Tuesday, August 23, 2011


You scare me with your silence. I could shake you, slap you, put you out of your misery, carry your tune in my step or hold you till my breath dies . But you wouldn't feel a thing and I'd die if you said something after I've given up for this one last time.

Thursday, August 18, 2011

A Hundred Times

It happened so quickly. Pressed against the wall, your hands locking me down, all I saw was a blur. I could hear you take short, sharp intakes of breath while I dared not even blink. Your eyes burned into my bowed head and I fidgeted till you quietened me the only way you knew how. You leaned in until every inch of me acknowledged your presence. When I finally looked up to meet your gaze, you slipped your hands into my hair, softly stroking them and I died for the hundredth time. You didn't stop there though, oh and how I hoped and wished you wouldn't, and you didn't. Your lips nudged and teased my earlobe, traveled down to my neck, licked the entire length of it with a slow and deliberate trawl and you stopped right then letting your lips rest on my nape, while you let me catch my breath for a moment. Your eyes shut tight, you had your lips pressed hard against my skin, waiting as I made up my mind for the hundreth time but only this time this wasn't a dream. And it was with that realization that I sank to the floor, but you stayed there, watching me bite my lips in confusion. What happened next, I won't ever understand, but there I was on the stone, cold floor with the man I had hopelessly given my heart to a hundred times over, disappearing into the glowing dust that danced in the faint afternoon light.

And there I was waking up from a dream I've just about escaped from a hundred times and more.

Tuesday, August 9, 2011


they come crumbling off the pages
spilling more than what I can hold
forming puddles of reflected light
that splash out into the receding memory
of your flight.

leave no trace in the wind, nor in the
breath of the lover left to revel in his
all too heart wrenching, solitary existence
bereft of encircling arms and comforting hollows
of warm flesh, that could speak to him in even
the deepest sleep of the darkest nights.

come unasked for, like you. A pulse that quickens
with every premeditated typographic flourish of
your everyday babble, can only take me so far as the edge.
And then there's a slight push, that comes gently
from a gaze that flickers with the afterglow of electric
backlight, that I can't see but imagine, till it awakens
a response.

possess moments with startling vengeance, hiding
them from us in layers of glorious, seductive, infinitely
murky possibilities and we succumb like the
house of cards we are, destined to grovel
at their feet until we may utter them no more.

Monday, August 8, 2011

Friday, July 8, 2011

Between your conscience and mine

lies bare the deluge of soiled clothes and karma.
Sunbathing in the light
of coldblooded sin, pleading
guilty of love and nothing less,
truculence as addictive as soap operas,
I spread my legs and you, your bashful acceptance.

Saturday, July 2, 2011

She comes and goes. Chapter 4

18.11.2010 Thursday

She could be dead for all I know. Where oh where can my baby be? I have spent days at my window, patient as a rock getting battered by the sea, but she comes forth not. She must have dissolved into the sunlight like a singular golden beam that looks to stick itself to others of its kind. Where are you, my Lo? I long to put my pen down and go back to the window but I must not. Documentation is important, they say. The medicines they give me keep me from doing something stupid, they say. But there is only so much you can say before it stops making sense. I might have taken a little too many of those little, dull blue pills. But that was only to make HER come back. Why won't she come back? I might have freaked her out. She might have seen me. In fact, I think I saw her look right into my telescope one evening. Her white dress was swishing against the pale white floor and she was dancing slowly to a song I could only conjure in the darkest of my midnight dreams, but there she was ambling, shuffling, floating, gliding and then just like that, she stopped and turned to look me right in the eye. I almost fell out of my chair but she looked away then and continued to dance. Maybe she wanted to get away from my omnipresent eye and she's gone - gone sailing into a sunset haze that I can't follow. These meds better start working now. She's not going to come back now. I know. She's not coming ba

Wednesday, June 8, 2011

She comes and goes - Chapter 3

031.10.2010 Sunday

I haven't slept in three nights. R.E.M.'s been playing in the background and there's a constant whirring of the fan, that just keeps going round and round, till I feel like it's going to crash onto my head because of all the effort it's been putting in to go round and round. I've done all the reading I can for the rest of the month. There's just no space in my mind, there's absolutely no space. Instead, there are little holes in my memory that don't seem to return like they usually do. I'm losing bits of my mind and and I don't know where I've left them. I have to leave myself little time capsules so I know I'm not actually losing time. And I'm not, I know. I found twenty five post it notes on the legs of my dining table with little Kafka quotes scribbled on them, dated to last evening. I don't remember writing them and it looks like I've hurriedly scribbled them with my left hand but I wrote them, so I know I wasn't passed out on the cold floor of the Colony bar. I don't even drink. So I'm not sure why I gave that particular anecdote. But I did write those notes. So I know I was home safe with Freud slinking around the house in his general absentee presence.

