Thursday, 19 February 2015

Truths

I seek sincerity
in my sadness
and so I search
for situations
were my singularity
can be sustained
as isolation.

Monday, 16 February 2015

La Tendre Indifférence du Monde

Actions heavily orchestrated by
over-sentimental conduction
adorn the arid rationality, and yet
we're compelled to obey obsolete instructions
afterall, what is heart without art? He
who assigns meaning to picayune catharsis
in tedious trials we all must endure
is but a player in the plans of an artist.

Discombobulated

Internal clarity
disguised by
external dissonance.
A disappointing disparity
pertaining to
my head and heart's dissidence.

Saturday, 3 January 2015

Distant Lights

The Earth is in a well lit bedroom,
looking outside a window into the dark,
seeing only the lights that shine back.

Dead Earth Blues

Earth is on his deathbed.
I lumber through his withered veins,
hoping that if my warmth reaches far enough
he may recover from his wintry disposition.
But antibodies travel with me,
wreaking ruin as they pass through
each forlorn facility that his once regal body held.
It is unfair to call their arrival apocalyptic
for they were here from the beginning,
and so long may it continue.
Death is a fact of life,
just as repair is a reply to ruin.
Though Earth is in the Winter of existence,
I can't help but feel hopeful
of shaking off these litter-like blues
and seeing out one more
Spring.

Lingering Festivities

There are few things more forlorn
than a Christmas tree left too long after festivities.
Like a reminder of  failures from the years, they drop dried needles
and disperse around the floor into places you won't find for months
and months
and maybe years later
so that when you do
pine scent, fresh as new, will assault you
like the memories of the past that haunt you in those 
gray quiet moments
before sleep.

Wrapped Up

Girls in their winter clothes,
a tree's falling leaves,
shade from the sunset,
a cold windy breeze,
the moon's somber face
a shadow's dim light...
the things that I love in life
never do shine bright

A song whispered sullenly;
the sun's gentle flare,
soft snowy fields of white,
and long flowing hair.
A night's somber cold embrace
a distant church bell.
My mind slowly crumbling,
my thoughts locked in cell.

For all the thoughts that I've fought
and all I might as well.
For all the care that disappears
and passion that's been quelled.
No more time to stand around,
no more time to grieve
for girls in their winter clothes
and trees' falling leaves.

Warm Wires in Winter

Alcohol, narcotics and prayers flavour the falling of night.
Our talk of games a game too, of a sort,
smirking dance swirling inwards,
skilled balance and mirroring of feet's skittish friction.
Your hair descends in waves I long to twirl and surf.
Your soul glows warm and woozy in my orbit.
Your pouty lips and gleaming bright eyes beckon
to realms purely sumptuous and light,
full of intangible glows and stampeding butterflies.

As our lips meet, sweet confidence decimates regrets
that could have been, grasped like tattered rags
by those too blind or quivering to act.
I hold you close, your charms now tangible, in grasp,
your lilting laughs and deftly wicked winks pepper the wind,
gusting across rusty heartstrings,
stirring from slumber groggy half-dreaming sentiment.
I feel a melting, melding into intimacies unmapped.

Yet each moment of contact must end.
Banter and power remain,
and yet I long again for that glowing coal of you, you,
a true you to warm tingling fingertips,
that secret soulful sphere of self you keep so safe, so guarded,
yet shines through like a jewel in your smile.

Friday, 31 October 2014

Risen

The gravel street was warmed by the rusting sunset
hours ago. Now, lit up by bulbs and sparks,
we sit with it and watch the opposite's onset;
silent, bound to the tune of a meadowlark.
The sap-filled tree stands, the hidden sun
heats the splintered wood of the bench's tired frame.
A light spits forth, and so the ritual is done.
On the whispered lake now shines a thin flame
that shimmers upon the rolling waves. We watch it grow,
averting our eyes from that crack of light
that burns our eyes if stared at. Wind now blows
away the clouds to announce the end of night.
And we too must part like the solemn clouds
destined to be caught by light and crowds.

Shine

Dusty light filters through;
eyes wide,
lips spread,
rolling over shut out
of my head.

The echo resonates
soothingly
with the tremolo
fading; longingly
mellow.

Windbreak

I let the drizzle fall and form its stains.
I'll dye the rest so it can look the same.
Thinking what it would be like outside
while melted wood is running down my thighs.

And still my joints creek like weak trees
that are easily swayed by the whispering wind.
Knowing I have no time for her heavy hands
and yet I can't help but miss the moaning reprimands.

