I’m but a sprout in love,

My knees deep in the realm of personal myths and private misgivings.
A timber sprawled between me and another figure full of someness.
A kitch builds itself and treads to see where I sleep.

In the light-aired night,
The crow smiles me off and cuts me lengthways.
I lay there like the land, my cadence slow,
Full of pain, full of plain.
I’m not strong enough, not at this pace,
Especially not in June.

In the thick-aired night,
The lover and the bay kissing in a withdrawing roar
Shatter me, even when I’m watching from afar.
I feel it so…
Her secrets to me are facts,
Especially in June.

Masonry Gargoyle

I, who am mostly small
And was supposed to be just insignificant,
Was never much of a face.

So weird being changed
By the contagious childhood prayers.
It's been a while since I feared birth
And the masonry gargoyles.
It's been a while since I've resolved
And self-inscribed into the archways.

Screw being wasted mid-scream,
Screw being wasted at all.
After this I always failed to enter looking for the ending.
Maybe I was born wrong,
But in any case I was born.


My eyes are furnace-red.
Was I born to stand down or am I being tugged and dragged?
One hand rives the other as I write a common poem,
But at least the birds are freed and fed.

I am part of the bunch that never stopped migrating.
If the wind is warm and wraps us hard,
We fight through songs of grief
So that our flight goes far.

We become sharper
And the pain that would before wound us
Now falls in the form of rain.
I checked the language of the mountain
To see if I still was pronouncing it the right way.
It was the same, I was the same,
But sharper and further away.

She, who never flies away

Out and greenly afar
I am wind-bellowed.
Under my dreams possessed,
I am an only barren meadow.

The sand drops on everything
And I smile at the rest.
I am home to beaches of stone
Under my dreams unguessed.

I will not stop at your hand,
I will not stop at the Edge.
My feet will be there staking,
My feet will make me stand.

Now that I'm off the thick zest
And into a buzzing mortal scheme,
I take scissors to my seams
And stand under my dreams undressed.


That I may cease to nothingness on the shore
Of my unreflecting love,
That I may never live to be more than the high-piled books
Inside my teeming brain,
That I may forget to sail the still chords 
Of your lulling eyes,
That I may strengthen my darkness divine.

Wet hair, wet fingers

Bloody hell, the sky is clear
And I'm here to write poetry.

When sound doesn't do it for me anymore,
I do something for it in return.
Sometimes with wet hair,
Other times with wet fingers.

I used to call myself the sailor of my feelings,
But haven't done much of that since,
So I don't think the liquid justifies the inkling.

(unfinished due to thoughts about sinking)


To the light of day my sadness seems ridiculous, impossible,
A tale of introspective boredom.
The sun shines a bright light inside me and everything becomes white and indistinguishable.

Joy is but a star
Drowned in its own flaming crest,
A white wind spread across my window.

Without light I am shade and doubt,
I think about truth and expound it through to the gorge
Never to be seen again.

Our Sun, who art in Heaven.

Foot soaker

I'm a foot soaker
But still unaware of the process by which things become grey.
I'm a foot soaker so I speculate
The ray hitting the sail and taking it
From creak to river, from river to sea.
Colour and life dissolving in the late afternoon
Into a vaccum.
How am I still unaware of the process by which things become grey
At least one time a day? 

Aneasy way

Enough Is Enough is leaving my body in a long sustained shiver,
While Each Gulp jumps out and saves my life.
I don't even have the tears anymore,
I might be Deprived.
I thought I was Done, 

but I still had it in me.

I thought there was an easy way because I still had it in me.

A poem about speed or the new depths of tranquility

Sometimes I feel defeated.
My hands in a mighty stretch take my feet
And I in a circle hug the earth and attempt to eat it.
I’ve tasted all the dirts,
And I can tell them apart with almost no effort.
My mouth knows the friability of a dusty road 
From the smoothness of a tired desert
And confronts them both,
Because there’s magic in living up close.

