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Through glassThis is permanence,
This empty room.
No vibrancy here
but the adamant beat of my heart,
And the blue sizzle of my mind.
The deep breaths before me.
And the sensation of glass
touching my fingertips,
sending chills up curved spines -
kissing pale hairs on the back of necks.
Gently and quietly
I passed my hand through the glass,
And stepped from the room
into clear, cold water.
Vase with thistlesAn alabaster infant lay down in nettles,
gripped them tightly in fat little fists,
and said they tickle.
picked them from the roots and called the nettles
roses, a vase lined with thistles
placed on the windowsill to sit
and wait in grey light,
for the alabaster's stings to fade,
their spikes to dull,
their leaves to brown.
But desolateI took a telescope to the sky
and saw no life.
I saw stars and planets,
And our own isolation
Our view bright
Pale FishPale fish seen through blue window paine,
Behind net curtains, touching the glass,
Leaving behind prints and breath,
Drawings in condensation,
A face with a smile,
because the beams don't penetrate through the double glazing.
Daisies which don't grow inside.
And the playing children seen through the blue,
Who laugh at, not with,
Until until, pale fish, she drowned.
'Thought and affliction, passion, hell itself,
She turns to favour and to prettiness.'
Flipped and flopped.
Wasn't found for weeks.
A DeathI think things matter less,
When you get older,
But the small things mean more,
The kiss in the evening,
And the smile in the morning,
And the endless endless nothing,
The waiting until the end,
I'll choose the font on my gravestone,
And pick my slice of soil,
My upturned grass,
My coffin, made of willow,
At least the details,
I can control,
If not the odds and ends.
If I planned it all,
The days after my last,
I still won't know what to say,
In the last moment,
Feel I ought to,
Or should I go in silence,
An unsettling silence,
And no wasted words,
Just a blurred line,
And a flower I didn't see by the bed.
Thank you all the same.
Like ghosts at cockcrowA thick glass lens held against light,
To bleach out grey tones and burn ants
around ant hills and under leaves,
pinned down under beams,
which they never deserved, but got,
which we, desperately, need.
It's hard to make love
And call it fucking,
Or fuck and call it love,
When you hear ambulances and babies crying.
When anything could be happening
other side of the wall.
They can take your touch and make it theirs,
underline its commonness,
make you feel like animals behind
which apes forgo and poets blubber,
through bookstores and tears.
Not so much disappointed,
but out of ideas
of how to dress it up in bows
into something more eloquent
and more bright
than a beautifully grey
and done life.
Like ghosts at cockcrow,
We're an imagined noise,
That makes a man wake in his bed,
Not knowing why,
And drifts easily back into sleep,
Shrugging off their nerves for a creak
and the croaks of old pipes.
Caught on a nailOf nature, our function to function,
To stop and drift,
Easily passed and grey.
As vague as dreams and fleeting fancies
Vaporous, hazy existence,
Diaphanous and weightless.
My body passes as easily and quickly,
as delicately as the blood in me,
unnoticed, it's as soft as shadows,
weak and easily damaged -
fine silk caught on a nail,
a fragile sense
that one is never secure.
A shock to the egotistical state,
Bone and muscle blocking my mind from yours.
Light and tenuous,
thin as hollow bird bones,
their downy feathers.
And it's comforting.
As a species barely here,
It instils an uneasy calm.
it makes me squirm.
it makes me soft and still
like tired eyes closing,
like lying down to sleep.
I may be dirtI may be dirt.
There may be better dirt.
More fertile and soft to touch.
To tread over carpets and stamp into doormats
To cover knees and leave hands grubby
mucky pups in darker dirt
to keep them dirty for days.
You're still in this dirt, in this pile,
shovelled and dug for things to grow,
daisies raised from dust with pink tips on clean white.
for love-me-love-me-nots, forget-me-forget-me-nots,
and stems without flowers
To arrange in small vases on window sills
And leave until March, through 'til April,
when it rains and rains.
So when there's sun, it glitters.
The dirt which made grass which made daises
glitters in April under dew.
before it's yellow
parched and done.
After it's mud around toes.
Diamonds making jigsawsTo see bones under skin,
Kept simple, plain and white,
Comfortable and worn soft
so it runs smooth
and tickles the hairs on the back of hands,
arms and necks.
for dry mouths,
and lightly curled fingers
relaxed on pillows,
or fingernail palm fists.
the insignificant details, the cracks on skin,
diamonds making jigsaws.
For words read slowly
Brazen and barefaced.
Through ivy and mazes,
Through a veiled, romantic glaze.
Through all the bullshit.
To leave them anxious,
listening with eyes closed,
so they feel
For the anticlimax finish.
BeautyI'd rather wear flowers in my hair,
forming a delicate chain
Than diamonds around my neck,
covering my tender blue veins
For with every precious petal
and every lucent leaf
I'm a living lesson
teaching beauty can not be bought
But rather it grows and flourishes
with every living thought
Expensive LiesI sit and stare at the toilet bowl.
A guy I know is bulimic.
When we compliment him
I see the twist of agony in his eyes
as his brain reprograms it
to sound like an expensive lie
that costs him another tear
in his tattered dignity.
Friends hurry to him,
to reassure him, to love him.
They tell him how beautiful he is.
We didn't know him before,
but he's definitely not fat now.
We whisper things in concern like;
body dysmorphic disorder.
'I know you'll never believe me
but you are so gorgeous -
not just on the inside.' Not just.
And they're right, I join in,
because they are right to say it
because it happens to be true -
he is stunning. Not just on the outside.