6.11.2010 Saturday

She knows she's being watched. I can feel the prickling on her subconscious from way out here. She twitches about suddenly, peers from behind her curtain at odd intervals, and even walks around fully clothed. She didn't have as many articles of clothing on when I laid my eyes on her for the very first time. It had been raining heavily for days on end and I was enjoying a cup of black, sugary tea at Yellow's. She had barged in with a friend of hers, both drenched to their freshly painted toes, looking upset with the weather like they hadn't known it had been raining for a whole week by then. I could have kissed those toes. Too young for me, she had looked. And even if she wasn't, what would I have done. I quietly observed. She lit up a cigarette with an enthusiasm I find missing in smokers. She was positively beaming after that first, succulent drag. I can't shift moods that easy, but the sight of her long hair flowing over her white shoulders like a turbulent river had taken me on a raft ride I wasn't going to forget easily. That was almost a month ago. Now she's ingrained into the pores of my skin, so every moment I breathe, I can feel her live across my street.

12.11.2010 Friday

Night sounds. They're not always bad - like the constant, low whirring of the fan or the crickets wheezing outside the window - they keep the silence out because silence within these four walls can be deafening enough to make me go Van Gogh on short notice. And I'd like to keep my ears on for now. Last night, the sounds were different. Silent swishes in the dark, darting noises, movements made out in deft manipulations of sound waves, amplified in a small room - they terrified both me and my cat. Freud was on his alert best last night, not even blinking for a moment. I knew he was scared because he kept flicking his tail and made hissing noises once in a while. Ah the poor little furball was in knots alright. I played some music to push the noise out of the room. But that only aggravated it even more.The swishing noises soon turned into bellows and rumbles and I'm not sure what exactly happened then because I woke up with my cheek kissing the cold floor this morning. Freud was staring at me with an odd, questioning look, his head cocked to one side, like he's confused. I've never seen that much emotion in his face before but last night must have moved even a gargoyle, leave alone the cat. I will go take a look at my Lolita now, so I can calm my nerves.

Thursday, June 2, 2011

She comes and goes. Chapter 2

25/10/10 Monday

The winter drizzle made the day a lot cooler. The past few days have been such a bust. I ventured out for a bit, bought supplies, indulged my photography needs, visited the bookstore I had spied a couple of blocks away from mine and even went to the fish market. I don't like fish. I cannot stand the smell. Reminds me of my mother and that dank, dark kitchen and my mother in that dank, dark kitchen, weeping to herself. Her tears must have flavored many a Sunday brunch, or that late Friday supper. She never did speak much. Always watching and waiting or waiting and watching from corners, quick to jump to orders, even mine. I loathed her self-deprecating manner and her quite bustling. It grated on my nerves like some loud, obnoxious music. How I hated her. And then she died, in that same dank, dark kitchen and that was the only day I remember crying. I didn't realize it until I saw that her face was tear stained and for a moment I thought she was crying at her deathbed as well. But I digress. Fishes. That's where I was. I had gone to the fish market to get fish for my pet cat. He's quiet for the most part, to the point that I sometimes forget he's even there until I notice a lump moving about on my couch under my black parka. A black cat under my black parka, he hates being photographed. I found him nibbling on one of my lens caps the other day.