- A poem for JR

Crumb Problem

We have a crumb problem.
Your eager hands,
Your curious fingers
Take my words and pull them.
Break them into progressively smaller pieces
That fall through the cracks,
Pile on the floor, on the table,
Wherever gravity works.
I wish you'd take my bread and have it full,
Undigestible, heavy and impossible.


The light sat with me in those days of quiet melancholy,
A warm pink received me with open arms that stretched out to the length of our sofa.
No one can deny the power of light,
A dimmable being made of consuming flame.
I got comfortable and considered dying,
I only asked that you'd go after me.
I'm not ready to be undead again, plus the incalculable pain. One of us will die first. I just hope it'll be me.
Maybe it's wrong to play Gods and humans.

But I wonder what is to be!
There's something I need to see, but I don't know 
What it is
Or where it is.
I turn every rock, lift it and PEEKABOO!
'Is happiness underneath you?'
I carry on street after street,
And happiness behind me never cracks a chuckle, never tells itself.
A weightless balloon attached to my wrist
Follows me around, yet I insist on looking down, underneath each rock.

I sit comfortably and consider dying.

The sun was a fat, juicy orange in my horizon
And with surprising ease I grabbed it.
My nails were short but still piercing through the thick peel.
The juice was oozing, stinging on the fresh cuts I made while mishandling things.
And the smell! It was so strong it went far past the orange into the tree that mothered it.
The essential oils were sparking the feeble flame in me and I felt ignited for once.
The colours and touches were frightful, the juice dripping in my hands was making me sticky.
I stuck to life by accident
When I reached for the succulent sun behind the mountain,
And it's unclear whether I regret it or not.

"Orange to keep my tears,
Orange to justify me,
Orange to smear my feelings,
Orange to flavour my fears."

Your mood is bringing me down

The writing isn’t good enough,
Rough a minute, maybe more.
And me behind the trestle
Count my teeth with the back of my hand.
In jail I wreck and wrestle
The filthy disease.
Anything that’ll put me at ease,
I’ll take anything please
My laugh comes out in slurps.
Of the drinks we share,
It sounds like I don’t care
And I’m fine with that.
Not me and my fun,
Your mood is bringing me down
But I’m not.

Outer Edge

I write my poems when I can,
I draw conclusions where I can.
But the brain’s fed
Full to the outer edge,
So scouring is the only task at hand.
And somehow that’s still not what I meant.
Silence trains my ear for a hidden thrum.
I’m so tired, this pillage of my inner hum.
But the tears, in a full loaded machine gun
Straight out of me, and down. Down they come.
Nothing about this is normal.
I proceed to the stigma’s core and melt there like magma.


Debris by the river
Brings out a face in the moss.
A frailty I’d amass in times not so long lost.
In a delicate brush past, the river tells the rocks
Not to worry ever more.
“Fate will always fate,
And pain will always hurt.
No joy is far too much,
No joy ever uncalled for.
Take whatever you can take
And spray it onto the world.”

The leaf label

Every stroke a bucketful,
A gatefold that tells me what to do
And I do it.

Every creak a beautiful song,
The winter wool, the clothes on you tell me
And I listen.

It’s a crack but still I whistle,
It’s been a while and you’ve been missed.


Had I not seen people come out of it, I would’ve never guessed heaven was behind that sharp right turn.
There is nothing exceedingly beautiful about it, the meadow is ok-sized and surrounded by suburban working-class housing,
Yet its humbleness is nothing short of astounding.
After miles and miles of towering greenery, this shy piece of land extends its hand and guides me through a relief I have only felt with breathing.
Which makes me wonder, how can the grand finale be so life-like, so fertile?
Aside from the roundabout cross, nothing else reeks of the ascetic qualities I’d imagined for this last showdown.
Maybe the poets had it wrong.
Caught up in a dream of tyrannical stillness, they never saw or bothered to write of a reasonable Eden,
Of an ending as undramatic as is common living.
And I’ve been stumbling ever since, every day a different thing
To get me through this unlawful queue till the day when all is right
When I, had I been looking, could have just made that sharp turn right.

