and a millennia of plagues flood the airwaves. Contrite lovers cradle their scotch-taped hearts in quiet arms, sat in puddles of their own design. A voice whispers lies to everyone and everything, so that the truth is lost forever, irretrievable in the kaleidoscope of layers.

In this mire, there wades alone, silent, lost, a semblance of desire. It presumes to be a beacon of hope, it dreams of absolution, it wades on and on and on and on. It senses fear from within, but it breeds determination in defiance of its shackles. It seeks answers to questions that have not been asked, it dares to question enigmas without a code to its anticode. It only exists to tear down piece from piece, from protons to mesons, from mesons to quarks, from quarks to accelerons.

And so it presumes to have the key to decrypt the greatest nothing. Milling wannabes wear off at its approach, sensing with great trepidation the onset of a cataclysm beyond control. But defiance has set in motion a force that will not be tempered with fear of reproach. No. Purpose is precise. Determination is devout. There can not be allowed to exist even a shadow of doubt.

A shriek of ancient metal as virgin gears grind in anxious intolerance, with a thousand witnesses to verify the humiliation of the sacrosanct. This is the moment, this moment that has come upon one and all; dazzled, deranged, and despondent, it matters not. They all bear witness to the terrifying truth: the tempest is no longer bound.

But the terror does not stop there. This unfettered indescribable despair needs no keyhole, it requires no shame, it begs not answers of questions that we know or do not know. There is no awakening. There is no enlightenment, no curiosity to be sated, no wisdom to impart. There are no sounds to express the empty warmth of a starving void, there is no acknowledgement that would serve to ameloriate the disquiet extending feelers into open spaces, gracious and warm in their welcome. There is no great mystery, no redemption, no sight to behold.

There is only eternal light in neverending darkness.

Saturday, 18 July 2009

An Homage to Shame

The taste of sick doesn't ever peel off of the roof of one's mouth. You could drain the world of its oceans, but once the water dries up, the same foul flavour will creep back up.

Time has become one long circular string, no end, no beginning. In what has been four days (If my calendar is being honest with me) my watch no longer fits, nor do my pants, and I quite possibly look the best I have in a while.

I feel, however, like shit.

I had two dreams this one night. Both dreams were roughly 2 and a half hours long, both in terms of dream-world and real-world time. They were different dreams, but I always wake up because I'm kissing her body all over, and her tears rain down on me. They purge me of my wrongs, they wash me pure, they absolve me, for better or for worse. Her body starts to glisten with the wetness of all my kisses, and the grateful heat rushing forth from my puckered lips makes her body sweat. All this moisture mingles together in indeterminable pools of mercy, yearning, and atonement, and we cling on for dear life. She touches my face, lip quivering, and she cries. She cries, and I keep kissing her, overwhelmed by her grace. She stops me, and holds my face to look into my eyes, and she keeps crying. She wraps me in her embrace, and she squeezes me with an unimaginable force, a force to tie me down, a force to keep me, a force to hide me away. It brings tears to my eyes.

I wake up, only to realize I am alone. Wheezing, gasping, reeling, alone. Me, and two saline stains on my pillow, the taste of sick on my palate, and the smell of loneliness familiar. I gasp, and I wheeze, and I reel some more, and I start crying, because two stains just isn't enough.

Elsewhere, who knows...Maybe she sits up crying too, and maybe, possibly, probably, there rests an angry bear on her shoulder, sharp teeth bared in clear warning to the world. Maybe, there on her shoulder, he cries too.

They might not know it, but maybe, probably, possibly... they all cry together.

Wednesday, 8 July 2009


What must I do to shift the veil you hide behind?
What flourish must I perform to reveal my prestige?
What marvels will it take for you to settle with
the fact that this affliction is both yours and mine?

A piece of you....for a piece of me.

Sunday, 31 May 2009

"They Don't Sleep On The Beach Anymore."

