Morning invades;

The shoreline, infinite.


Questions of

Diverse proportions

Coalesce like the orb to the deep.


From stone to soul

We are gradually dismantled,


As destinies follow

The ebbs and flows

Of currents of time.






Pubescent grievances,



I wake to dress my vanity

And not myself.


The heart no longer swells in

Revolutionary rigour;


Alas, such inconsequence,











Allegiance to the soul


Flounders with effeminacy.















Rugged mural lynched above thy death bed

Hangs like a white flag...

That once was a treasure trove for musing;




Could it be Ereshkigal’s  depiction

Of life’s terrestrial  trivialities?










I telepathically breed one word

From another;

The speech of the unworded speech


In silence.


This decadent allusion

- The yoke -

Hangs profusely from my fingers.










Liberally decorated with colours;


Abstract compositions bear my disquiet


Obtuse words; embryonic

Bear the grudge of

Self-styled confessions.


The manifestation of insolence,
















Truly, I am my own master

(… Am I not?)

Or have I eliminated all those around me

To be beneath me?










Upon every grave-stone

A face of a thousand faces


Words on epitaph

Unlace past deeds, yet


Simple tributes,

A memento mori

To themselves,

Replicates the disintegration.










Irrepressible nerves

Scorched fortress

Beneath a hopeless cloud

























Hands and feet tied before the roasting

The crimson flames of Catholicism

Suffocates and empties the very organ



Symbolised my heart.


The contradiction of aggression and apathy

Swirls like cyclones amidst symbols and tunes,

Has me faltering

- Handicapped -

At twenty-four.











If only it could be reversed


The iconography of my own,

Primed, attributes

Has assumed my title and name;


Yet in a plume of smoke, in this haze

It is not the divine light that seeks me

But that of the halo upon which

Crowns Immanuel…


Thus, who will assume this name

Which gave birth to my identity?

























Gilded ornamentations

Decorate the smiles of dreamers;


Their gifts, evidential,

Weaves a common net


That inevitably sequesters

Their self-defects.










Surveyor of thoughts

Curator of memories of dreams

A player amongst the Cachuchas…










The ignited forms,

In this mathematical maze beyond

The bright twinkling that illumines the dark canvas:

Man pondered these images and created signs;

Created mine.


Though composed of binary oppositions,

This self

- the purist symbolism of myself –

Evokes scepticism amongst friends.





















Off rue de Rivoli,

I have found an audience

Meticulous in their note-taking…


But it is I, who should resign

To this discretion.


So let them become those

Men, children and mothers, who

Gather, play and milk the daily

Orderliness of life

Where questions need no answers

Where boy stalks girl

Woman needs man.










This self-portrait

I leave behind

For past lovers

To judge, to laugh, to ponder at…


Yet, to ponder without laughter,

To laugh without judgement

Deems this representation

Cavernous like a crater.


They call me a chingado

Who awaits his place in society.

Painted wench-like yet dutiful

I was beautiful;

Even behind that hysterical gaze,

Life had become my death-mask.





















I dance in the shadows

With and without




The twilight

I fear no-one


(Yet fearlessness 

Swathes my only





Tendencies are to blame


I fear not the amorous

Acts I am capable




The re-enactments

That plague my mind


The very transparency of my soul

Leaves me open to











I am as two-dimensional as God could wish for

Yet inward and concave as inhumanly possible.






















He peeks at the under-skirt of life’s tragedies

And without care he becomes hard like a rock



Instantaneous, and




He calls on his foes to ask for forgiveness.










She smothers the cry of a new-born

As her existence yearned for non-existence



Coercive, and




She climbs down and sobers up, murmuring a tune to Llorona.










Words have become a voice of self-flattery

These liquid expressions conjure only deception



Subtle, yet




And that life ever reaches its pinnacle is non-sensical.















Before I pack my things to leave

Before I wonder off in an imaginary state of travel

I shall bless myself with these words my father left me:


“The potential of your visit puts a smile of potentiality on my face…”


And with these words I carry on my back,

Stride upon stride

I shall remember to bid adieu to the Frenchmen

And to those familiar faces to whom

I was 











Upon every waking hour

The crucifix that hangs above my bed

Greets me with the usual pleasantries.


Jesus, with his loin-cloth

Stares as I lie naked with myself.

Though He lives within me

And, I, within Him


We both share nothing in common

Just our schedules seem to always




























This is the Thursday

Their last Thursday

Of their last week (of adoration)


Take a graceful bow before it’s too late!


As the water slowly evaporates

From the sullied vase,

And the bloom of these Amaranthus’

Reaches their prime…


Time is not a keeper of souls

But a custodian of nostalgia.