Difficult Things are hard to come by

The canary called from across the window to wake me from a sleep so profound I called it living.
There is no such thing, I was brimming, nearing a wake by the hand of meaning that touched everything
Left and right, till all was but a big stain that wouldn’t let me die or repose ever again.
So I lay at your feet, crushed by the utmost weight of pain yet learn to love all the way through bodily restraint.
A sight of paradise is more than most people can hold to their names so I wear it with pride, I’m not ashamed to hold you so thoroughly, so truthfully.
Were I to go back I would’ve done it all the same, and regret it either way,
Because love is most difficult, and mirage or no mirage I am devoutly its maid.

Happiness is body language

Who is to say whatever comes first,
The desire to be better or the ability to be so?
In any case yes, my eye extends to the future
And fights for the reverence of Holy will.
I might’ve shed the last of me, I’m not entirely sure.
It feels as if I have, so I ought to be and trust,
Because who’s to say whatever came first?

Green Hill

Green horse with wings
Racing and dissolving into flame,
Then nothing but grey fumes
And a fallen star to the right of night.
It’s metabolism or a trending schism,
The reason for trauma, a held up stigma.
Conscious of
Strains put upon my flesh
When the rhythms were untied but oddly still meshed.
Fourty hundred thousand crashed
That night I severed the dream from the root of me.
We weren’t but enemies,
Strangers at different speeds.
Fell astray and fell aggrieved,
Nothing ever touch the root of me.

The telepath screams,
The seams seem to rip by different means.
Different teams surrender,
If you have wounds then you shall mend ‘em.
Frozen strings don’t work in tandem,
It’s physics and I mean it.
I’m sorry it sounds brutal,
At some point I’ll summon nunace, but it’s too early to be old and done with,
There’s so much we need to see still.
Let not sadness interfere,
Let not sadness have its will.

Fear death

The animal peers over the brim of time.
In a supple arch, its paw searches
The visionary lake.
I jeer it off,
The beastly thing won’t have its way,
Not on my watch.

And I know the virgin thinks it tamed,
But I won’t heed her silly call.
The ghostly love within her soul
Will have us eaten after all.

So I keep it eerie, dry and in control
And strangely, it’s what I’ve come to fear the most.


I sobbed and I loved,
And both felt real to me
If I sobbed as I loved.
For small winds aggrieve me more than any long, swelling stride.
Something about reminiscing,
Maybe I should take its side.
Pull and drain till the bath is full again,
Of dreams and conditions under which I could, after all be.

Poetry makes a fool of me.

A reek by the fountain where I wish.
On my back I toss a coin and make it spin.
I make it reach the famed country of the missed, to then hurry back –
I turn round for the hireling splash.

Is that it, can it be?
Has the effort bought me any glee?
Am I yet where I so need be?

Poetry, will you make good use of me?

My love is fallow

The clairvoyant sends me signals
Of the squall roaring far ahead.
So loud it streams, sleet’s in my head.
Your leaf withers
In me, as the might of you sheds.

Might the chasm gape, still and wide?
A yawning straight from your eye
Into mine.
May I help, may you find
What some of us left behind?


Let me keep my legions folded,
Unto me, my darling feathers.
Unto me, my hunting weathers,
Let me keep my seasons welded.


The merman,
Aligned with his pain
Couldn’t help but tire the moon,
The herbs and the fruits,
And all living things with juice.

The merman,
With handing deliverance
Was squeezing a handful of dirt
Into a passionate hum.
From his face a stream of tears,
Down to the very last strum.

Yet he carries on,
Fishing out tinners and clinkers
From the lake, he’s the flinkest.
The lake that rustles and whispers,
The lake that sings him a song:
“Where thou findest, thou belongst.”


Way before I ever was or got to be, there I was amid green.
If I believed in dense descending towels
Now I believe in dancing, shooting grief.