Affidavit

That which could inspire such sweet prose,
secreting the scent of such a sweet, sweet rose.
While any other dream would be,
twice as sweet with honey.
Might honey not come from bees, 
And I would sign my affidavit,
so sweetly, suavely, sagely,
in my finest calligraphy. 
So that the bureau
would have no choice but agree.
But I will give them their honey. 
with the bees, 
and they will know;
so must they know.

Sunday, 26 October 2014

A Blue Fire

The moonless midnight
is ignited by a spark;
engulfing the dark
and capturing my heart.

But the same heart knows
only sorrows can transpire
from this wild fire
that I've allowed to start.

And yet, although I wince,
I can't convince myself to dowse the flame
nor let it tame,
but only to bask in its heat.

Her name was taken by the wind,
a rescind of that spark
now taken by dark;
the promise of Heaven in wistful retreat.

Thursday, 2 October 2014

The Orchard

In the old orchard
we wandered hand in hand
beneath the vibrant branches,
heavy with dew, and age,
and we, young in years and spirit
saw the future ripening, in fragrant blossom and mellow fruit;
in warm rays and grass as green as our thought.

Now, in the rusting Autumn,
the fallen leaves cannot cover
the obfuscation of the clouds and the wayward moon
like the face of old Death
so small we can hide it behind a thumbnail
if we can only raise our hand.

Dead Bird

The buzzard bled,
led on its back
with his head twisted to the ground.
His mouth would gape
and then close
as if something inside his beak
was attempting
escape.

His feet clutched together tightly
with his eyes
wide open;
almost breathing, it seemed;
his wings pulled
cruciform,
and like Christ he was surely
lost and
gone.

Shadowplay

Her wings whip the day sore
sinewed by the dusk;
shadowplay on the moon.

To fade into fog then to gloom
twilight flies, fallen glances;
whispers blurred by cloud.

Following a regal path proud
to feed on fuzzing bug haze;
whipping the day away once more.

Tuesday, 23 September 2014

A Post


Mist

I descended into a mist
and in the midst of it was you.
I descended into a mist
in your eyes, a smokey blue.
I descended into a mist
but I could not see it through.
I descended into a mist
and in the midst of it was you.

Sunday, 14 September 2014

Autumn Leaves

Your auburn leaves rusted their coarse crust
onto the cobbles of my drive,
and I've been craving your metallic taste to touch my tongue,
just as the sun touches those leaves still standing,
and pierces scattered rays through,
like searchlights for those leaves once lost,
until the golden glow, with each glance upwards,
dissipates into darkness
and the premature dusk calls of the search for the night.

Spring Leaves

Leafs bleeding dew as the rays pour from the horizon
nature with no disguise on.
Earth in equilibrium,
towering trees,
in the furthest reach of the eye
A flightless kite awaits the night.
Silence is golden,
ans so is the sky.

Alone in Kyoto

I saw the city pavement
— a whirl of activity
I saw the glamour and movement
— a swirl of anonymity 
Sharp faces, sharp clothes.
Bright streets, dark woe.

Autumn's Nostalgia


The unmistakable nostalgia of September is upon us,
the hot breeze s
                            w                 through the air,
                               e           s                              caressing magnolia petals
                                  e    p                                                                               as it dances through 
the neighbouring woods.

The only noises that penetrate the whirling air are birds singing,
leaves brushing each other, and the rustling of my book pages
whilst the smell of distant floral laundry detergent percolates
through the thick and heavy summer air,
content with imitating their natural counterparts.

First Drops

The air is filled with water 
and the stalks are rustling dry
with the thunder speaking softly
in a corner of the sky

and the whirl and chase of leaves and chestnuts
pursuing down the lane
and the chill to raise your grumbles
with the first dark drops of rain...

Wasted

I have committed the worst of sins
one can commit. I have not been
Happy. Let the glaciers of oblivion
take and engulf me, mercilessly.
I applied my mind to the symmetric
arguments of art, its web of trivia,
when my parents bore me for
a much grander purpose in this
Life. It never leaves me. Always at my side,
that shadow of a melancholy man.

Rooted

The crowds that linger in desolate spaces are bound by nothing,
and yet are as rooted as the trees that whisper in autumn.
The merciless soil grants no escape to those without a sense of self,
They construct cells to hold the sacred and unwilling,
Square and rectangular blocks housing all their frivolities.
Burdened by burdens masquerading as necessary joys.