The image commits itself to memory, without the need to remember. A large figure loomed from the bench, though gentle aura sheltered the weight of its determination. Worn, weary hands caressed exquisitely carved forms, supple fingertips tracing patterns over fine threads. Kind, careful eyes dreamed within yours, and a soulful warmth grew like a familiar flame, friendly in its glow. A voice flowed like water over a shore of soft rounded pebbles, the quiet hiss running fingers down your spine, as the words tickled your ears, but never made you feel ill at ease. 

Such things commit themselves to memory, without the need to remember.

But that voice will flow no more. Those hands will never dance again.

All that remains is the image. Committed to memory.

Cutlery Drawer

She walked to the top of the park and looked down. "I am Princess and this is my kingdom. I am Princess and this is my crown" she thought, staring at the cars glistening over speed-bumps below, grey clouds mottled, hanging low over the roof-tops. Sitting on the bench she had to pull her jacket tight. Summer was gone.

The tree stump where she had sat the Spring before had grown moss, so she lay in the grass. She hoped if she lay there long enough then someone would find her. After about an hour nobody came so she stood up and walked the long way home down Morrell Avenue. When she got indoors it started to rain.

She was thinking about the party she was at the night before. Someone there had said that there were some people upstairs lying in a line on the floor in the dark. They were high. She said: "Like who?" They said: "Like, everyone." She assumed that by this they meant anyone who was cool. Well, the thing was, they were on uppers and she really couldn't think of a worse combination. People in Oxford didn't know how to do drugs. So she went into the kitchen.

The guy she had come to the party with was ignoring her because this other girl he liked was there. "He loves her." she thought. What's worse was she didn't really care. Perched by the microwave, smoke from her cigarette got up her nose. These two girls had been giving her uglies all night. Perhaps it's because she hadn't bothered enough with her clothes, she thought, looking at her plimsolls and fading tan. Summer was gone. One of the girls was looking at her pierced to poise, all porcelain, her face like second-rate lead paint and cold cat eyes, synched belt like upholstery 'round her thick waist, dark lips shining red like a place the sun can't.

She stared blankly back and got up, went upstairs, walked into a room. It was a boy's room, she could tell. A Stale taste of nicotine and Special Brew. She looked at the coppers on the top of the book case and his DVDs: Amelie, La Haine, Way of The Dragon, Die Hard. There was a Radiohead poster on the wall, a keyboard in the corner, neatly stacked CDs and a PC, tobacco coloured curtains, a window half-open breathing out over the backyards and skips.

She felt a hand on her shoulder. She turned 'round. What seemed like an hour had passed as he continued to thrust himself into her, her knickers pinching her thighs, jagged hip bones, summer holidays holding all Sepia in the back seat of her brain. She waited until it was over.

He got up, buckled up. She had stared at his face in the dark. His glassy eyeballs caught the light from beyond the window. She thought of how romantic this could have been. She imagined him stroking her face but he was gone. She lay staring at the ceiling. A car stalled on the street below and someone was calling a name but it fractured in the night air, the different syllables colliding. It wasn't hers, she had thought

She lay there trying to figure out the tune on the stereo.

From downstairs she could hear a bass-line. A slow, heavy beat. 

One, two, three.

Wake up.

Thursday, 30 April 2009


Put me on a mantle,
and hand me a gun
Take hold of my strings
and let's start our own night of fun.

For I stand on this altar,
a fool for your amusement.
But feel no pity, grave mistress.
There is no place I'd rather be.

Make me crawl, make me dance,
make me weep, make me sing.
As long as you're smiling pretty,
I won't regret a single thing.

So hand me an instrument of choice.
Direct tonight's massacre as you wish.
For all the world is but a stage,
And destruction, if served, is the tastiest dish.

So let me wither, wear and tear,
let this be my last indulgence,
Let me bleed on this plinth right here as I stand.
So my colours mark the path I have tread,
and my scent lingers in the places I belong.

Grant a groveling fool one last boon,
For one last measure of one last bar,

Let me entertain you.