I knew the mourning came from me, at every sunrise I was ill
Despite the promise, the impending dream
The mountain shadow held me still.

Ivy, that was it!
The upward slither made me sick
Spring, you dent! Spring so tall!
Was it Spring who sent you after all?
But ivy, that was it. Oh ivy, that was me.


I heard my voice like film
sliding down.
With no adherence or grip
it trailed, it slipped.

Still the vision was Holy,
uncouth as God things are.
Shades of gold were lined up and ready for the cut.
The mighty scissors of accurate randomness said
“No more shall be shut!”

Open doors or rectangles of luck,
how dare you yell “No looking back!”?
How dare you yell anything at all
to such weak bones holding a spirit so tall?

Yet the stone gave way
and the song shot up to the brain.
Thus, music was over,
my voice slipped away.


I’m not a genius but I have feelings too.
Drop my fingers in a pond and I sure will get them for you.

The wax melting in my ears
From years ago, when my body was
The paper in my dreams, the mountain in my teeth.

If it’s green or blue I can’t tell,
But the wood has a smell
Of rosin.
I’m drunk so drunk,
I’m full so full
Of tongues so sour,
The scheme of life checks out.

But when you tell me to,
Oh, I sure will get them for you.
The scheme of life checks out.


Years of silence how much I need you now,
Years of joy how much I never had you.
In years long gone, forever to be lived
Never was I happy, never was I not.

But trays of silica walk in at all times,
Without explaining the meaning that lies
Beyond their components –
Which happen to rain in me,
Like silver and screams,
Or a silence that sings
In my ears –

It clinks.
It clinks and it clinks.
It will clink for more years
To come.
Till death burns the son
That brought me to life
The same day that I died.

I shall live in hell,
Or else he will, he’ll bring me the tears that I never had,
That I never will.
Cursed be the child, ablaze as the sun –
Right from within, wrong from without.
Cursed be the child, that slashed me in half,
That waited no more for my tinges of bore.
Blessed is He who comes in the name of the Lord.


Something’s changing,
Waters are rippling again.
I can’t quite reach my image anymore
I hold the stream with my long narrow hands, but the grip isn’t masterful enough.

Something’s missing,
It’s the future and I know it.
But still the waters run, they teach me
Knowing isn’t commanding, better to wait and run.

Something’s moving
My pupils, contracted to a pinpoint,
Offended by sun’s projection on things.
No, I can’t see things,
Not with that light,
To move in transparent darkness, the medium of dreams, that is where I strive.


From all the beating,
From all the beating,
From all the beating,
From all the beating,
A new ventricle was open,
And space for more blood,
Gushing, filling a heart that was once broken,
Worn out and taken.

If only I knew the path to reconciliation
Was this exact one,
I would have made it mine.
But you can’t see the land you stand on,
If bending makes you cry
To the point of sleeping,
And dreaming in the seas that drown your eyes.

I was once weary,
At the beginning of all this.
I was once no one,
At the beginning of this all.
To now be of skin and bone,
Is the gift of the only God,
To whom I build a shrine.
Such grace to know
That even I,
even I,
even I,
even I
could divine.

The city and the stars – incomplete

The world was so alive,
I couldn’t believe I was living in the wreckage of my vessels.
I couldn’t see what hemmed me in,
But in was I.
Leaving a trail of consternation behind,
What strange beings still lay where they have died?


I zoom out then I zoom in,
I have found an extra life within.
Stop the tide with my own will,
I’m torn between the two, God forbid.

I am both, and I am none,
I have witnessed ten thousand suns,
As the tipsy tip of the tongue,
I experience the world as


day the tide of life might flow my way once more
But for now I’m standing inverse.
With cold legs,
The lack of blood brings a light that is black,
So that nothing looks familiar.

Tadpole flapping backwards,
I’m not doing justice to evolution,

I know that

The weight is heavy,
So the tree may fight the sighs of the city.
The weight is heavy,
For the tree digs a tunnel beneath it.