And we want him to see himself
the way we see him, beautiful.
And I join in because
I've felt that strangle of pain
in my stomach, bowels and belly,
when someone used to tell me lies.
So I know how he feels.
Only, he is beautiful on the outside
and I'm not.
He's not seeing reality in the mirror
and I am.
And people rush to correc
Fearing MeI'm not afraid to cry
and I do it
a lot more than you would guess.
It isn't always sadness,
I just feel like I need to,
feel everything so strongly
that it's the only way
to let go for a moment
because if I hold on for too long,
if my grip gets too tight
I'll break myself,
I will break you like glass
and we will both
I am a good guy
who hasn't yet found a way
to show it,
I am a good guy
who still identifies with the villains,
hides everything important
anything to throw you
off of my trail....
and I don't know why,
but I am trying.
Maybe I think
that if you could see me,
the real me,
you wouldn't want to look anymore,
want to be anywhere near me,
and the idea
that I can't add up
to be enough for you,
to be enough for me,
is so fucking heart breaking
I can hardly fathom it.
I can't say that it doesn't hurt
because it does,
it hurts a whole hell of a lot,
I've come to depend on pain,
to befriend misery
you're just a question marki met you so long ago
but back then our bodies were made of metal
and nowadays they’re made of the blades of
grass and dirt settling
underneath my fingernails.
my fingers are having a hard time
reaching the keys and
my organs are shaking mostly because i haven’t
eaten in two days but also
because i’m worried about the things you're doing to yourself.
we didn’t meet very long ago at all but it feels like forever ago
and you say you don’t know me
that you don’t know anyone
but baby you're turning into a skeleton and i’m peeling back my skin
to try and reach my bones, just like you.
i hope you're happy,
i’m covering the hard wood floors now
the bits and pieces splattered.
they are calling it a suicide but i’m calling it
a way to see my brain and
just how dark it has become, and honestly
i don’t want you to try and see about your’s.
i’m mourning the loss of my heart and wish you weren’t either -
A Kiss not Forgotten (a special tribute)Like a frost spread across valleys silent and dreary,
ever my longing lost in shimmers of shadow & wind
And days bled into years, the seas became deserts
But thoughts of thee would not perish
Thru memories untamed I staggered far and long;
upon solemn nights lit by the torch of your soul
O’ how deep I miss your fragrant cheer ..
Of warm evenings shared across Lake’s reverie,
watching horizons journey into Autumn’s dream
— wherest our hearts once bloomed a fabled sky
Those passions shared will forsake me not
Lest the Moon would bestow solace upon my ache:
I will lay marooned, haunted by thy seraphic-figure,
Or the ever fleeting caress of your gaze ...
So my soul shall yield to this mythic abyss; –
as I peer from my carriage to Nirvana
And thou away, from my arms, the Sun weeps
Unto eternity—my dear beloved, we are entwined
Forever our footprints cast in golden firmament
A kiss not forgotten in a ballet of light softly falling
I now bear the want
Black hole BulimicThe Composition:
I birth poems — not amaranths
in graveyards — not gardens.
sows seeds of doubt
into skeleton weeds.
A farmer plucks the bones
from Apollo's hyacinth; his
I binge on broken
cracked collectors of rocks,
of pebbles kidnapped
from barren beaches:
where crooked kings
buried in books whose
pages creak to crickets
in an abandoned abyss
of an attic—caskets on
an antiquated shelf. I
choke on the dust and
twitch in recoil.
The bickering sky
A cloud coughs—
The clock's scythe hand
swivels to the beckoning
twelve. Spastic ticking—
each bleak stroke
of a midnight heart.
The sundials do not work
now. The vampires know
I kill poems—
obligation steam machineas always
grinding the cankerous
of your cognition
until the lack of compassion
leaves you unlubricated
seized frozen bound stuck
only then the machine of
your fears will burst to steam
squealing to suckle
at the genius of my
the unsung soiled hero
of middle-class ferocity
savior of the undeserving
winding slowly deftly dying
martyr to the self-justified cause
as love for summer fades.late morning-
there's the tease of
snow in the clouds,
in the air, and the trees
have finally lost their
the sunlight is damp.
alters the room
as it graces my skin,
and for once
i don't wake up right away.
instead i lay
between my memory bitten
sheets, and i think
about all the times he said
that he hated winter.
i don't remember
when i began to love it,
and i don't care.
nothing can shatter that.
Was it easyI used to believe that the world was small, that it was mine, and everyone else was a character in a play, and when I died I'd be born, my life a foetus dream, that would just carry on. I used to believe and that was enough. That people were honest.
I thought that things were easy.
Now I believe in science, and ghosts, and sometimes my gut, but I don't believe in much.
I was afraid of death, shouting, flapping wings, creaks and the shadows on my walls. I'm afraid it'll all get broken. I'm afraid of truth and lies. I'm afraid I understand too well and too little.
Of how little I can believe in.
The dusty light in the morning, stretching over our bed. And how it all gets when I focus.
To our place that was my place, to the morning with the dusty light, under white sheet tents where it's warm. Belong in the nook, the other side of the rest of the world. I belong in the bubble.
I can't do most things.
When I learnt about the universe and my place in it, my slow evolution, and how many thin
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^Nyx-Valentine arrived in our community and started whipping everyone into a frenzy with her relentless desire to bring the Artistic Nude and Fetish galleries to the fore. 9 years later, and it's safe to say that Nyx is not only a leader as a photographer in these galleries, but she has also established herself as a much saught after model. ^... Read More