Sunday, 26 April 2009


Even when your bile drowns my dreams and desires,
or when farewells are scribbled in empty closet drawers,
when fires form petals, and trees wilt without winds,
when the ground beneath your feet cries for the sky,
when the gentle caress of a threat flows from your fingers,
And your eyes sing broken sonnets to an empty mind,
When the daggers you bury take the shape of your words,
remember always, that I only wish that you were mine.

Sunday, 19 April 2009

Dash And Blast

Lips tightly shut
The corners of your mouth
Take no pains to spread far and wide

Across the ocean, I sit
with my heart in my head
Puckered lips waiting for a kiss

The waves and the wind
offer no solace in turn
for a body torn in two.

Still, somewhere on this earth
violins weep, and the air holds its breath
as the world, unable to bear any more its own weight
in the company of a privileged chosen few
quietly heaves its last sigh.

Saturday, 18 April 2009

A Daydream, Or A Fever.

The light touches every atom in the room, save for the corner in which she cowers. Even dust particles in suspended animation have a brighter glow than her stone-soured skin. The skyline turns ruby red, seemingly liquid. She sees a snatch through the paneless window, and thinks of blood. She hears wails, screams, and shrieks. They make her knees quiver, adding a chattering tattoo to the blood-curdling chant outside. Trapped by the darkness, she is devoid of the will to move. So she runs a jagged comb through her scrambled innards, to straighten out the mess hidden beneath her hair.

A slice of time, of no important significance, passes before she peers to the heavens again. It must be night; the red is darker, a claret trickling into the ground, pooling out from the clouds. There is thunder, and hail, and gunfire, and the sound of the heavens and the earth trembling in fear, embracing her in different guises of silent solidarity. The thunder is getting louder, coming closer, rushing into her monument of abandon, taking the shape of two feet caught in the motion of panic, and blazing up the stairs. Hysterical cries stab the silence hung in the ruin, and a man can be heard pleading for that which is "his". He wants it. He wants it back. It was his. He should have it. It wasn't theirs to take away. It was his to have. Still bellowing in a trance, he appears in the doorway, foaming at the mouth, and reeking of death, despair, and desire.


All this ruckus, and the only dignification she allows is a quick flit of the eyes to the door, and her head sinks again. He stops dead in the doorway stupidly, and sniffs at the air. He smells something. The room is lit well enough, but he can't see what he smells. What of that corner, drenched in fear and perspiration, is the only question he can come up with. Madness froths at his parched lips, and caution tethers him to the doorway. The silence in the darkness taunts him, one step at a time. He's close enough to touch it, to lose himself in it. He reaches out to feel the nothingness in this existential abyss. The cold crawls through his veins, the fear frenzied for a fashion, but the foam flecks off, beckoning like a sultry mistress. So he digs deeper into this grave.

She extracts the comb from her torso, breaks off a tooth at the base, and readies herself. She can feel the heat from his roving hand. She waits till he is so close, the sweat from his palm licks the tip of her nose. With practiced force, and sureshot aim, she swings down a delicate hand with all the force of a piledriver, lodging a tooth deep into the loon's wrist.

He has felt fear before, but never seen it. He sees it now, as it runs down his wrist in rivulets. It is a deep crimson, thick, and glutinous. He smells fear too, a scent not unlike rust. He hears fear, high-pitched, immutable, and astoundingly originating from his own vocal chords. "The fear will kill me, it's going to kill me, first it took what is mine away from me, now it's trying to kill me, it's going to kill me, it's going to kill me...."

His auditory vomit reaches her ears, but can't penetrate past her lobes, tucked in and over her earhole to suffocate the nightmares when they come to suck her brains out through her ear-drums. She watches him through uncombed hair, as he stumbles into walls and births puddles around his eyes. His mouth is stretched wide open, and pointing to the sky, as if begging for sustenance, maybe a drop of wine, or mother bird to drop a worm for baby bird to slurp down. She feels an itch on her arm, relieving it with a few gentle strokes of her comb. Still consumed by the fear, he takes on the air of a dog, dropping to all fours, his ass absolutely motionless, his paws dragging him closer to the stairwell. "Must get out of here, must leave, they're going to swallow me whole, they're going to eat me alive, they're going to kill me, they're..."