Destiny’s Child

The snow was creasing my sadness even further,
Its edges got sharper with each flake,
To the point where I was wearing it
As the proper bride I knew I’d be.
And at once the world was smaller and bigger,
Unhinged but voluptuous as ever.
Fertility shot my sadness in the face,
And with the recoil they both fell and shattered.
The world was made anew, and so was I.
Or hoped to be,
For I knew this poem wouldn’t be finished differently.


I too see women with red pitchers running down the banks of The Nile.
One thousand years penance, three hundred strokes and three million psalms.
Poverty, chastity, obedience, I’ve taken all the vows.
I’ve sewn, bit by bit, the chain mail I wear as gown.
I reckon I bowed to put it on,
Pushed Dominic away, I’m taking charge now.
He kisses the nape of my neck, with a relief unknown to the only man.
And I kiss his mouth, to tell him in secret that I exist lingering inside himself.


After various vagrant nights,
Light comes down the well.
And I sort, plume by plume,
The destiny of them all.
Some go in my pockets
Others, in my chest and sex;
But nothing leaks.
Humanity and sin are kept in
with the help of wood and pines,
Tar kilns and human minds.

And somehow all this feels far behind,
A memory hard to find.

The water is wide
Enough to birth me up
And out. I’m no more your mother
Than I am my own.
Knowing that is dreg and dew both,
Bald elegy that traipses from time to time.
It’s not your fault nor is it mine,
That the thing that killed me most
Now anoints me while
You sleep.

Nothing will change as long as I remain.


If my thoughts spiral as snail shells do,
It is only to protect the plasmic mass that moves
Towards leaves of different greens,
Towards mounds and different scenes.

Ectoplasmic as it seems,
Powers are given to those in need.
To estrange may be to clean
Mishaps of older dreams
Of being better,
Being faster,
Being stronger
Than a snail.

Cædmon was born out of blazing fire on the day of my autoscopy

Fetal horses may gallop in the womb
After strings let down from heaven,
And hark back to generations of music
Buried under the skin.

After birth, the hoarse gamut soars
And, as a fast moving cloud,
Uncovers a sun that is unmistakably everlasting.

Marching Parades

The sort of confrontation I had with the sun was pleasant
I was marching west as it was setting
Life had never been this illuminated before
No shadows betrayed my presence anymore

Still, I carry death in my bosom.
Each drag drags it, downward motion
Towards the other side of the earth,
Towards the bottom of the universe.

As someone with mass and gravity,
I pulled both doors open,
Ready for scrutiny and hate.
The mirror shook but didn’t break,
For the goal was Love,
Love for Love’s sake.

By the yew

Wave the censer in my face
As you do, perfunctorily every month.
Illuminate the Pride pie I so eagerly ate
When you weren’t around.

Quit the calliope and let me sleep,
Quit the amble, four to the floor beat.
The pedometer stopped counting when you left,
My fingerprint stopped working, as in jest.

I ingest the Pride pie,
And taste the salacious words inside my mouth.
I chew them left and right,
Right and left.
Wait for them to soften,
So I can swallow
The bitter refluxes that wear my throat down.

Do not talk to me,
I am not yet who I need to be.
But do not render me despondent either,
Find my body by the yew, later down the line,
I’m sure it should talk in better light.


My eyes are the well that keep the water in the village,
My body is the wood that sings the wind with its shivers.

I need to prolong the night just this one time,
Will not get through this all for a while.

Witches and wizards roam in the dark, write my fortune with a knife,
Tear the fabric of the sky apart.
They leave before I start, witches and wizards and their telling arts.

Lidless night. Another lidless night.

Who are these people?

Who are these people and why are they putting me to sleep?
Who are these people and why are they caring for me?
Where is my mom and where did everyone go?
Where is my husband and where is my home?

I knock every now and again, and a grin comes to the door.
I ask where my mom is,
And the mouth twitches,
Chokes by itself,
Calls me Ms
and speaks a tune I don’t heed,
A melody I’d edge with a pair of knuckles on its teeth.
I turn wood and leave.

