A small collection of possibly some of my best works recently published in The Bubble Magazine
I want to draw
all of you
little narrow detail of your face
all over the walls
of my mind
until every inch of me
is covered in
every inch of you
I want you
to occupy my space
my every corner
open my windows
unlock my doors
until the room is filled with
your humor, your light
your darkness, too
I want to itch
with the weight of you
sink underneath your bones
with the treasure of your skin
sinking to the bottom
of your ocean
drowning in all the pieces
of your form
oh, how I want
Sometimes the poem has more friends than the poet.
My lips poised above hers.
Waiting. Teasing. Tantalizingly close.
The battleground is utterly silent,
the deep breath before the plunge.
The First is a warning shot.
A brush against her cheek
towards the vulnerable, exposed portion of her neck.
She moves to counter and the battle begins.
It is carnage.
A flurry of attacks - Blitzkrieg.
I rethink my strategy,
A tactical retreat.
As she moves to rout
the trap is sprung.
A precision strike to the neck.
Carpet bombing my chest.
Drawing me closer,
As the tips of my fingers move to her nape
preparing for a fresh skirmish.
Our defenses shattered,
We resort to trench warfare.
Sporadic assaults across
The no-man’s-land between our lips
Here we lie. In the throes of passion.
Breathless. Without a victor.
Contending with the fluttering of butterflies.
The smoke wraps her in its fleeting embrace
In her eyes a flicker of fire.
The Night - the Great Captor
has her in his tendrils
We twine and entwine to escape
the wraiths of smoke
My world blurred
Reeling from my heart’s echoes.
I feel symphonies in my veins
as we weave a pattern
through the pulsating crowd.
Light penetrates the heavy cloud,
traces an indecipherable note on her face
flits from ear to ear.
Her beauty consumed me in an instant
Intoxicated my vision
Intuition’s breath leaning on the motions
Planting kisses on cherried lips
glowing with the embers of fire.
I revel in this garment of kisses,
succumbing to the will of the Night.
Live fast, die young, and leave a good-looking corpse
You can tell that i’m an amateur writer and it’s nearly 3am, bloody hell.
Now that so many parts of my life hang by a thread, i can really see how fragile it all is.
I can see how swiftly and suddenly a dream can be taken away, by people who barely even spare a second thought.
I can see how easily even the closest of relationships can be hacked at and bitten until the bond is split, by nothing but doubt and space.
I can see how quick people’s opinions of others can be to drop, the fall from grace unanticipated but sure.
Sometimes our position in the regard of others can appear so well-founded and lasting that we forget that it’s based on just one quality. Whether we remain on our pedestal in another’s mind or not is the true measure of how much they care.
Or, maybe, not how much they care, but what part of us they care for.
If they see only that quality, the one which has held us amongst their most respected for so much time, the one which causes the fall, then that much is evident when we hit the ground.
But if they see more, if they hold to our “redeeming” features, to those virtues that we could not rid ourselves of even if we tried, then we feel our bond with them more keenly than ever. We remain part of their inspiration.
Which are the real friends? Whose regard should we cherish most? Most would say the latter group, and they would be right. But, as dictated by my foremost weakness, i don’t know if i can live with having disappointed the former.
It makes my descent all the more painful.
Sometimes I lie awake at night, and I ask, ‘Where have I gone wrong?’ Then a voice says to me, ‘This is going to take more than one night.’
Falling is easy. Picking yourself up, dusting yourself off and ignoring the burning pain; not from the scraped knees or the lacerated hands but from the gaping wound in your chest that the absence of open, welcoming arms has left; is one of the most difficult things to do. Yet we’d do it all again, in a heartbeat.
You have five minutes to wallow in the delicious misery. Enjoy it, embrace it, discard …and proceed
Her iridescent eyes whispered
in tones as soft and gentle as the
crimson sunset resting upon
where lingering shadows
accentuated the perfectly formed
contours of burning desire and
my sweetest surrender.
You are the sun that blinds the stars,
you are the glow that dances across the sky
in blues, and pinks, and purples — the colours,
upon scenic winter views of snows capped
pine trees and pine cone mountain peaks.
You are here, always, reflecting the warmth
of your smile upon the surface of the moon,
and letting the milky waves wash on shores.
You are breathtaking, just as you fall asleep
and just as you wake up, and every moment
that fills the seconds in-between.
You are, you are, and you may never believe me,
so I’ll write, and paint, and collect images and ink,
until my bones wane to dust, and my hands become the earth,
and my heart, becomes less and less, and into the air.
I’ll make your beauty undeniable with time,
and against time, and for time, and you’ll last,
forever, and ever more.
Breast to breast her weight,
pressed, to rest upon and in
my own; feather-light but firmly
rooted by heartstrings.
Nose to nose, eyes transfixed
on melded reflections of
enchanted souls; united
without knowing why but knowing,
they fit perfectly.
Lips suspended, linger, hesitant.
Warming breath greets warming
breath; birthing tension, creating
energies that reach with unseen
hands, to caress, to kiss
though lips remain parted.
Her porcelain face
the perfect back drop to eyes
of the bluest skies,
where it kissed the horizon
in misty autumn.
Binding the glistening
All writers are vain, selfish and lazy, and at the very bottom of their motives there lies a mystery. Writing a book is a horrible, exhausting struggle, like a long bout of some painful illness. One would never undertake such a thing if one were not driven on by some demon whom one can neither resist nor understand.