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.