Someone stole my people and my things,
I call it out and no one seems to think
It important to report this puzzle
To the police, or the authorities,
Instead they try a muzzle

On me, whose brain is tricky,
Whose brain left.
I hear what all of you have said.
But I know this brain longer than you,
When it wakes and when it rests,
And I know it better than you,
Don’t tell me what it says.


Doesn’t matter which Friday, your rusty hands will pull the old flowers off his bed.
His permanent bed, because rituals are important when mind leaves you slowly.
Brown hands sustained by veins only, pull the roots of a love that survives conscience.

Aphasia is God’s creation too, xylem flows out of you.

Even if most has vanished to nowhere in particular,
the part that was buried with him is the item of mortality which strings us together.
There’s no easy way to say ‘I love you’ to your ever evaporating grandmother.

I guess the only way is now rather than later, unless now is already later,
And in that case all you’re left with is a baby with too much personality
To accept any kind of love at any kind of party.

Aphasia is God’s creation tool, xylem flows inside of you.

Harvest Week

Do not haste the prophetic words of your own hand,
For the fate you shall take is sacred and not swift.

Do not waste the prophetic elm of your own deeds,
For the taste it shall make is novel and not meek.

Grown shall be the hauberk you bear on the day you bid goodbye,
Farewell to all summers, come the harvest week.

Sweet shall be the fruit reaping from your trees,
For all summers you laid low, slavish under Sun’s seek.

And do not underestimate the stroll that took you where you’re from,
For all the time you’ve been preparing the joys of harvest week.

give me the patience

to sustain
my brittle ambitions
and fight the Great War
of my own lonely heart.

give me the patience to endure
for my mysteries remain unresolved.

And now the secret keeper has parted
the secret lies here, bigger,
bigger than before
grimace in its eyes
but the more i ignore it, the more it grows
golden ribs like claws around my lungs.

the skeleton around me does grow
for i keep reminding myself of England
the land where i conquered my soul
not for good, but to show
that I could do it if only I wanted to.

Now I shall go.
Not to the land of impolite snow,
but to the only one I wished I didn’t have to.

But I have to, before I turn old
to fight this dragon alone,
take its claws and make them my own.
Then I shall return.
Not to England where I conquered my soul,
but South where it lays
waiting for me to be able to sustain
my brittle ambitions.

The reign

let the sun be headed south
ride that horse into the mouth
of the lords to come
and go, go ride that horse into the gentle
men that deprive you of your course
of the happiness it deserves
because of course,
.there’s no subject you may serve.

always let the night reign
always let the night shine
always let the knight bring you the joyful happy bride.
and don’t cry the lawful woman
and don’t kill the lawful woman
hold it tight and hold it close
stab the knife beneath your clothes
and if they tell you there are gardens with white doves
as you bleed onto the world
listen carefully and see what does
more harm to you
,to knife or serve.


the last thing i want to do is write
but i ought to
because all is silent now
and lord only knows how much i needed this
but all is silent now
and all these voices now
they’ll come out now

and then it came
fire burnt my lungs
wild fire
i was a barren fig tree
now i’m a bare voice of land
naked, stretched across globes
no water can feed me

bring the helicopters,
watch me grow now.
bring the cameras,
watch me sew now,
all the wounds and wails that verged on that half hour

half moon protect us all
watch me grow
i’m going places now.

a wizened, weather-beaten old man

-a wizened, weather-beaten old man
goaded me while i thought-
.his secret was stamina (he’s not in the shot).
(an unassailable lead ushered in, uncannily)

.it’s true, my thoughts were dancing in a desultory fashion
i was having a moment of unbridled ambition
and some words flew to my throat in distress
(and those words produced a cry)
a caterwauling, like a pair of bobcats.

.i guess he had a proclivity for this kind of situation
pallor faces and feelings of castration.