This, coming from a tannoy in his head, something the doctor told him was his "consciousness", right before the poor gentleman, all dressed in white, threw himself out the window, and morphed into a puddle of sickly-smelling mud. The tannoy must have been amazingly strong to be heard over his fear, even if just for each brief duration where more announcements of death were detailed. His fear still projecting the depths of the grave, he rolls down the stairs, tumbling on his knees towards the doorframe, mouth still open wide, begging for a bite to eat.

Not yet outside, he was fed his worms. They were short, sharp, and explosive, .357 Magnum worms. Downstairs, two cracks pealed out of his short-circuited cranium, one racing fast on the heels of the other. Upstairs, the comb feels itself catch on a tangle of waves, two muffled thumps echoing in her stomach, followed by a more subdued whisper grazing her skin. She draws her knees to her chest, resting her chin on the cusp in the center. Footfalls come slow and deliberate, and the air is different. This is not a loon. This is a maniac.

Black boots stop just short of the threshold, and indulge in the niceties of "you first, please" "oh nononono, please. You. I insist" "no, it's quite alright, I'll be right behind you." The maniac tires of the formalities, and hops over, both boots crossing the line at the same time, both landing equidistant from the point of departure. Glad that no feelings have been hurt, the maniac draws in the stench of stone, and tastes the air for superstitions and witchcraft. Strange, he thinks, that there is so much fear in an empty room. Empty, except maybe that dark corner?

He takes a step forward, bravery taking the shape of a stunning lynx, goading him with its loins. Being partial to animals, this is not a man to be held back. Hind quarters regally swaying from side to side in plain view, the lynx begins to enter the darkness, as flesh begins to molt from bones, and the skeleton turns black until it is one with the abyss. The maniac, whilst obviously devoid of compassion, save for the stirrings caused by exotic animals with seductive mannerisms, is not devoid of mental faculty. He will simply not stand for half a lynx as a reward. Caution forces him to gamble on an error, but holds him close by. Wrangling one hand free, he excavates a small tinder-box from some cache of cloth somewhere on his person. Kneeling, all the better to see nothing at all, he takes a swig of some fine-grade proof alcohol, his craving for an embrace from within being sated, or so it would seem. 

The warmth makes him content. He crawls closer, until the tip of his nose shrouds itself from the light salivating over the rest of the room. She breaks another tooth off her comb, and readies herself, casually waiting for the sweat on his palm to touch her face. He readies himself, opens the box, strikes the tinder, and spits out some his fine-grade proof alcohol. Thus, a fire is born, if only for a brief moment, a moment not too brief, a moment long enough for the flames to latch onto her wiry hair, a moment long enough for the flame to drop onto the cloth floating over her frame.

The corner is finally lit up. It burns. It is so bright. A cinder swings off a lock of hair, and lands, miraculously, on the broken tooth held in her hand. The smell of charred plastic mingles with the smell of burnt hair, mixing with the scent of melted cloth, all overpowered single-handedly by the heady incense wafting from her incandescent skin.

She cannot remember the last time she felt fear, but she could feel it now. Like a snake, it slithered through her intestines, forked tongue tickling the stomach lining, before the head forces its way up the oesophagus, pushing defiantly along. There is no sound, no sight, no smell, but the feeling is definite. The head slithers further with every surge, intent to finally come out. She feels the serpent's tongue feeling at her epiglottis, searching for an exit, while still pushing up, forcing progress. The snake is now a knot in her throat. She cannot breathe, or the fear will emerge; she dare not give in, dare not open the gates to the agent of her demise.

Feeling warm, and somewhat playful, the maniac stays on his knees, looking up at this glowing girl, this barest of skeletons, this new toy he has found. Wiry hands sink nails deep into skin, to stem the fire outside her impenetrable fortress. Singed hair grows shorter with every moment. Something seems to move within her, starting somewhere in her gut, slowly slithering upwards, trying to find a route out. It moves into her chest, slowly but surely dragging the waters for a hook. It rises until it begins to fill her throat. He sees her eyes grow wide, and her hands rise to her neck, thumbs pressed over larynx, ready to crush what lies inside.

