The day her wings unfolded in my bough I understood the rhymes and songs of all the poets in the all the world, and Love was born unto me. So I presented it to her in silk and verse, beseeching her lips and hands and said: “this is me. Though the sun is harsh and … Continue reading Untitled 3, Soliloquy of a dead tree
Category: If I were perfect
Untitled 2, a paper bag soliloquy
Now with your hollowness folded,
pressed into mine. Tell me,
Are you still the wistful one?
I was reading in bed when they took my neighbours away
And I would (perhaps) feel less shame for my silence then, when the Men took my neighbours away and called a Blessing this unseasonal sorrow under a spring sun.
Day 47
... and I remember the beats and coos of winged and vexed things.
Sunshine Wednesday
Better immured by walls than muffled noises.
On fear
I am afraid I still won't have gotten a plant when I die.
Waiting in line at the Monet exhibition
These are the clangs of the clock counting sunless times. These are the lives measured by a painted sunrise.
To that which I held for an instant.
The night rends, Its wounds are clear as dawn.
Shipwreck
"Look", they said. "Courage.".
Petrichor
I used to think that the scent of the air after a storm was more fragrant than a lover's kiss
On the question of life (because I can’t afford to buy cool things)
How many models of the iPhone has there been? Variants included? 24? 25? We are Winston Smith drinking Soylent Green, waking up in a Black Mirror adaptation of the Truman Show, rampaging through the set and hitting the fourth wall. We are simulation #19456-fourteen, test subjects for the grad school dissertation of our alien overlord. … Continue reading On the question of life (because I can’t afford to buy cool things)
Misanthrope Rising, and a Friendship Manifesto
I have succumbed to the void. But only by a little bit, and for a little while. The successive departure of friends – and I only maintain a handful, deliberately so – has punched holes in me, each one of them an irredeemable, irreparable, inconsolable shape of a soul. However transient it had been, to … Continue reading Misanthrope Rising, and a Friendship Manifesto
Welcome to me.
TJK; I doubt y'alls are actually reading this, but if you are, hey - welcome to me. I have been a writer only in the most technical sense - that words are tipsily tapped out from beneath my thumbs in a tangle of thoughts, all of it me. But I am not a writer in … Continue reading Welcome to me.
Weeps the harlequin
And goodnight to you, good lady. May you wake to a bright and better tomorrow. It bows. Such is the role it plays. The Jester. The fool. The harlequin to the Innamorati. Translator of absurdity, the courier of consolation and conveyor of catharsis, who rides upon the east wind and sparkle with dew. It entertains, … Continue reading Weeps the harlequin
On friendship, and parting
There should be a better word than sorrow for friends parting. Cherished friends, to whom you’ve subtly grown close, over a surprisingly few moments of connection: that one morning perched on the balcony of your regular restaurant sharing toast and poached eggs, the sting of the winds tempered by a spring sun; or the wintry … Continue reading On friendship, and parting
Silence
I'm not terribly good at writing dialogues, mostly because real-life conversations seem to consist of two or more people taking turns talking, over and at one another, making sounds that pass through each other without stopping and disappear. It's never as lyrical as they should be. People don't really talk like that, you might … Continue reading Silence
Love. Mania.
You construct your life from the tip of a pin. Woe is you. Hope is you. Harsh sun is you. Bitter wind is you. The ones who brought you to this world naked and screaming, they were barely twenty-three. A dark alley blowjob and a motel rump and voila, a child and half a mortgage … Continue reading Love. Mania.
Sunday
It's the way Sunday morning feels, aloft, everything else in the world suspended. You wake up to the tickle of sunshine, to a serene stillness occasionally rippled by faint snoring from the silky silhouette besides you. You can’t help but smile at the memory of last night as you tiptoe around the mess on the … Continue reading Sunday
Home
The rebel act of a wayward son.
Oh but it was only sentiment.
It is the knowledge that is comforting. You are surrounded by a motley crew of midnight faces, boys and girls enraptured in the moment. She is there, across the room. She doesn't look at you, and you don’t look at her, but somehow you know she’s there, that there is a secret world shared by … Continue reading Oh but it was only sentiment.
Ugly
I set the ocean ablaze with my own sun.
Lovestruck
Oh. That was his thought when he met her. She was pretty, for sure. Frazzled, curly bleached blond hair streaked with strawberry, greyish blue eyes that refused to hold his gaze. She wore a looping white T with black squares. A massive scarf coiled around her and made her look fragile. She had a meandering … Continue reading Lovestruck
Death of a friend
It was lunch time. Izzy gave me half a BLT, I shared with him my French fries. We sat against the wall and braced the rain and chilly November air and became friends. We were kids then. Two stupid, broke and starving kids trying to survive London, scrambling from gig to gig making ends meet, … Continue reading Death of a friend
Farewell to J
J and I met on one soggy afternoon at a charity networking event. She was there to represent her organization, I a creeping wallflower looking for new causes to attach myself. We struck up a conversation, thus beginning roughly two years of friendship. It was one of those relationships made up of long stretches of … Continue reading Farewell to J
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