Saturday, 20 June 2015

Missing the Rain

I would shun the chance at a paradise in eternal summer sun
for just one stormy September's day spent with you;
trade the idea of drinking cocktails in the sky clear
to hold your hand through the deluge.

I would drown in the dismal downpour without a frown,
endure the torrent with no qualms.
I could be sitting under any gargantuan wonder
but I would still prefer to be framed by your arms.

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Wednesday, 6 May 2015

The Lagoon

There is a beautiful, blue lagoon I know
that is as deep as the oily pupils that draw me in.
Here I have spent many a frescade as spring's knosps vesuviate
and the shock of her gelid grasp makes me vociferate.

The glacial water is a welcome rest from the unsubtle sun
but there is an ominous dread that ripples on her surface
that makes me stop short and merely dip my timidly trembling toes;
a mutual fear that leaves me feeling exposed.

I hear tales of men being lured by her irrecusable charm,
and falling in to a liquid lysis, never to be seen again.
Yet I know that I'm a strong swimmer, a match for her pernicious pull;
how could such serenity be harmful?

Legend says that the lagoon is so perilous
because she doesn't want those lovers and lazers to leave.
Those fears are allayed by my intense admiration for her gentle tact
and a desire to stay in her loving grasp.

Besides, it is a fact that water is vital
and her dulcifluous drops are the only ones I'd ever long for.
Despite unwarranted worry's repines, her resplendence is a refulgent refuge
that deserves more than a response of a subterfuge.

And so I dive in, with a cerulean coalescion
looking past the caliginous fear to the depths,
and once in, the depths become diaphonous that the eidolon I see
is merely the internecine fear that resonates in me.

My lecanoscopic love will not lacerate my lungs
nor will my constant craving cause kraurosis.
So I ask to madefy my desire to swim, and in turn I shall pacify her fear
hoping that her hesychastic heart shall keep me near.

Sunday, 26 April 2015

Written Off

The clouds are closing in
like terrible teeth from the jaws of the mountain,
clenching down onto the dour day.
A thousand little footsteps patter through the tiles
unsure of their direction,
fading away into those lowly confines
that we reserve for everything that has served its use;
buried in the ground.

In Your Curls

The shore beckons, 
waves hurl their shells 
empty, they leave impermanent prints 
before being wiped by the pull
and the push of rising waters.


A petal tumbles through the air
though, slowly, not quickly
as if suspended from somewhere.
Its course confusing but destination determined;
so easy to see, yet hard to explain
like the stone to which it travels
to join the rest; dying, darkening, dead.

Tension on Twelve

The doors kissed to mark the start
of another trip to the ground floor.
Soft jazz battles with the burlap silence 
of a man and woman alone together.
Thoughts stay home to hum, tap, and sigh
at the sight of another missed opportunity.

First Date

I squeezed conversation out
like near empty toothpaste;
coarse, uneven, and not enough.

Her ice was melting fast,
and I was the empty glass
as we both sipped and stared.

Sunday, 29 March 2015

Reflections Refracted

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.

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.

Tuesday, 20 January 2015

Ambivalent Ghost

Creep close my ambivalent ghost
nothing you do is permanent.
White sheets, a window to the coast
offering false peace, turbulent.

Dissonance floods my shipwrecked head
wannabe autonomy lulled.
A broken camcorders thirst to be fed.
It thanks its destroyer now hulled.

Grateful now it's been several days
My mind at ease, no more solid smack.
Life's much different without your haze 
Ambivalent ghost I need you back.

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.