She'd stab it. Yes, that would work. She'd stab it. She'd crush her larynx, and the splintered bone would kill the fear. It would all go away. She'd have her comb, and her broken teeth, and her darkness in the corner all over again. All she had to do was stab it. She needed to stab it. Her larynx, the bone would surely do the trick.

It would, but for the impatience of a man obsessed with the pleasures beasts can offer. He cocks another round of .357, and stabs her throat for her. Thrice. Bored of his new playmate, the gentleman turns heel, and strides off to find that elusive lynx. She would not deny him. Not again.

Through the paneless window, the sun rises, the sky awash with a thin orange haze. Light, troubled by the commotion, peers around corners cautiously. Finding no reason to be fearful, it wraps around every corner, illuminating the stone walls with the iridescence of pearls. There is no more darkness to be found, after all.

Wednesday, 15 April 2009

Look Past The Mirror

It was a land of excitement and dangers unduly amplified in perception. Rolling green hills, bright white sunlight, and the raucous laughter of tiny terrors running amok in the intangible and ineffective grip of freedom. There was a wind in his hair, and a throbbing in his heart, but he couldn't understand them yet. All he knew was that he had to run, up a hill, down a hill, then up a hill, and down a hill, just like all his peers would. Such was the way of their world.

Not a part of this world of savagery and euphoric incontinence, she toddled towards the tyrants trampling through the land, grave air of grace forming an aura around her. She frowned into the sunlight, smoothing her dress with her delicate hands with every raise of the knee, the ribbon and bow on her head gently pushed back into place. She followed the noise, a regal curiosity roused within her, and would stop at every hilltop to survey the arduous journey that remained sprawling before her. 

Meanwhile, the unfettered tornado of young boys rambled along at breakneck pace, with the breakneck abandon of childhood's indifference, shrieks and peals crashing through to the outside being. The world spun dizzyingly, and he spun with it; he spun faster than it, so it would be spinning with him.  Tired of the hills, they chose a lofty plain, and decided instead to play some strange form of tag, where everyone was it, and everyone was also not it. It would not be unsuitable to call it a melee. But he didn't know what it was, or what it could be called. He only knew this was where he was, and this was what he wanted to do.

And so it was, this melee of tag that she happened upon, that they would come face to face for the first time. A melee is no laughing matter, of course, and he somehow knew this, like a intrinsically acknowledged universal truth. So when he speared his tiny fist into another's arm, there were yelps of pain, and fiery accusations levelled. 
"No, I Didn't! I WIN"
This verbal rally threatened to split at the seams, just as she stepped up to the now cleared center-stage setting of the scrum.

"...Actually, I think you were cheating."

Bewilderment rippled through the ruckus. Who was this stranger, and who was she to decide matters as serious as this?

"Who are YOU? And You can't say I'm a cheat. You're not even playing!"

Her effortless dignity floated in a ring around her, her air untouched by the fury threatening to seethe forth and ruffle her perfect white dress with its perfect frills, and knock her ribbon from her hair. 

"It doesn't matter who I am. And I can too. You're a CHEAT."

He narrowed his eyes, and bared his teeth in a snarl.

"Are too."
"Are too."
"Yeah, well, I've already WON! And youre pbtbtbtbtbtbtbtbt"

Laughter broke out at this last emulation of a fart, and a cheeky grin settled onto his lips. Completely unruffled, she delicately closed her eyes, pursed her lips, and produced a pop, crisp, clear, and ethereal.

Shock swarmed down upon the hapless ruffians, with his surprise the most palpable of the lot. What was this magical trick she had just done?

With suspicious eyes, and suspicious mind, he looked at her through still-narrowed eyes, and demanded, "Do that again?"

With perfect poise, she repeated her feat as eloquently as if she were merely breathing. He saw no tricks, and refused to be outdone by a girl. Following suit he closed eyes, and pursed his lips, concentrating all his being into producing a pop.

