Sunday, September 29, 2013

Poetry from 2010 (Part 2)


Here are ten poems I wrote from July - December 2010 (out of eighteen). The themes here range from self-reflection, music, romance and class to polygamy, memories, sex, beauty and life.

A Man Within Me

A man deep within me,
the voice of the crowd,
criticizes all others
just to be loved aloud.

Faced with the pure,
he is quick to uphold
his aesthetic veneer
as the richest of gold.

The critic of bodies,
he loves his own face,
this man without heart
yearns to be replaced.

This man never breathes,

but screams for the air
to circulate through
emptiness everywhere.

A man deep within me
loathes his reflection,
but a broken boy stares,
wishing for deflection.


A sun is to set
but light does not fade.
Her resonant croons
have me remade. 

Secret beauty obstructs
my skeptical sight,
shedding my darkness
to harbour the bright. 

Her swallowing girth
controls every thought.
Her angelic smile
yields all I’ve sought. 

My pivoting body
surrenders to song.
One falling petal
to where it belongs.  


It is quiet again,
the moon doesn’t blink.
Stars needn’t wink
in Nobody’s Land. 

The clock strikes midnight,
and you must run
to your dusty home
in Nobody’s Land. 

Your disregarded beauty
is caught by an eye
of His unpretentious side
at its very best. 

You’ve tasted the wealth;
such sweet bitterness.
Your lavish Charming's
smiling incidental gold.

He’ll follow the trail;
glass slippers and pumpkins,
evading the certain plot.
You are just by chance. 

What would you pronounce,
through all the dust,
to exchange the solitary
for pure solidarity? 

The affluent bug bites,
taints your virtuosity.
Everything’s on a timer,
but you’re no Cinderella. 

So, if midnight is to strike,
and if you must run,
never delve into love.
Let the dust fall upon you. 

Free Love

An earthly current

conducts monogamy
through my network
of vines and veins.

Nature’s shoots

penetrate the dreamers;
releases their inhibitions
as light swallows moon.

They synthesize as we sleep,

whether chasten or fallen,
love is unfurled grain by grain,
is passed from heart to heart.

Hegemonic influences
prove too powerful
as my heart of purity
becomes a void.

If cradled by warm

telluric sensuality,
I’d be faced with
organic liberation.

They love long
as blood is green.
I’ll accept that
if life runs cold.


I sit at the table,
cut stars and hearts,
wishing to be...
wishing to have...

The music pours in.
Still, I have not one.
Life was promising,
but I’ve died since then.

It is memory
and I stayed awake.
And coffee was nothing
when I was young. 

I stick them in
the book once someone’s.
I’ve since passed away
onto other failures.  

Golden 39 

I reemerge after golden 39,
unthreading the paragon,
fibre by gorgeous fibre. 

Ribboning light reduces,
illusory fires brush my skin,
undoing the inner pain of me,
floating away in a rip of dark. 

She did it again; 
revived my soulless spirit.
I am better, happier; 
hopeful of love.
Of life. 

The minute wind-up,
such perfect closing.
She murmurs and echoes,
I fall all about. 

Back into sleep, 
back into dreams.
Internal wonderment, 
knowingly sleeping.  

News Reporter 

Clean-cut correspondent
presenter of youth,
your creamy white smile
fills my screen like fog. 

Aesthete of complexion,
you entice me
with tranquilizing speech,
and mar my time. 

You shimmer like pearls
in a treasure chest,
luminous in good news,
picturesque in bad. 

Silver-tongued orator
you magnetize me
and teach me to
never touch the remote. 

That’s all I learn
as thousands die,
as storms break cities,
as I near death.  

The Dark Beguiler 

The dark beguiler
sparks his blackest flame.
YouΚΌre a helpless moth,
surrounding him at night. 

His supple hand lures you
far beneath cover’s surface,
shining light from every deep,
but never enkindling you. 

Your energy won’t last.
The web tightens around you.
You’ll fall to him
before you fall to sleep. 

You’d never known until he.
You’d never noticed a lackluster glow
in the heart of your blood.
You’d never known it until he. 

Only until he filled you,
your emptiest canvas,
with all the falsified colours,
only then did you know.  

This Time 

My hand creeps,
Leaps like a spider.
Uncurling, unfurling its length,
Careful tracing of your head,
Embracing you entirely. 
No stopping and starting.
No time. 

Oh, we could be...
And you could be...
This delicate lust still isn’t love
Oh, how it should be... 

My body wilts,
Spills over with magma
Erupting, erupting into you
The dormancy of my mind
To you, I am inclined
To settle for lovelessness
This time 

Oh, we could be...
And you could be...
This delicate lust still isn’t love
But how it should be...
This time.  