You, narcissistic self,

A bottom-less well of self-love;

This is me yet an ellipsis of myself.


With every praise bewilderment impounds

It secedes the very cells;

The very synapses that bind


I see in others

Their physical majesty (only)

Be it, Foreign, alien… European.


I roam these corridors

While others break free beyond

I let my hair down


To cover any vilification

That could be passed

In front of the mirror.


















Midnight hour;

Her dishevelled hair

Appears pleasant.  

A face, feline and sinuous

Traced by the faintest

Glimmer of light,

Which found its way through

The fissures of someone else’s



As she deals her cards

Away from redemption,

The chores of everyday life

Of every unimportant person

Bears down like a tsunami.

Perhaps it is for her sake;

For the sake of

The eternal artist,

The insane artist.










Scent of sandal-wood

Schumann’s lieder in mother’s bedroom

The allure of perfection

Lingers like wet paint.










Manuals of good behaviour

Thrown out from this moving train

I left myself behind at the station

But the voice of my mother remains.
















I have mislaid my gift

The gift that granted me

Lucidity of reasoning.


Yet clarity of thought has brought only diffidence.

If only I could, with a single blow to the throat,

Alleviate this nuisance

Than to be goaded by another glorious day.


Knowledge has not set me free nor has my naivety

Been able to cage me from combustion.

I am no longer the master of myself

But a slave to guilt trips and convulsions.










Complete, I stand

Precise as a pin-point


Formless like the next thought

Unrevealing as a nun’s garb


Unequivocal like the birth of a stream

Multi-faceted as a hive



In unison with infinity.










Pale maidens await

Beneath a cerebral mist;

Quivers to the torrent of

Centric bliss.














The essence of these indomitable words

That become the poetic frame

Of my declarations,

Thrives not in the liberation of

Paradigms encompassing human nature

But lies scattered amid

The elemental throngs;

In the crux of the unspoken mind.









I beat my breast

As if to drum up courage.

In the face of these demi-gods

Only, I, have myself to lose.


So long, oyster-flesh;

Scarred reminiscence

Of youth.











The advent of self-possession.


The indigenous mould

Of innocence

In all its transience,

Is cast face down.


A boy in all his youthful grandeur

Aspires to supersede

His father’s legacy.















I squint my eyes,

Before the glaring day

That seeps intrepidly

Through the curtains.


Which of the three faces

Should I wear…

That of the artist

The poet or the philosopher?


Alas, none of them!


These faces are but masks

That give birth to other faces,

And in this process of self-creation

A sense of belonging

All but dissolves.










To seize a strand of life

To nestle it in our arms

To journey through a thousand landscapes

Yet home is not what we seek


All of this is but a poet’s abstraction

Where reality is misplaced.










Beast in the dark


Scavenger of soul-remains.















To gaze into Death’s eyes

To gaze deeply without fear…

This is the only lesson I have learnt

From life’s horizontal misfortunes.










The systematic dripping

Of translucent fluids

Play to the music of monitors.


Screens communicate erratically

As if in possession of a conscience.

The slow emphasis of time


Resonates within these floral walls.

The measured ticking of these

Mechanical arms

Welcome an unwelcome future.


She lies there

Like a primitive totem,

As the cornucopia of

Unfrequented feelings

Bleed from her womb.










I am not a poet

Of encyclopaedic fortitude.


















Light up and shine

Hallowed flower in bloom


The iridescent moisture

Slides between your sheets

And enwraps your paleness




Twisted at the stem

Reckless to the roots


Sway you



The sun’s ascension into play

Lures the glances of

Misguided fools.










The hours that consume

These tentative moments;

The assuredness of time’s

Constant miming of time’s passing,

Conceals yet commemorates

Every forsaken virginity

And every absurd toil.


























Perched on the outer

Rims of purgatory:




Mirrored idealism

Of heaven


All that we feel

Is all that we need to see.










There is nothing

Profound in my creations as

Only remnants of passion linger

Like excessive rhapsodies

At the eve of Spring.


The root of the

Bona fide achievement

Is never fully up-rooted;

Locked in the mausoleum

Yet soothed by its

Own symphony













Wide-eyed and howling


From mother’s womb

To lover’s tomb


We remain unbound until











I clench only a fragment

Of him




Of what is left behind


The chipped teeth

Upon my clavicle


Quiet moments

Bear the heartbeat of years


Processed thoughts



I saddle myself for

Another awakened











Before I could look

Deep into his eyes,

The sun came out

For the second time


And he was gone…


Torn apart by the

Heavenly rays,


Or by the allure of another

Pretty face?




















Count away

Without puerile tears

Randomness is at play.


