Idle Conversations and Crude Infatuations.

The stars blow musky smoke. 
Pink and gritty, I wish I could collect it-
Collection should be possible.
I want to inhale that smoke,
Own the star
Just to renounce the efforts made.

To start, with out appreciating the end,
And end without meaning to start.

A supernova could made the universe 
Burn fuchsia and dissolve
Into tar and cancer.
Would it be so wrong to hope?

To question without care of an answer,
To answer regardless the question.

The moon could grow greedy and unscrew
Light bulbs, one by one.

Darkness without morning is
Darkness without morning.

Sentences, lethally half finished

Trap air in lungs.

Letters, unique to themselves

Present a minute passed. 

Mutilated clauses, void of ends

Watch blood bubble blue. 

Eternality between a word and the next.

Eternality leaves unrest. 

Finish the story

Or drown in the silence.

Dreams grip the vertices of the mind,

Clinging like dewdrops formed 

By the breath of morning.

Liquefication is not salvation.

The dew crystallises and shatters

By the breath of mourning-

A realisation left beneath closed lids.

Gleaming beside the sunrise

Broken fragments shred the blades

That fastened them. 

Lid opened, the box falls flat.

Illusion lost, eyes open,

Morning breathes its breath.

Six sides, one lid, 

The box is whole again.

On the sludgy bank stood


Daisy and iris.

Bent over like beggars,
Wilting together,

Stood Daisy and Iris
On the sludgy bank.

Their orchestra of siblings,

Crumpled like the pages of

 
Carelessly placed sheet music,

Streamed through the wind-
Their movements traced, battle lost.

Alone,


Daisy’s will to live departed,
Along with its petals,
Floating in the wind.

Left to rot was its golden centre,

Iris’ dirty treasure.

Receding to Earth,
Daisy decomposed with its golden song.
Iris still sings.

Paper thin,
 Air left lungs
To bleed as razors
Descend through throaty coughs.
Suffering through travel brochures’ public love.

The green,
Long disappeared,
Replaced itself with thin mist.
Craggy rock, shapely and attractive
Caressed tourists’ necks and legs alike,
In the hope it could drag them to steadfast oblivion.

Lullaby grew sweeter and louder
Like the rush of wind past ears,
Like the tang of nectar
Hung to dry.

Dual blades moving:
One thousand rpm
Cut down your friends
Leave you to the end.

Left long and alone
They grow back together
To meet you at old lengths.
Forgotten, you can wait to choke
On the toxic of the petrol, but don’t
Want
To disappear.

The generous black of charcoal,
Left throughout the room, sought weakness.
Turning to the unmeasured
Pictures and stories it stole,
With help of fire.
A solitary smile shone.

Charcoal spread itself between toes and across hallways,
A nameless pandemic.
Once potential, reality stripped any possibility
Of remembering life previous.

Without flinching, the room was left empty;
Guilt set in. Fire was meant to blaze in just
Tones and textures 
Rather than heat and light.

As the gas can and lighter fall from either hand,
Smooth wind plasters an old shirt and worn jeans. 
Smiles are exchanged between
Silent wind and ever-ready embers.

I wipe the dust off your collarbone,
Softly kissing it. 
Discoloured and protrudent it feels
Dead and fragile like wedding china.

Would it shatter?
I wouldn’t want to pick up the fragments,
Yet holding it made me a thief,
Undeserving of its cool calm.

Placing it on the edge of the table,
Balanced delicately,
I let it decide itself as I walked away.

The brown, barren plain,
Eye-less and forgotten for lifetimes
Began to burn.
It held the flickering flame tightly,
Relentlessly relinquishing each of its
Tiny, tortured fingers.

While the wind blew softly, singeing
Grew painless like the ancient ages where children
Lay, and play and forgot.
Forgot.
Once the wind stopped, the singeing became 
Incineration in centuries of memories.
Playground.
Proposal.
Pyromania.

No matter left for it,
It chose ashes,
Flying away on the wind.

I’m Trying Something Different.

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Sometimes I feel like my world
Is not 
Their world.
While new paths seem so alluring,
They are not mine to follow.

Laughing, cheering, drinking.
I feel dull
Next to the brilliant streetlights 
Shining off the road ahead.

The dormant police car down the road
Seems eerily ready to erupt,
Although empty,
Despite derelicts shouting from the corner.

Late at night,
Out in the open, 
It seems like writing is illegal;
Getting caught with the penalties of death.

Thinking now about death, it doesn’t seem sudden-
But smooth
Until I think about it some more
And it becomes sudden once again.

While noisy roads scream their late-night abuse,
While quiet drunkards screech with sharp turns
I feel like the road, not like the car.

A petal falls.
The flower didn’t need it.
Still stalwart,
The flower stands,
Wilts,
Droops,
Falls.
A flower falls.

If ink floated on water
Hopes could flow in rivers
Bound on rafts of soggy paper-
Assembling in the sea.

If words had courage,
People would cut their tongues-
Watching each lie bleed down their chin
With a smile.

If ink had courage
Words would float on water
Calling their lovers and victims
As siblings, and
Blood would run in rivers
Assembling on a smiling sea.