After so much activity, I had been waiting to get back to my little, white window, with the chesterfield bare stool next to it. The telescope was a gift from an annoying ex girlfriend. She wanted to take it with her when she left but I managed to haggle it back from her. She took my television instead. At about 11 a.m. today, I finally spotted my lovely, walking into her living room. Her long legs dragged across the room in a lazy conversation with the floor, her white negligee stopping right above her thighs. Her black hair was mangled and fell in heavenly curls around her bare shoulders. From here, it looked like she was glowing like a lone street light on a deserted road. It looked like she was waiting for someone, because she kept looking at the door and she wouldn't sit down or stay still. And it had to be the boyfriend, yes? Because a woman like her could not be single. He walked right in, he must have the spare key. And she fell into his arms like a pack of cards. I'm not sure what I was supposed to feel but all I felt was a strange sense of euphoria at seeing her feel this happy and loved. They proceeded into the bedroom then and there my viewing pleasures ended because my scene was blocked by these huge red curtains. It was infuriating ,to say the least, but I doubt they were going in to the bedroom for a heart to heart conversation. I wonder if they'll ever fuck in the living room. I'm not sure I could watch. I'm not sure I want her to fuck at all. She needs to be kept in a long glass case, safe from the filth of this world, and nothing should touch her ageless beauty except the touch of my lips against hers.

I don't want to write anymore. I'd like to wait for them to come back out now.

Thursday, May 26, 2011

She comes and goes. Chapter 1

12/10/10 Tuesday

Any onlooker would have thought she had been brutally kicked in the face by some member of the Russian Mafia, but I knew better. She's recently picked up painting, with an enthusiasm I find quite endearing to behold. I only say recent because of how her hand ever so lightly trembles when she's about to dab the brush along her canvas and the way she practices in front of her mirror to tie her hair elegantly around a pencil thin brush with paint smearing. Last night, she fell asleep while working on a self portrait and while usually she feels the need to wash her face at the basin when she wakes up in the morning, today my lovely decided to go out for a walk. She did not take notice of their eyes following her like ravenous wolves and she walked in an even pace, never slowing down, never picking up; her bosom rising and falling to meet the cold wind of the winter morning. She didn't venture further from her street. Our street. And then she stopped suddenly, her heels digging into the pavement, but the rest of her body wasn't paying attention, so she tumbled around a bit before she could manage to completely come to a halt. Not elegant, no. But she melts my heart, she does. And she had only stopped her unnatural morning walk because she had caught her reflection on the bakery window. Face marked in blacks, blues and triumphant purples, her favorite color palette if I discern correctly, she really did look badly bruised. And to my rapturous delight and to the street walking frails' surprise, she burst out in peals of laughter that just descended onto the street like runaway music. I had never heard her before, and while I captured every note of her mirth onto my memory, she walked back into her apartment still giggling to herself, clutching her dress with both hands, her sandals slapping the ground in merry tandem and I just had to sit down and catch my breath, or I would have fallen and broken my head for want of oxygen. Good things are to come this way, I know.

Thursday, May 12, 2011

Getting back to the middle.

There's an attempt being made at storytelling. The telling would be a lot more easier if someone were listening. So we are to be ignored for now, and to that end we shall remain dignified in our own absence.

Wednesday, April 20, 2011

The Dreaming Shows Good Things.

Love is the little dry leaf
Inside your desk
Where a folded tissue accompanies
Other motley assortments
That you possess.

You've creeped into my morning dreams. Is this a sign? I'll let that pass for now.

- I've decided to leave the door ajar. You could be entering or leaving, as long as we're moving onward, forward. Yes? Because only now do I see some faint distinction between love and relationships. Some misconstrued conversations and several nights later, I've decided to leave the door ajar, so you could do with me as you please. Because only now do I see that I'm in love, not for the first time, no, but there's something here I would like to watch transpire. Strange morning dreams indicate happiness if I'm reading them right. And you, you knowitall God of all things, you I shall worship from my own brittle pedestal of steel. Because only now do I see the truth in your words. The truth that I see falling from the evening skies outside our home. This is meant to be.

Why not, right?

Tuesday, April 19, 2011

You don't know how lovely You are.

I collect comfort memories. Pockets of warm happiness and gentle companionship - like cherished second hand paperbacks, these come around quite rarely. Last night, you handed me one. Just like that, just by being there. All I remember is how your skin tasted, half breathing, half dreaming. I shared your travels in that moment, miraculous and humble at the same time. I touched a dormant fire, knowing one day I'll burn in its natural wrath. But last night, all I felt was its feathertouch warmth, glowing yellow and red, carrying me gently onward to quiet slumber.

