we were speeding on 'e'
in dastardly overused lexemes
i used to forget, ending
peachy words with
'jolie' (or 'moche').



write: meta-cognition.


he writes lines and
chisels octaves onto my
skin, dough, bones and lacquers,
he says they are the only places
where mad love-notes would fit
without the keys.


the bed has turned bipolar,
diagnosed with isochronous stability.
we sleep in half-cut apples
held up by sombre scissors.


he imbibes couplets
from strophe tea-cups,
he leaves me hungover
in stanza trains.


he says that i am
the last pen he has and
if i were to stop dreaming,
the poet would be dead.*




write: writhe, wither.

The Summer is here...or was, once.
I remember it, beautiful and green.
The lush hues unbroken
shining in the golden sun.
green stretching for miles,
and i loved it.

But soon the fields began to change.
The sun burns too much.
moisture evaporating,
air becoming dry.
And the green was slowly dying,
on the lips of Summer's mouth,
and just hot breath was left
and even that was dissappearing.

The Fall was coming, waiting.
For Summer to leave.
Gently helping
by dousing the trees with kerosene
and it dropped the match,
while i was pleading, begging
for Summer to stay.

But the fire had started,
the leaves began combusting
and i could do nothing
but let the world be set ablaze.
The green melted into
golds and oranges.
Reds and browns.

And i was left
with falling leaves
and a promise
that Summer would come again.

Parallel to you who finds comfort in the light,
I find peace where you flutter, in the depths of night.

You’re chased and swatted and hurtled outside,
I do hope you can find somewhere bright to hide.

For my darkness is my contentment, peaceful, serene
My mind falls absent, happily empty of the obscene.

Does the darkness outside, fill you with trouble and worry
Like the impending rising sun sets my mind a flurry?

Oh wise old moth, please stay as long as you need,
My bedside lamp can be your refuge, no need to plead.

You don’t have to tell me why you’re here, or open up to me,
Cause your presence here alone is a pleasure to see.

In twenty-four hours you’ll be looking for new lights to borrow
But please remember, wise moth,

I’ll be awake and lonely again tomorrow.

The trick or treater stood before me
Dressed like someone from a story
He was looking good but really gory
I knew just who he was

The blood looked real and really icky
I knew the kid, his name was Mickey
The dried blood it looked really sticky
He never said a word

Zombie like, he stood there staring
It was a fantastic costume he was wearing
I'm sure that most kids he was scaring
He held his bag up high

I reached behind to give him candy
The treats were close, I had them handy
I gave him chocolate, a bar called "Dandy"
He smiled and walked away

I watched him leave and said "good haunting"
I hope he gets all that he's wanting
He looked at me, like I was taunting
He didn't understand

Each year he goes out trick or treating
One year poor Mickey took a beating
While he was standing, and his candy eating
He's never been the same

He's 24 and no one cares
It's not the same if he's not there
He always comes and stands and stares
Mickey is our favourite ghoul

They have spent their
content of simpering,
holding their lips this
and that way, winding
the lines between
their brows. Old folks
allow their bellies to jiggle like slow
tamborines.
The hollers
rise up and spill
over any way they want.
When old folks laugh, they free the world.
They turn slowly, slyly knowing
the best and the worst
of remembering.
Saliva glistens in
the corners of their mouths,
their heads wobble
on brittle necks, but
their laps
are filled with memories.
When old folks laugh, they consider the promise
of dear painless death, and generously
forgive life for happening
to them.

The injection
The perfection
A numbing high
A bliss I can't deny

The inhalation
The dreamt sensation
A solace turned thrill
An intoxication she'll instill

******, tripping in zest
Another hit, I've been blessed
*******, whiskey, paramount ****
The ultimate drug, she's what I need

No agenda for rehabilitation
Plunging deeper into fascination
Peeling away at the skin of society
Never want to enter sobriety

what I really wanted had little to do with
cupcakes

and everything to do with the way
your eyes followed my
lips & tongue
as I pulled the first taste of icing

into a mouth that has been
ready to tell you "yes"
since before you formed
the question.