smoking in sloane

hold a hand too tight and it will break
glass is too fragile- breathe and
shards will scintillate ash, haze and memory
into the milieu


time is the longest distance that stands between
reality and dream and the
punishment is faithfulness to these
broken stars on the ground


bitter air cracks the skin, but
handless arms can still grip onto what isn't there any more.
warm purple candlelight deviates
from these cruel fragments.


blow out this light that is impossible to
extinguish and so,
farewell.

pack your bags

all these lights
they mean nothing when the
wind so easily changes your
mind.

until you leave, the
taste of lemon will
stay on your lips
with his name.

holy smokes... the old kings walk again

sunday evening poems #1

be with those who help your being.
don’t sit with indifferent people, whose breath
comes cold out of their mouths.
not these visible forms, your work is deeper.

a chunk of dirt thrown in the air breaks to pieces.
if you don’t try to fly,
and so break yourself apart,
you will be broken open by death,
when it’s too late for all you could become.

leaves get yellow. the tree puts out fresh roots
and makes them green.
why are you so content with a love that turns you yellow? 


-rumi

fluorescence on a repost

fluorescence causes shadows on the page to

dance to the carnage of

writing, and flicker to the

dissection of paper, must

i lean so close to hear it breathing?

fluorescence causes pupils to

constrict and listen,

the windows to identity and

little known secrets becoming smaller

and smaller until i can't feel me

anymore.

droplets form on eyelashes where hidden

thoughts come to

escape their destiny of being trapped behind

dazed eyelids.

fluorescence causes memories of

reality to disintergrate for however long you

want it to stay.

reflections remain locked in treasure chests 

buried at the bottom of your ocean divined 

heart, in return for three hours of

neglect compassion and ache

because my hands don't shake, internally on a

stake, doctor 

what can you prescribe for a chest that breaks, a

heart that quakes?

lips that... break

promises like falsetto meets window

finger print contours work as the map on my skin, so

forgive me if i seem so distant

it's just tricky for lamb to let,

lion in.

fluorescence is the dream catcher that folds 

anxieties into paper swans, so to

pick and choose dreams, to

restore them to life, or stub them out with your thumb


to feel luminance pump through your ether,

fluorescence is the dream caught.

back on the scene

roses were never my favourite flowers, such
fine structures and fragile creases, such
full milky lips with
sensitive posture they, can easily deceive the
black and white.
flowers like green eyes, i gaze through them and see forever-
never can she cease to flow.


purple veins swim through pink flesh, she,
the right hand maid to lust knows her vessels are but
hollow.
her body is a masquerade, her body but a waltz, my eyes dance to her
serpentine gaze, her green eyes,
i can't stay 
away, what is an hour when a second is a
day, and a promise is a promise when it comes to the grey but
left in the clockwork of her heart, for her i pray.
it's as much as i ever could anyway, because black and white is just
easier sometimes.
she will never be mine, her thorns too sharp for my
weak skin, i cower away from her royalty.
her life is a paradox sending shivers down my spine so
i walk into the grey and forget about the black and white, for
although her petals will forever be my everlong
her water is but poison to me.

my favourite song today

just something about it.

same

bruises fade from purple to yellow, and leaves
on skin decay as time learns to loosen its grip.
you have to forget to scratch your own back sometimes be
cause
doors can never be locked when you don't own the
key and
don't forget: legs can
never be broken when they don't belong to you.

you're a slow motion suicide

incomplete

i'm on a journey to the grey because
black or white just isn't enough for me, so
meet me sometime i'll
be at the core of the venn diagram-
where east meets west, where it's
a blessing to be blind so meet me at the centre,
where my soul can meet my mind.

thank you ganesha

for reminding me of this song.
say. no. more.

your tongue is a rudder

brand fuckin new

sign up with evil

i always feel the need to do a tribute post to elliott smith.

the smell of home

it would smell like the roses on the streets of hackney, sprinkled
with the crushed mint my mother grows and
the honey from the bees my brother promises to harvest.
it'd smell of rebirth and welcoming paths
promising footsteps guide the way so,
turn away from the ones that hurt everyone,

the water in my garden is plentiful.