Hold me at the tip of your tongue
And speak not, intimately
In suspension of that trembling scaffold
Lest it crush our unsaid space

Touch me the right way
And say the wrong nothings
That in ambivalence I may stray
To some mistaken grace

**** me over in your dream,
Lay me out, exposed,
And carry out your shrouded theatre
Recompense for your absence in mine

And gently, in your tangled strings of pathos
Tie me at the cusp of your love

WARNING: EXPLICIT CONTENT

in crimson breath i draw your image,
ruby rogue, apple temptation.
temptation, yes temptation.
GOD
I want to swallow you whole
and keep you in the pit of my stomach
I want to rip your skin open
and see your true face
I want to fuse my soul with you
even if it stains me red

Dear Rogue, come ****** my heart out
thief that you are, of my innocence
and my days of apathy
Color me, even in blood
For I would rather bear your mark
than remain an empty canvas

Dear Rouge, know you are the apple of my eye,
the source of my passion,
the greatest possession I have known.
Your image lingers,
I cannot resist.

I do not want to resist.

I want to float awash in your torrent.
And lose myself in it.
Cast my visage off like skin,
that we may be naked and kindred in exposure.
And hungry, still.
That we may devour each other.
Consume each other.
Consummate each other.

I want to **** your cherry.
Bad metaphor, I know, but such are the workings of passion.

I want to want.
And I want to want more. To covet.
For you I would sin and burn in elation.

So, R., what would you do for me?

I want you to steal my heart and claw it open till it bleeds a sea of rouge

the beauty, the resolute stillness of night
and the absence of a day's wreckage, too
is no consolation for that greater hollow
which yet darkens my countenance
and voids my soul

but in the aches of time, all shall emerge complete
if unfilled then at least whole —
holy, even — under better eyes than mine
more open eyes than mine, heavy under insomnia

so, in passing with the moon,
that complete and empty dawn will arrive by a close of the eyes, a gentle descent to sleep

which is why it cannot come so easily,
lest the waking day illume my solitude

In the blanketing abyss of night's prelude
no lamp subdues the dark within
but rather set a hazy stage:
lucidity's awakened hour

Dimly and diffuse you blur
through my drifting lines of sentience
reaping your cruel harvest, slyly
scattering my germinal love

How grim this fate that you have cast
upon my hopes so premature:
aborted at 3 weeks
more loss than I can take
enough for me to bury
enough for my resentment
burning unrealised:

fire of my nascent eyes
piercing through the false eclipse
scorching your covert disguise
the veil I long to rip apart
and disintegrate with verity,
to spit upon with love's acid froth
crude as every image of you
...
crude as dispossessed illusions

For I know you no longer,
and grasp for silent solace:
I can still turn the lights off by myself
by myself

They say we are free.
Free to bark, if no one listens.
Free to scribble, if no one prints.
Free to inhale, if it doesn’t cost too much.

This is not anthem.
This is not lament.
This is autopsy.

Let the ink blister the page
for those whose stories
were throttled before sunrise.
Let the silence rupture into
a thunderclap of what should have been...


Judas of the Womb

Her name was reduced to a whisper.
Her death, a technicality.

She died of sepsis? No!
She died of legislation—
the sanctified paralysis of law.

Izabela.
Thirty years haunted by patriarchy.
Twenty-two weeks into a doomed gestation.
One human life overwritten
by a cluster of cells wrapped in legalese.

“They’ll wait until it dies,” she wrote,
"Or I will."
She did.

The state shrugged.
Three men in coats clutched
their degrees like shields.
Guilty, but not too guilty.
Penalized, but not inconvenienced.

And somewhere behind a mahogany desk,
a BBC editor ticked the
"Do Not Disturb Poland" box.
Because truth, like radiation,
is best contained to domestic fallout.


The Jester Beheaded by Branding

He made them laugh.
He made them uncomfortable.
Then he made them look at themselves.
That was the mistake.

He survived presidents.
But not the quarterly earnings report.

The axe did not fall.
It slid.