Nothing but farty sounds came out, no matter how hard he tried. The boys turned their aimless ridicule at him, and guffawed louder with each failed attempt. She watched him, unamused, as he failed time after time. All he could sound were his farts. And all he could think was, "I have to do this...I won't be beaten by a girl....Pop....Pop.....Pop....It has to Pop soon...."

He tried, and he failed. He tried. And he failed. And he tried again....and he failed again.....and......


Years passed, and they found themselves in the throes of passion, their bodies merging late into the night. When their passions finally relaxed, she pushed her lips roughly against his, and sucked the breath right out of him. Releasing him within inches of the precipice of death, She allowed him some hasty, grateful gasps, before she closed her eyes, pursed her lips, and produced a pop. His breath back to normal, he followed suit, but could only produce a fart.

He opened his eyes to the radiance of her smiling face, as she traced corners around his lips, where just moments before she had very gloriously almost killed him.

"Fiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiine. You win. You always win....."

Wednesday, 25 March 2009

Happily Ever After

He held the garbage bag between forefingertip and thumb, as if a more intimate contact would run the stench right into his bones. Approaching the dump, he pushed his sleeve up above his elbows, and taking in an almighty gasp, held his breath as he wildly flung the refuse into the fetid pile of rot.

Dusting his hands, he heaved a sigh of relief, and muttered "Good riddance" to no one in particular.

Job done, he walked back to where she waited, leaning against the side of his Phantom. She slipped her hand into the crook of his arm as he strode by, and they disappeared under the soft gaze of porchlights illuminating the driveway.

Monday, 16 March 2009

The Great Uncertain

I loved what you were wearing. You looked stunning.

I know I lost my temper. I know I shouldn't have. My shame brought me to your feet, and it is here I will stay.

I know you know I'm sorry. And that I love you. And I always will.

What I worshipped, stole my love away...

Saturday, 14 March 2009

Tuesday, 3 March 2009

I don't need to read about your fucking heartbreaks, nor do you need to know mine. At least, not for now. So I guess this is it, for a while. Hope you enjoyed your stay.

Goodbye, and have a nice life.

Thursday, 19 February 2009

Heaven and Hell

Through the window, I see your shadow cast in the shape of a thousand desires. A heart bleeds in desperation, in the blind yearning for the beat of another.

Memories hearken to an erstwhile tryst, a conspiratorial congregation of two bodies forming a single shape. Smoke and vapours embraced the tense vibrance, as lovers shook their hair loose in the silence. A rivulet hushed through their secret garden, granting ghosts refrain in the twilight of their encounter. Silent locks found their keys, and fingers gleefully kissed quiet corners smiling in weary acceptance.

The energy bristled within its limits in warning. A spectacle of light and fire ensued. Two spirals intertwined, violently conducting a masquerade of struggle and passion. In frantic anticipation, the ground stood overawed, and the firmament withdrew. The rain lashed out, and the struggle changed dimensions, a tussle between the forces of the earth and the heavens.

Eons passed in this ceaseless battle. All that is known is the rain prevailed, though what remained was merely meagre in force. A hiss sat uneasy upon the land, spent in its endeavour. Neither fire nor light were ever seen again.


You are my only joy, raining down on me from mercied heavens.
And I, a wanderer, caught in deserts dry, for the rest of my times.

Tuesday, 10 February 2009


I'd be crazy not to follow where you lead; your eyes, they turn me.
They turn me on to phantoms I follow to the edge of the earth. And fall off.

I get eaten by the worms and weird fishes.
Picked over by the worms and weird fishes.
I'll hit the bottom and escape.

Potent words. Crazy imagery. Reckless thoughts. Mute emotions.

I feel the oncoming onslaught of a kaleidoscopic vomitorium of the severest intensity.

God help me.

Saturday, 7 February 2009

And you.....

I absolutely crazily adore you. I worship you, and the steps you take. From wherever to wherever else you move.... I beseech you; to grace me with your presence for the rest of my life. So the entire affair of living is a joy. An affair of heart and of spirit....