If death was a train
I’d sit in the back
Watching life go by
My feet dangling over 

Escaping the life
I’d be a wanderer
Built by chance
By my mother

I’d ride my way away
If I had a brain
My intellect is numbed
By dialect’s pain 

Locomotive lust
Takes me away
Whistling new songs
To progress the day 

Facing the sunset
From forward angles
The train will stop
When life untangles 

If death was a train
I’d shovel the coal
Continual voyage
To find my soul

Poetry from 2010 (Part 1)


Here are eleven poems I wrote from January - June 2010 (out of sixty-six). The themes range from war, anger, love, lust and sex to time, gender, existentialism, self-exploration and isolation. 


I believe in an angel
With ribboning wings
She takes flight into skies
Lit by cheating combat

A saunterer is she
Perched on milky cliffs
Head raised, eyes ajar
Unfurling her precious skin

Her smooth, pastured blood
Corrodes the order of peace
Summoning the contemporaries
Thaws them fit for war

Birds revive her by dawn
Filtering her corpses
Collating in quiet haze
To breathe (millions alike) in


Glassy river uniting currents,
suspend a quaint translucence.
Flow, you crystalline explorer;
explore my stalactite skin.

My blessed shelter, a rough veneer
demanding limbs inside my core.
Dwell into my middle chamber,
pacify my stemming heart.

Enter the moss-hungry cavern,
faint backward into soft chasms.
Breaking from anxious vines,
I eclipse you from perilous mouth.

My darkness inhibits famine,
provides our place of synthesis.


Sitting alone on a rocking chair
until the sun goes down.
Shadows turn to melted
pink arrows on the ground.

I was pierced years before
it became just another day.
My stillness in recent times
caused my love-idle ways.

Walking alone on a hill
holding arrays of flowers.
None could be as red as
the pain of love’s last hours.

I pick every open petal;
one for Grace, one for Belle.
Some fall down like Jade and Hope
but the rest take flight for Val.

Thinking of times gone by
of aphros and burning hearts.
Never did I question
an ending to my own art.

I finish my last search
of any possible love.
Turned to stone like Val,
she knows I did enough.


Aching teeth yearn melted sweets,
to wrap around those hollow sheets.
Finding pain from the simple joy,
to weave the blood of a broken boy.

The needless drive quivers through me
as I levitate into needles.
The needless drive impales my mind
as I release into nothing.

Aging eyes beg younger hearts,
to shatter the exquisite art.
Earning pride from the winning feat,
to wrap around those hollow sheets.

Thicker skin requires careful caress,
to respond in turn with sultry mess.
Prying open the eyes of lead,
to deny access to those misled.

The needless drive staggers before me,
as I suffer its breath.
The needless drive traipses though me,
as I suffer rebirth.

Let Me Be

In every crevice
Under every leaf
I’ve wondered

In every shadow
Under the water
I’ve suffered

Love might bring a chance
To let live
Let me be

For now, I know
Life opens or closes
Stays the same

Inside my skin
Within the bone
You’ve explored

Atop my chest
In my melting heart
You’ve burned

Forming droplets
Breaking deadlocks
Let me be

My Seductress

My Black Seductress;
sleek in tune,
smoother in tone,
my fingers trace your inspired, leveled skin,
like layers of the last moonlight.

Delicate timbre resonance
reflects my inmost stark.
Though completed by your harmony,
my spirits cannot sustain
a fulfillment in perpetuity, alone.

Your past mistreatments ensure
a soft, intimate caress,
my cautioned method.
As others play inexpertly;
I dare not exploit you.

A fingertip gently lingers,
as my back bends in error,
ignorance thick as a storm
oppresses my urges,
while its rain cannot cleanse me,
nor heal my inexperienced hands.

My Black Seductress;
my undeserving fingers tease
as simply hushed allurements.
We both will have to go without,
vainly capturing the first sunlight.


Pierre paints himself a home,
weaseled into his own world.
Equipped with fresh arrogance,
his new degree of sex unfurls.

Pierre attracts with eyes closed,
whispers and pleads to start.
Perpetual alluring breaths
emphasize his useless heart.

That proud step of Pierre's
conceals his lacking life.
Coated with cold hard sex,
that is only how he thrives.

But, Pierre is not skin deep,
his iced eyes beg us all.
And his formidable silence
acts as an iron wall.

He is no longer a secret,
his life is known by man.
So my shadow reaches out
to hold onto Pierre's hand.

He starts to smile again,
to the world now wasted.
Pierre consumes a life,
a reflection he replaces.


They’ve crept out together;
Pierre and the boy.
Hid swiftly behind thirsty stares,
the remains of a figure, coy.

Snowball (Angel 2.0)

We retell a myth
With our open hands
Carving in the air
Invitations spared
The luster lacks glimmer
Horizons grow thinner
Still, I assume attack

Crust snaps from the heart
Avalanche commences
Collecting all our love
Snowball commences
Collecting all our love

You lived in hesitance
Eyes were unopened
Visions undeveloped
The rawest spirit
Collect my only love
Spared for broken hands

Collect all our love
Propelling angel

Lay us down to rest
With our opened hands
Entwined in ageless air
Snowball blankets us


I nail the coffin shut,
Entomb you in the soil.
Choking is the grit,
All the dirt you’ve spoilt.

