my dear, do you not suppose that there is more to be had than that which abides within the fleshy casing of my being? for you to sample something of your own blood and bones, the soulful stuff – we are not made to suckle from our peers, but to find contentment from behind the walls of the soft shell in which we are captured.

mr. contemplation

i supposed that he imagined each of the loose ends strung throughout my life would be sealed and tied up with the brush of his lips against my cheek. but i vowed to find such glue elsewhere; i looked to the world that held breath before my birth was ever written into the books of time. i looked to the matter that would exist if it had not been written in at all, or if it had be scratched out by the Creator in a moment of indecision. for is there not greater beauty in knowing that despite the founded wisdom of the ancient wildernesses, bound in larger stretches of time than even the strongest heart could try to beat for, our pathetic, wriggling bodies were still granted space among them? to connect exclusively with members of our own species, would seem an insult to the grand old world we see before us. but i doubt he ever considered meaning to exist above the line of his sight or below the seat of his pants.


my life was perfectly mundane, sweetly ordinary, peacefully plain. while the cravings for adventure did caress my couch-and-cookie time, the ease of homely comforts numbed those longings before they grew to adolescence.

but what i failed to realise was that adventure came packaged in more ways than one – but whether or not he knew that too, he still made it very clear that mine was only to be found in him.

hands tied

i wondered who else might have given way to the persistence and persuasion of his flavour, and prayed that the life they had led up to that point would have shaped them in such a way as to provide them with the means to escape unscathed. i hoped that they had found a new life, living in a grand old house or a glossy white flat, or whatever they should choose. i hoped that they had been able to make choices.
i wished it for them, as it seemed futile to wish anything upon myself, when the God who controlled it all had those wish-granting fingers tied up and bound in [un-named]’s gnarly rope.

july 27

are you trying to make enemies?

to belittle those who put their heads on the block for you, seems to me a surefire way to feel the wooden press against your own neck a little sooner.


a white vase, freshly sculpted by strong potter’s hands
and painted by delicate fingers
teeters on the cliff’s edge.
unknown winds bluster its surface,
threatening to ruin,
like the desert deformities of the Altiplano.
and surely does one blast catch its base,
and with unforgiving hurl it
to splinter into pieces,
some which settle softly on ledges of greenest grass,
others bounce down rocky ridges
and some find their fate
in the churlish throws of the water below.
and so, does the pre-Earth child
crawl in unity
with its embryonic companions,
unknowingly towards the fiery splintering of souls.
as one tiny hand fondles fluffy blankets
and dozes under newly painted walls,
another wails in greasy gutters,
their first earthly glances
soon plagued with hardship.
this is not childhood,
this is premature maturity to the iciest degree,
heaped upon a child whose actions
have yet to define their choices.
we may long for innocence,
but must rest in the knowledge that
we were forced to leave it,
as the claws of the capitalists
shoved some into playpens
and others into ditches.


the midnight fireworks and tinkle of glasses,
heads tipped back in bawdy unison,
throats burning in celebration
of a dear friend, classmate, colleague, brother,
the air hums with its tune,
but my darling,
my celebration does not end
when the headache fades
and the stained shirt is washed out.
i will dance in praise of you with every step,
and with every word,
i am singing a mountain song for you.
the tide does not fail to ebb
when it tires of the foam,
but will follow in peaceful stoicism
till the moon falls into the waters
and the sun begins to blink.


you walk some place brighter now, and i can only pray that those who called themselves your devoted would come to see that success did not secure your peace of mind –

i pray that they would look beyond the reaches of their trembling, and know that there is so much more life to be had.

train ride

as i sat on the early afternoon train,
just before the evening rush,
i looked across the carriage at the empty seats –
gaudy purple and yellow patterns
that deck the train out
like a christmas tree.
and so i wished that my fingertips
could hold some essence of goodwill,
for those who would be later sat
upon my tracing.
for though we come together in our passage,
cramped into a box on wheels
that coughs us out
and sprinkles us across the country as we demand,
our moment of unity
will soon be split
into paths of uncertainty,
and nobody can say whose path will be first to end.