Monday, 2 February 2009


We have to live in a city where it snows. The blanket of white drowns the city's insanity, and the soundless beauty of a snowflake slowly floating down to rest on your coat makes you think of cotton candy as the snow-decked pavement crunches beneath your soles. A tedious walk turns into an exploration of joy and all its frivolities. A shiver turns into a squeal, and being cautious is a secret joy lost in the folds of a whispered secret.

A noisy, boisterous animate city is brought to Still Life, even as the shivers bite away at the bone.

Friday, 30 January 2009

Conjurations of another dimension.

A bow draws across nickel strings, conducting the chaos into form and model. A quiet lull dances with this mournful wail, and trails trace paths in the wake of your laugh. Stardust sprinkles savage this voluminous vacuum, as razors whip through the newly breathed air, carving whistles where the barest of fibers once hung. Ribbons and rods and clouds of God descend into view, to give shape to the nothingness within everythings that did not yet exist. Nothing existed were it not for that song. Just the song.

It was what she sang. Were it not for how she sang, it might never have existed at all. She sang it with her eyes, she sang it in her smile, she sang it through her touch, she sang it all the while. Her voice was the bow, her voice the string, her voice the crescendo, rising a thousand steps to mingle with the cumulonimbus, then falling through the depths of thunder's bullish wisdom.

Her words began to take a shape. It was not perfect, this shape; some might even have said it was far from it. But it mattered not. She called this shape "perfect". With tantalizing gestures of a gracious hand, she willed this yet-amorphous being in a beckon to the heavens. The shape rose, still cycling through its metamorphosis, searching for wings to spread in flutter. Panic broke through its skin, to assume odd proportions, odd angles, and unbecoming wield.

A surge of power erupted through the eye of the storm, and what had yet not been was drawn into the vortex beneath this rising missile, this unrelenting force still struggling to recognize its own shape.

The calm in her eyes brought calm to wings aflutter. The song in her heart brought heartbeats to this lifeless enigma. Her touch brought recognition of self. Her lips brought forth hunger, thirst, yearning, desire. Her laughter brought mirth.

Her embrace brought him into this world.

Monday, 26 January 2009

Coke-shaped whore.

.teef ruoy ta nus eht ecalp dluohs eh ,lehctas sih otno srats wes uoy fi.

Thursday, 22 January 2009

Sometimes, love just cannot be made to wait, no matter how hard we try.

Wednesday, 14 January 2009

We Are The Massacre

He pattered about the room aimlessly, prodding clothes, and hanging towels. She lay in bed, silently waiting. In the pale blue tube light coming from the ajar bathroom door, she saw him sigh, hang his head, and make his way to join her. He lay with his back to her, much like always. In the darkness, she sidled over, and held onto him, arm clinging to waist. She latched on with a vice like grip, and sobbed into his shoulder. Her tremors shook the bed, but stir he did not. Her quiet soliloquoy continued through the night, until a restless sleep consumed her noise.

When she came to, the crook of her arm was empty. His clothes and all his other belongings were gone. All of him; it was all gone. All, except for the faintest trace of Polo Blue still dream-dancing around the room, and the salt-stains left on a damp pillow. And traces in the air of the pain he carved into his flesh, in the death of the night when her tears waltzed unknowingly with his.

Monday, 12 January 2009

Perpetually perpetuating perpetuation.

Silent trails drawn through stagnant waters disappear with the ebb and flow of time.

Wednesday, 7 January 2009

Four Sorries.

Come, stay with me, my love. Time will slowly pass, and these warm sunny mornings will be spent looking back. But let us come together, and think not of what has gone, but what is to come. And make our tomorrows the best yesterdays when their time is up.

Sunday, 4 January 2009

Sleep well, my love.

I'll chase after you. Even when I am asleep. Even in my dreams, I chase after you. I can't remember most that I've seen in recent times. But I always remember one detail; each sequence involves running after you. Getting to where you are. Bringing myself to you.

Sleep peacefully. So I can finally catch up. Even if it's just whilst I dream....