I hold the tightened noose,
A body dangles under.
Nightmares chase you deep
Into dreamless slumber

How could you be anything?
I wouldn’t reach for your hand
If I were held underwater
That’s where we stand

The Sea

When I’m craving attention,
there’s a house to be cleaned.
I am never mentioned
as her tide floods the stream.

If I tried to run away,
she’d net me by the shore,
ensnare me in her notions,
vindicate her frightful flaws.

Before she broke the waves,
I thought of living free.
If we’d never shared blood,
my life would have been.

While I speak achievements,
her baby traps first place.
But if I killed the serpent,
it would mean such disgrace.

Her death would be certain
without the art of swim.
I remain caught in the net,
tangled by local Grim.


Whisked into a winter brisk
Sewn into journeys alone
Seen to by perfection’s gleam
Exploded into rain’s embrace
A trickling remedy
For sadness and isolation
Heart’s breath on my neck
Awakens the sky, fleck by fleck
Cloud by cloud, star by star
Cascading in sheer brilliance
For my greedy heart
Such a reckoned start
Pin me to a pillow
I will steep in love so brisk
Everyday, in winter’s risk

Oh, How Time Flies!


Here are three poems I wrote back in 2009. (In 2009 I wrote eighty poems)

Genesis (Pick-Me-Up)

Why tear me away
from the nutrients,
red and blue,
in her soiled warmth?

If I hadn’t blossomed,
I’d have followed the tide
carried through the current,
from her insides out.

Breaths prove impossible
when I fly solo
into a tube;
my tissues aren’t white and soft,
but red and blue.

Her legs remain spread,
as ivory hands prod my remains
and pick me up;
she needs the pick-me-up.

Gushed like faulty plumbing
for the months to come,
painting my Genesis’ flower
into a rose;
Sanguine death.

I’ll be her specter,

haunting for reasons unknown.
Did she dispose of me,
or I her?
Oh, my Genesis,
forget any trace of me
now that it’s here again.

The Man Of My Depths

The man of my depths

dares not find the ivory,
but indeed the masculinity 
of my own fulfilment.

His swarthy being unlike,

consuming day’s needless light.
Lain in simultaneous unchaste,
our musk blooms rich blossoms.

Surrender life to his Spring,

bearing vibrancy and honour.
This revival of our cultures;
his devouring my own.

Our articulations oppose,

the darker dialect controls me.
Amorous wits now merging,
complete, impartial as men.

A Quicker Sand Than All

Cannot accept control

Denying my own views
Though concerned for others
To myself I’m untrue

Drowned in self-oppression

Runs deep as I am tall
I sink into depression
A quicker sand than all

Throw myself to the wind

Vivacious in the books
Hide my heart of diamonds
Frightened by any looks

I’m a contradiction
Afraid of my submission
Living for the fiction
I’m my own omission

Wednesday, September 11, 2013

Poetry of the music


Some of the poetry I write and music I create is connected. My poems are often quite lyrical or rhythmic in nature. 

Down In The Cog-Work Of My Mind (2012)

Down in the cog-work of my mind,
where static nerves cannot unwind,
every part is in its place 
of anti-movement, anti-pace.

When I start to move around,
immobilities unbound.
Common joints all follow suit,
although my mind is stuck en route.

I climb up; up to the thought tread,
I ascend myself to my deathbed.

If I could summon any pain,
I would ignite my every flame.
Though I’d only smoulder out,
I’d try to wet my lips again...

Allow my body to unclog,
as I unwind my every cog.
Allow my body to unclog,
as I unwind my every cog.

Grandmother (Cold) (2013)

When the vines arched over us,
and the plums stained our toes,
I heard the swelling inside you
as we lay in the earth.

You were a mother that day,
though all the children had strayed.
But now whenever I lay,
I hear a cold, grey voice say:

“Two, but never three,”
my grandmother to me. 
“Two,” though I’d’ve three.
My grandmother let me.

All your hunger pains grew,
into a tumour or two.
I heard the empty house cry,
and saw the fish pond turn dry.

The very source of your love,
was where you placed me above.
Warmest womb of them all, 
I hear a cold, grey voice call:

“Two, but never three,”
my grandmother to me. 
“Two,” though I’d’ve three;
my grandmother let me.

The first shock like a quake;
still we tremor and shake.
Sometimes a loss can’t be just,
but in that grey voice I trust:

“Two, but never three,”
my grandmother to me. 
“Two,” though I’d’ve three;
my grandmother let me.

“Two, but never three,”
alternate memory. 
“Two,” though I’d’ve three;
did my grandmother see? 

Greece (2013)

I see the child in you

We were baking in the sun
Hot stone and a deity
One gaze of the star

You wrapped over me

As the shadows were growing
On that freezing night
You carved marks in my belly

Nimble as monkeys

I wove you new skin
Could you throw me an arrow
I, of the unknown

Transience looms heavy
We, smoothened by the rough
Scoop up the honeycombs
Think muscles and bones

Could you hold all the pebbles

Extracting from blood
I return to sunlight
But you must stay young