No cancellation. Just de-prioritization.
No outrage. Just polite press releases
and quiet exits.

The revolution will not be televised.
It was tested poorly with key demographics.


Soft Guillotines

Not fire.
Just foam padding and soft lighting.

No jail.
Just "violated community guidelines."

No riot gear.
Just Terms of Service.

They won’t stop you.
They’ll just stop broadcasting you.
They’ll hide you in the cellar of the algorithm,
behind un-skippable ads and SEO oblivion.

Your words are welcome—
as long as they sell soap.
Your outrage is valid—
if it fits in a drop-down menu.


The Global Echo

Warsaw, Manhattan, Manila, Paris.
Different names for the same soft boot.
The same velvet rope
around the neck
of the narrative.

They don’t ban the voices.
They dilute them.
Filter them.
Render them un-shareable,
un-searchable, un-fundable.

We live in a marketplace of ideas,
where truth competes
with cat videos and loses.


The Hollowing

When liberty must pass through a monetization filter,
it is not liberty.

When satire must first clear advertising compliance,
it is not satire.

When journalism fears its own clicks,
when editors redact themselves,
when profit margins call the morning meetings—
we are not in a democracy...

We are in a theme park of tolerated dissent.


The Sliver of Soil

But still—yes, still.

There are cracks in the concrete,
uncatalogued by surveillance,
unpolished by PR.

In those fractures, we gather.
Not to shout—but to build.
Not to trend—but to outlast.

We will forge our voices into chisels.
We will scratch our stories into steel.
We will be inconvenient.
Unprofitable.
Relentless.

So write what they won’t publish.
Speak what they won’t air.
Sing the verses
that sour their brand strategy.

And if we rise, not in hashtags,
But in habit—
not in virality, but in volume—
not in fury, but in fidelity—

then liberty may yet bloom.
Not fast.
Not free.
But truly ours.

For so many reasons;
When the wow creativity
Of the young, new baby poets,

Bursts all over me,
Making me question
My egotistical perception,
Not a slap, but a belly laugh!
At the old fool, who once thought
Ever so secondary briefly, momentarily,
Unofficially, of his own esteemed self-worth,
Only to be reminded, deaf~dumb & blind~sided
By the fresh air, the aggravating sight of new insight
The delicious!delight  of reading the whole of all night
The explorations, the baby hallucinations, the trembling,
Insights of the explorers of the old, not re!newed, but, but.
Made anew, re~viewed with perspectives boldly unknown,
With crazy wisdom to expound, here, you! right here, right now,
I leave you and return to delight, taste, new extra languages, that
                                               I must
                                         learn not to speak
                                       but to peak, even to
                                     Cry, Laugh even Smile  
    
                              In all my new native tongues



Friday, July 18
5:39 AM,
2025
In the sunroom

Dictated in one fell swoop, not a moment to lose, dispatched while
Still laughing at myself...

Flexing patterns
Slight of hand
Flattering inspiration
Fostering me
In its warmth
Soft whispers
Like a breathable oxygen
Prima ballerina
Please grace
Me with your soft sweet movements
In limbo I’ve been
Four leaf clovers
Splitting lucks running on fumes
Army of me
Loosen up your
Bark
I’m just a man
Never claimed to be a king
Creaking floors shout
Gazing walls stare
Don’T shine like silver
Castles
Of sand crumble
A devoted
Loneliness
Just had to veer
It’s ugly head in
Fragments far to relevant
Excavated as the days go
Set by step
Word by word
Masquerading in every detail
To the finest degree
Executioner
Of life latched onto my
Footsteps and wouldn’t unite me

In July 2023 I posted a poem entitled For Hours of Time.
Little did I know at the time that it would be taken by a composer and turned into a piece of music (with my permission!) this year.
The composition is for a solo violin and choir.
Below is a link to the video:

https://youtu.be/mpGcrWHwb7g?si=5loGIGzfUcGVN7VN

I hope you enjoy Sy Anderson and Pagan Pauls collaboration.
I'm really proud of it!