.i’ll wait a few minutes until the storm subsides.
.she’s huffing under a heavy load,
siren blared, ambulance arrived outside
-she was morose when she finally got home-
she slumped against the cushions
boasting a quiet, laudable gaze
,unflinching face, one i praise (oh one i praise)
.she’s huffing under a heavy load.

and only the gods know how sorry i am
for all i cannot fathom or be
and only the gods know how sorry i am
for all i cannot fathom or be


.body bathed in sand,
lids bathed in light.
.closed like blinds, so as to not lose sight.

.it’s not right having me speak of total darkness
when all i know is black made of too much white.
i only stand it if it properly warms the eyes.

.so if you ask me to describe a total eclipse
or even the darkest part of a shadow,
i should this time come to grips
and explain how my view is actually narrow.


right hand: hammer
left hand: world
right hand: bang bang bang

a two-dimensional globe

now fold it in half
and coreograph
the conventional anaerobe
!what a wonderful dance!
(almost) disgustingly gracious
a nonrefundable trance
(almost) remotely spacious

‘inside small designated pockets
i keep the vestiges you leave behind’
i also stuff some worlds smashed in half
with the irony of a quick laugh.

.this has to stop.

they say that an observer in penumbra
experiences a partial eclipse
and my problem was to think that such conundrum
could only be solved with such a dance

.so babe, stay still (if you will)
for i need to go somewhere else.


(.fuck it. it was a glimpse)
maybe even a reflex arc
(a living annular eclipse)
maybe even a complex part
(of a whole – again, a hole? –
that i’ll never see)
‘it fucking ruins the eyes, i thought you should know that.
it fucking carves the skies, i thought you should know that.’
also, it’s like looking at negatives.
fun, but ultimately quite indefinite
(and i can’t handle it)
is she even there?
(how would i know?)
‘are you even there?’
well, maybe
but not close
(no clothes?)

bad poetry

‘.nothing is irrelevant
you’re not irrelevant.’

‘inside small designated pockets
i keep the vestiges you leave behind’
(in sockets, in sockets, in sockets
…i’m sorry…                              …i was not meant to find…)

(you didn’t leave them for me
i know.)

‘laying on the floor,
i stumble on them,
just like that,
unapologetic sum
.it’s you, matt.’

(and i know you can take care of yourself,
i know.
and i know you live your pieces, utterly,
like you love your faces
and other things
i patently don’t understand.)


‘even though nothing is real
and your vestiges aren’t meant to be in pockets
,in them lies my ability to howl and kneel
and, therefore, to love and feel.’


‘.nothing is irrelevant
because you’re not irrelevant.’

wordsmith (to be continued)

‘there are only so many ways to tie me’
.(half knot
,slip knot
or sheet bend)
,’there are only so many ways to sty-mie

.it was the enchantment of a single rope
,a wordsmith, i should call it (it?)
.an intricate web of my favour-it(?)                       flavours.

.but like with everything else
,i eventually pall’
and eventually apall
.’because there’s nothing i cherish more             than free hands’.


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decibels and worlds within

(can my headphones shout at 85 decibels?
-if only i cared enough to actually google that-
what i know is)
‘i look up and see people moving lips,
lips that lean outwards,
lips that screen flat words,
lips that gently smile,’
(i wonder how they can be so incredibly infertile)
‘.but i hear none of it.
.sitted on an island, in the corner of a cafe.
guitar strings are pulled to make my eardrums vibrate
as your vocal folds kiss each other
they pull the strings of my itchy heart.’
‘i sway back and forth
and read about the coincidence of wants
i dream of the day we barter
is it today, tomorrow or after?’

God’s Wit

in between the green of the grass,
hides my soul made of glass.
as from a dream, my eyes opened to it
and fully admired                   God’s wit.

The sound of my laugh echoed
and on her skin tattooed
the word future,
a painless kind of suture.

‘i steal your hand made of leaves
and you steal mine, we are thieves.’
now i lay void,
as all bad is destroyed.