Sunday, 29 March 2015


The bus passes by
reflecting my visage in its windows.
My countenance shifts and changes
as though on a pond
disturbed by a pebble.
Yet the fish are still and placid.

A City Skyline Through Closed Blinds

Fractured moonlight through the window
caught her figure like a net
and framed the city's skyline
from her body's silhouette.

The Beauty in Music

In every song I hear your name,
a melliflous frisson.
I pray that it's not just a refrain
but a life-defining reason.

For I feel that I have found my key
and that this harmony will not change
in all the notes of soft Ebony
together we have found our range.

Autumn's Brevity

Autumn seems incredibly
     b     r     i     d     g     e                  b     e     t     w     e     e     n
                                               and                                               death.


Sterilised and stifling;
Bleach soaked and hot.
I leave your arms with ailments
That before I knew I'd not.
The air continues to surround
I'm squandering all the strength I've got
So I stand in the entrance for a minute
Where others' lungs can rot.


To a slither of broken moon
fragile half-wrist
small polished fragment
of bone
archaeologist universe
dusting off his aged timepiece.

Folacious Memories

A life is measured
not by its number of years
but the number of souls that it has touched,
and just as a tree
may lose the verdure of its leaves
the soothing influence of its magnificent frame remains.

So folacious memories
will flower fondly even in Winter
with a deep flocculation of variegated love,
and those deep roots
that made such a strong impression, will long
outlast the Southern virason with the opening of each neanic knosp.

Friday, 6 March 2015

Of your Light...

That I should not find you as a mirage of the mind, 
a figment of my fancy
is a phantom of the finely fathomable.
You are a phosphorescent light
that undeniably gives both credence and confidence 
in the direction all paths must lead
through the blackest of nights.
To say that your radiance is a fallacy
created by my dark isolation
would be dim indeed,
and would disregard the iridescence
that outshines both the Sun and Moon in equal measure,
and has no need for parting shift nor break
for your light has no desire to spurn
half of its shine in shadow.

Monday, 2 March 2015

Evening Elation

Whistling winds wander throughout the cracks,
the crevices,
the in-betweens, in that of a wisp.
A wisp, a wisp of locks, your hair which lies above you;
possibly the only thing which does,
streams a beautiful brown,
baring your soul
and catching my eye.

They are gates to the great, gorgeous soul within you;
at times graceful, others golden,
but always in some way glorious,
and they bear the burden of temptation towards belief, which buries me.
If bright, white lights are to be expected at time's end,
they are to travel through your hair.

And I,
near broken
and cold, stand in awe of the smile surrounding.

Morning Coffee Breath

A morning of caffeine and reflection
helped to dampen my dejection
and stain my fingertips and teeth. 
But the tip of my tongue still blunders
 when my mind meanders and wonders
to a blighted and beleaguered belief.


Mild-mannered and morose; close to comatose.
 The only thing I could convey 
was a lack of confidence; and you your dismay.

Und wieder werden es nicht am gehen 
wenn nichts ab mein will konnte geschehen. 
So muss es sein; dieses worten mein nur sorgen.

Thursday, 19 February 2015


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.


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.

The Moon outside reflects
that candlelight that you use to read,
turning the pages as your eyelids sink.

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

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


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.


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

The echo resonates
with the tremolo
fading; longingly


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.


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.