Poem: Better Days

I woke up in a sad airless room, 
the smell was nocturnal – –  a lover unwashed – –
eyes as rheumy as the sun was callow.

My bed,  a pallet of sisal and dried tears, 
crawled with plagues and woes
I couldn’t abhor unless utterly sallow.

I was spared,  the desolate walls tell me, 
but I can’t make escape,
my blundering he never seemed so hollow – –

The famine of better days and easier childhood, 
is an illusion us orphans of motherless bastards
harbour as poison too thin to swallow.

The wet bodies,  dead remnant eyes, bemoan
broken biers, dry incense bowls,  wickless candles – – 
God’s meagre fallow.

A bloodied sandal, clipped toenail,
pale lipstick smudged on creaky floorboard,
the tongueless robber says,  hullo.


Poem: I Long For Distress

I admit, the thorn in my
rosy bush of desires
stifles me no longer.
Its prickling, uncompromising
disassembly of nerves
is nothing but brutal coquetry

Over time, with my thresholds,
winced and climbed over,
by ladders of tolerance, intolerable —
my longing for distress
has been cultivated,
and it’s no longer just a garden.
for, comfort is like a blanket
that doesn’t cover my feet fully,
even if it did,
I wouldn’t abide it.

My better self disowns my virtues
for, my baser self brings
the kind of satisfaction
that balms the craving. in my
marrow, my maw.

I admit, that the darkness
strays not from questioning eyes —
for what can they do me?
beyond shunning me and judging themselves
So I let this near-dark fright, fragrance
the impure air of my hypocrisy


Wow. I haven’t written any poetry for the last year or so. I was on some hopeless quest to unfind myself by delving only into prose, can’t say I’ve achieved what I set out trying to do. Don’t even know what I mean by ‘unfind’ myself. Too much Pessoa speaking? Anyway, at least I got to finish the first drafts to 4 novels, THE AWAKENING, HOUSE OF DYES, SUICIDE CLUB & APOCRYPHA. No more novels for me this year, going to polish up these four and get them published. Hooray!
Considering how I much I have abandoned other writing endeavours, poetry mostly, I’m going to focus on that a lot, this year. Screenplays too and shorter prose pieces.

This is the first poem I’ve written in eighteen months or so, it’s a bit rough, but I hope there’s still enough of the poet in me resurrected here. Please tell me what you think.

There are things fixed in this world,
that though unrooted, could never be uprooted.
Then there’s things which are wrought
by the brittle heel of old mythologies
I don’t know which part my love for her falls —
Maybe halfway in the shadows of both.
Or maybe it’s the sun casting a shadow where there’s no light
or light where there’s no shadow —
All I know is, I’m a fool caught in the eyelashes of a blind world
For, love is blind and all that.

Love is also death,
dearth to the enterprising nakedness
of my crass naivety
Love, her love, is a net that catches
the vague articulation of my flair
Her love — not our love — is beyond
the haughty fling of intellectual whimsy
to which, me and my contemporaries — if I can call them that,
indulge with contempt.

Love, her love is rain on a Sunday afternoon,
totally unexpected, but cool to the trickling drop
just chilly, but snug enough to be comfortable,
enough to want just a little more.
Love, her love, if it were a home
it would be a home built on forgiveness given
before forgiveness is required.
A communion of undreamt trespass.

POEM: A Reckoning

I find respite in the restlessness,
the faceless bow
Going in circles, on and on,
on and on. Anon.
Following the roads that follow back
to this place I never really knew.
I mount on a steed of nostalgia,
ride to memories
I never had, but run I do,
Running only where I can crawl
Crawling only where I can run
Haunting where I could dwell,
Dwelling where I could haunt
I become the god and the subject
The marble and the sculptor
The church and the cornerstone—
I’m the faith that’s broken
By a congregation that won’t bend
I’m the sun that dies for the moon—
I’m the echoing silence of Reckoning,
I’m tortured and torturer,
I don’t know what has become of me?
Or if there was even a me to become?

POEM: No Time To Grieve

I feel the rumble of the clouds—
they jar like the recoil of a whip;
They crack the frame along the path
which the lightening fragments its own motion.
I see the light, forming like the stir
of raucous rivers mirroring the swift
vibration of stars jangling
in their haloed coronas,
somehow the sun still comes out and
draws in on this ceaseless lament;
And it’s rays rush down like little child soldiers,
errant and petty—
the world seems to be unbecoming
from Generations to Revelations in seconds,
And then, I realize,
that I’m grieving for the flower of life
When the forest of aesthetic is burning.

POEM: Love Is Falling Through The Hole In My Pocket

Love is falling through
the hole in my pocket
onto the cobbles,
the strangers side step it—
they want none of it,
not even the beggars;
their nothing is better than this something.

I got this love from a merchant,
he had bought it cheap,
and to me, he sold dear.

The merchant shook my hands with the smile of a cheat;
well knowing that even if providence flowed
around me,
it’d find its level elsewhere.
Knowing I’d regret learning to love—
for, I was never cruel till I loved.

Its hard to feed infinity into an equation
it’s error to think love as anything but vermin.
It just won’t quit.

For, conscious in love is to be
conscious of your own incompleteness;
the isolation—the boundless solitude—
the granary-full reap of randomness,
the harvest of wilt and blight—
the pregnant emptiness that
pounds like a pulse
unreachable humus of darkness
that claws with invisible fingers
I’d never known despair
Till I learned to love.

POEM: Birds With Gills.

We rode to the banquet
like the harlequin of death,
in a piebald stallion of jest—
we made shame where shame couldn’t make itself—
we danced around a stump
celebrating the betrothal of fire and ice,
of flesh and sword;
and like madmen,
we danced on the sinking titanic—
And down we went,
on waves of their screaming—

We rocked their uncertain boats and their sodden cruelty
till we breached their sallow liveliness
And all these branches
stood out over the driftwood of our supplicating hands
where we struggled like ghosts
haunting our own shadows.

Crying like birds in windless—cloudless voids,
our wings were basal, daunted by sturdiness,
And we dreamed of a fall, we flapped our gauntlets,
and filled the silhouette of infamy
with the leather landscape of our dim argent moons,

We were Icarus—flying past the sun—
Buoying towards the smoldering ash of
our own contrition—
we were the birds born to swim,
birds born not to soar.