New found inhibitions

Senses unfettered

Words without prohibitions


Take heed to these

Impassioned words;

Arethusa’s  out-going creed.










The glacial incandescence of pride

Preserves, in its depths,

A fluid trace of











The reconciliation of mankind,

Placed delicately

On his shoulders…


Beacon of light,

Once scintillating, now

Bends in the fog of vacillation.

The heart no longer

Beats in congruity;


His youthful verve has sunken

Into the mire

Into the desire

For mental composure.













A man with a black turban

(Cumulo-nimbus in nature)

Approaches me on my birthday,

At the eve of just another

Uneventful day…


Lets loose from his

Moustache-framed mouth

‘Predictions’ that left me soaking

(While asking for donations).










Sporadic night

Breaks into relentless day

Yet in this fatal wilderness

Self’s prototype is moulded in clay.










Boundary of light

Flutters in a measured vastness





Await the savage flames

To devour the last remnants

Of a prayer


The solitary streetlamp dims

And God is nowhere to be seen.
















The trail of musk in imperial rooms;

Its silent flight across

Ether and light extends

A warm welcome, then labours

A hasty departure.











Virgins, aloof



Gazes, inferring



Palms, proof



Gestures, disconcerting.










Besotted sirens

You sit upon the rock

To lure delirium

Into your nefarious grip

Cadenced wails have

Become a withered glory

Like a flock of lost birds.


















City of immaculate facades,

What a pity that behind

The walls lie obliquity;

That still desperately harbours

An antediluvian barrenness

Muffles, unanimously.










The indifference of a feather

Grey yet blessed with divinity

Adorns a deflated wing


Its aerial mobility, diffused.


Upright to attention

Muted from exclamation, the once

Laudable crest of flight


Has its expiatory manor, displayed


Tossed by tidal surges

Vertigo, adapted to a fuse;

Enrolled, alas, to a ghostly fate


The threat of soul-wreck, caressed.










The squareness of my mind

Like a round window that overlooks

A triangular, shoreless, tranquility

Profusely plays, enduringly,

To life’s universal geometry.















The sphere of reasoning

Through enfolded nebulas

Do this pergola of opaque memories

Measure the measurelessness

Of inward desires while

Courting the whispers

Of perpetual pampering.










Sub aqua

Dual column

Spuming swell

Buried light



Anat’s ring.










Songs of absolutes

Groom the passageways;


Glorious in its surrender

Into the belly of the sepulchre.























Upon dry wreaths

Of lustreless



Spells of exultation lay,

Among airy speculations

This garland of white


Ashen, despondent


Crown the horns

Of hung heroes.










Amphora aloft


Clement dreams

Overgrown stalk.










Eight thousand five hundred and seventy-seven days, encounting

The time for re-resurrection has come;

My new birth-place, though, visible only in my mind

Crystallizes into the banal subsistence of this moment.






















On the Day of the Annunciation

Of all the simple days, he

Came, aslanting, and combed

My hair away from my face;

Fragranced my skin with

Frankincense from head

To Aglaia’s torso.










Jeremiad aplenty

















Flights of midnight fancies

Decipher aromas that penetrate

And slake our lips to the core.


Visual sensations unfastened, with

The expulsion of ballistic anthems;

Upon the bed of forsaken petals


Bodies, lurid, in all its

Sacrificial splendour, bestows onto

Each other noble presages.

As the phantom cherubs take off


Into the enwoven embroidery

Of night, assuaged;

The honeyed sap, lukewarm,

Drips forth brazenly.










Plum groves

Veins to a bough

Her syrup drips from

Thorns onto tired soil


Bastion of ivory

A thousand silk parts

Flaking roots

Plucked by the oriole


Intricate undergrowths

Swirling rays unseen

The dragon-fly feigns


Acacia, ‘tis you

I attend.










The catafalque gleams under

Dawns arched luminosity


An untimely radiance wearily

Drapes her foul apparition


Embers vainly burn only

To sculpt a withered essence.










Seraphic nuances

Habitually recite

A forged demeanour





Is this not my own

Protracted awakening?









Sudden, disharmonized

Outpouring of melodic follies


Put to shame with a forewarning

From the much displeasured

Von Karajan.










Swans and unicorns

Are so very alike, not

In the Darwinian sense

Of course, but in their

Elegant diffusion between

Self and embellishment.


Lynxs and sphinxs too,

Carry this callow burden;

With a countenance divine

Their sublte smiles, smile

Away the ethereal inferences

That ungodly creatures

Unkindly perpetuate.










Worthless, ever-dying amber flare


Rust-coated knife, flesh-deep I tear. 


















St. Lucia, isle



Your metaphyiscal charm

Abates my anxious self…



The playing of hours

Of days


Opens this portal

Where the tide of untruth

Flows out.