Monday, April 18, 2011

Never Too Late

Maybe this isn't real at all. Maybe my fears are what really fuel this reality of ours. Maybe that's why I can never see past an evening that whizzed by us last year. And maybe it wasn't just last year. Maybe this started years ago, in my windowless room that I shared with my sister, when I probably didn't know that 'maybes' existed. Maybe it's all in my head, weeded in, grown out of the psychobabble that I'm subjected to on a daily basis from people who don't give a dime about someone else's sanity. And just maybe you and I should have left it like it was. Subdued. Strangled. A secret.

Monday, April 11, 2011

Hungry days and Horny Nights

I see you
Perched precariously
On a little gargoyle
Seamlessly floating
Against the blue blue wind.

If you were a canvas, I'd paint you foreverblue and throw in some fevicol for effect.

I see you
Hourglass in hand
Eyes shut to the dreaming
In the blackness that is your soul.

And a single flame burns, while I wait, night after crimson night, songs falling from a listless heart.

I see you
Flailing body, swaying
To a rainy beat
Pitter patter
Your feet tremble.

Aren't we lucky you have a magic wand that goes pop?

I see you
Peeping in from the other end
Of your skewed pair
Of looking glasses
Pensive and brown

And I pretend to not watch when you're dying in your box.

Friday, April 8, 2011

Keys and Stones.

I'm going to move into my own apartment in two weeks and there's no better feeling, really. Nevermind that it's far, far away where you can see the sky for as far as you'd like and there are bullock carts instead of cars. And nevermind that my friends will be on the other side of the city and I'll probably never get to see them. I'll have my own house with a kitchen and a bathroom with a shower and everything. And nothing will ever be borrowed again.

To new roads, cheers.

Tuesday, April 5, 2011

Dazed and Lonely.

I feel like I'm walking through doors all the time. In and out. Doors heavily ornate some, others plain and simple with a little doorbell that goes ding! All of them open and close to little pockets in my mind, where I find little peace and a lot of doubts. Flaring up to the slightest indication of loss, holding on to tattered pages of history that almost everyone's so happily forgotten, how dare they. I'm not supposed to pee on you and make you mine, no? Territorial rights can be sketchy sometimes and I haven't yet learnt to handle them with adequate grace and dignity. Sharing a bed helps. Memories of vague intercepted mail, don't.

And the weariness of my addled mind just adds to the aging cage that is the body, making it difficult to breathe in this thick, knotted atmosphere. There's nowhere to go but huddle in the corner of a borrowed room and let the dreams fill you up till you forget you're dreaming, and then some. Mottled ropes of twine I feel like, about to collapse without warning, straining against the mouldy wall for support, sighing dramatically, till I'm sufficiently depressed enough to be happy. Oh I'm a keeper, yessuh.

Monday, April 4, 2011

Almost Dawn - Twilight Haikus

A cloud struck midflight
Your naked back in moonlight -
I need some reprieve.

Paper music gods
And volumes of poets dead -
In our heads they sing.

Pantomime sunday
It's summer caught in blinks
Wish it wouldn't end.

Thursday, March 31, 2011

The ocean calls to me in disquieted waves
It's been far too long
Oh yes.


Tuesday, March 29, 2011

My psycho heart etc. etc.

Our scars match, visible or not. Physical reality's as overrated as any other pseudo interests we may have. And we forget where our loyalties lie. We forget so soon.

A broken piece of a song walks inside of you
And it's made a secret place for itself
Hazy sorrow and quiet longing
You're filled with autumn leaves and glass beads
That flow away with the winter rain.

She lies uncoiled, awaiting luck
And other fickle friends
A dark night flooding red
She embraces, with an unpoised charm
That ruined many a heart.

He's quiet for the most part
Indulgent to a point
But not reckless like you'd want men to be
And there's that little painsizedhole
That she's always trying to not see
But watches wearily anyway.

And she's downed a far too many
Not knowing what to say
Green bottles stacked against the wall
The paint's peeling off her face
But she's only thinking of his gentle ways.

And he knows what she's remembering
The halfdreamhalfreal vision from past morning
Cos he reads her like she's the God's book
Every line on her face that she's so desperate to hide
He reads her like she's the book divine.

But there's only so much to tell
Before ghosts reappear and seize everything back
She needs an obsession new
And he's far too tired to pursue.
So before he could make a plausible excuse
She takes the knife and plows it through.
And redstainedcarpets are a bother enough
Without a body to haul and a heart to rip off
So he quietly picks himself up
Takes not a single image to remember
And walks himself out with a cat in tow.

And any other night we'd all be asleep
Dreaming of hippie littered beaches
And black shiny rainbows from hell.
But tonight's something else, oh yes
We're giving the world a skip
And hitching a ride to the moon
Where the stars are just a little brighter
And our souls far behind in the dustbins.

Sunday, March 27, 2011


It’s all stop gap, my heart

Split second reverie

And a canoe shaped moon.

It’s only survival, at best

Paper cut love

No nonsense, no.

Its quite a revelation

Deep fears

You know less, every time.

It’s however no mystery

This patience

We are just passing by.


Friday, March 25, 2011

Friday Night Blues

Elmo (this cat I know) likes to sleep a lot. He's still a kitten, so I guess he needs it. I, on the other hand, don't need as much. But on a Friday night, I find myself on the bed, with my laptop, staring at a screen littered with people I don't really give a fuck about. And Elmo's looking at me, wondering when I'll shoo him off the bed. Honestly, I just let him stay because I need the company. This cat business really makes me feel like an aging spinster, but that's not really true, is it?

A prancing pony takes flight mid prancing somewhere but you're still a distant memory. Wisps of brown hair caught in sunbeams ohsobright, you're the epitome of lost loves. Come back and say a few nice things and maybe we could be friends again.

There's no use complaining though, is there? Right now there are 59 other people on my Friends List, online. I imagine them, little glowing souls waiting to connect, waiting for a sonic splash of color SPLAT!, waiting for a little anything that'll pick their fancy. Not consciously waiting, either. But it's there. Elmo waits for Oceanfishy, mostly.

Some nights your voice takes human form. Scribbles in my notebook, a hand brushing through my hair, orange flavored icecream, R.E. M. songs, - pockets of memories I'll never throw away. Maybe, you were here to never be here, afterall. Like the ghosts I used to tell you about.

I'm not always like this, though. I like my time alone, most of the time. I spend it in reflective solitude - munching on a book or some music or a tv show. It's surprising how much of our time's spent in looking at other people's work. But not tonight. Tonight I wanted to be out there, finding something new, SEEING something new, treating my senses to new delights. I sound dramatic to myself and I wouldn't really subject the blog to so much trite, but I made a promise to keep writing and that's what I'll do. Elmo's licking my foot clean now.

So called friends, you are being let go of tonight. Like starlight that never made it to your eyes, you're being forgotten, once and for all.

Friday, March 4, 2011

Long Division.

Some impasse this turned out to be. Between cold, dead words and warm life there’s this little crack where I managed to get myself wedged into. There are no epiphanies here, only choice revelations of amoral overtones. And I have been no saint. No siree. You can rejoice now but only there’s this question of sleeping business and so forth and so on. You get me?


Ofcourse not, you’d say or I’d think you’d say but that’s not what we’re talking about. I thought I’d write you a poem, one of those Neruda-esque heart warmers, beat skippers, mill of the run types. But that’s all been done and said and whispered in ears too many with little results and much ‘too many’ dismay and sorrow. We perform our way through life not knowing we’re on stage, not realising that we’ve created scenes that we have to probably stash away in the deleted scenes section of the blue ray disc edition. But YOU are no deleted scene, my love. You are the disc cover, if I could be straight with you here. With you around I know where I stand, centre of the universe, centre of you, centre life. You are shiny, new and quite the collector’s item and you’re all mine for now. Get me?

Monday, February 14, 2011

I can't learn from experience. Like ever.

Monday, January 31, 2011

Love Letters

There's a dead place, oozing sedated thoughts and lingering phobias that don't match the sensibilities of our time together. Lethargic, I spend a trifle more than I hoped I would in the barter of our life moments that come in on tiptoe, taking us by storm. I see you there. Wide smiles and an upturned heart. When do you tire? Why don't you?

And you scratch open little tears in my skin, wriggling in like you know where you're going. I would hold up sign boards but I couldn't possibly be that forward. You know this don't you? The shape of our lives made out on our bed, a jumble of legs and arms, hearts on torn sleeves, eyes melting in the afternoon breeze. It's a poem, yes. Made of sweat and tunes. Like train wrecks and ruins. You and I are stories made from deep fires. And I'm quite sure I love you.