Listen! Don’t carp at the wind

Fellow brothers of this new generation

Glance out of your carrels

And forsake ‘carpe diem,’

Instead nourish your tree

With experientalism.










The landscape, nocturnal,

Careens unguided

Valley-high, cliff-deep


The mythical hands;

Always in control

Of the uncontrollable


Sets forth a precedence

For the untamed man.














It is not sorrow

That the heart secretes

In the eventual shut-down

Of a flushed heart



Amid the flowers

That marks the

Territory of guilt.











From the emerald sands

Lift thy soul


The burden of lost time

Amends itself through

Creative pursuits.










Submerged Babylon, laid

To rest by an untenable fate.


Dethroned, overnight, by the

Ineluctable vegetation

That once coloured your streets.


Monuments that defined an epoch

Now, all but obscured, rise from

Torn pages of obscure texts


Only to disintegrate again

Until curiosity revives you.













So die then!

Bequeath your possessions to me


They are more appealing than memories


And I shall this blood-stained cloth











I have been blamed for my loitering;

My poise, my pursuits;


Assigned with a wingspan of a vulture;

The intimidating plumage

(The filtrate of a fad)

Has, unwantonly defined my

Character as predatory.


With all honesty, I agree

No aviaries, or secluded reserves

Can contain me…


And why should they?

The sky is my threshold

And Earth, my sovereignty.










Insecurities siphoned

Into the once unused flagon;

Now filled with burgundy lust

Await the once monogamous hand

To pour into a stranger’s cup

The wine of a once coveted sweetness.













If and when he leaves,

I shall become Basemath, and he, Esau

For I cannot uncurl the curve of

This convexed revelation.

As I have become an enstranged


It is only sensible to change

My name.











A self-yearned inquisition

Now, a mere tremor




Only to convalesce the self

With a remedy of laudanum,

Lavishly employed. 










Mother of all dynasties

Lay your head upon the crisp linen

And recite your prayers,

Even if nonchalantly.

The world is, at your command,

Huddled in a celestial-comb…


You are the Pieta

Solemn, transcendental

Formless to a form

And visible only as

An uncelebrated



Upon shedding a tear

You become masculine.









Serpent, off-spring of avarice

Sloughs latitudinally along the lattice of reeds


It’s tongue rattles the air, slovenly,

And finds its way into another unguarded Eden.










Everyone’s concern

For my ‘well-being’

Has been duly noted (I say).

Yet a residue of astonishment

Hangs in my mouth


But, it should

Not come as a surprise

To me (they say),

As I have always been

The prodigal son.










Rally forth into the exposed night

With the resolute chanting of a forgotten cause;

Maybe then, your spartan life will seem worthy

To die for.






















Every once in a while

Our monastic idealisms

Take the crooked path downhill

To the jostle of other life forms

Where human errors criss-cross

The pathways of forgiveness.










Woman, why pretend to sleep?

Even with eyes closed

Your eye-lids sputter

To a quickened heart-beat.


You hear a voice,

Yet unacquainted,

In the cramped room

At the back of your mind

But it is just the resonance

Of a ‘good-bye.’


You wait for him

In your wasted dreams

Though amorphously,

He is already here.










Falling, falling

The soul almost abandoned

Frameless to the knees

Frailty without origin


Final words, without finality

Rapes him of a warm breath

And slice every sane image

Into wafer-thin segments




The source,







Silken petals

Flushed by the autumn breeze,

Settles like early snow.


Aroused, yet embarrassed,

Its borne complexion reddens

By my sudden appearance.


She recites a tune heofon-bound;

The delicate, fine arm

That clasps the dense mass


Stands motionless,

Naked before us.









Is there someone for everyone?

Indeed I hope so.


This idea

- Immaterial faith -

Becomes nothing more than a

Cold touch of deliberation

To scour the senses from seclusion.









At youth, his responsibilities became domesticated.


This self-phenomenon was never to part;


Beyond fanatical realms, he sort for glory.
















My simple mind

Is teeming with thoughts

Of yet unborn events

It is the itch

I cannot reach.


The savage heart beats

A brutal beat, and in

The forum of righteousness,

These hands, once capable,

Await execution.










Face of pious simplicity,

A reflection short

Of true portrayal.

The smile, now famous,

In the sight of which

Venus doth stray;

The eyes, your pair,

Where constellations dwell

And hemispheres they are.


Spoken word of you

Allures nature's observation.

Soft, yet iron-brave,

Pristine without conformity

Even the flute-notes of cherubs

Endeavour to imitate.

You blossom and consecrate

The fruits of love,

And in the name of charity,

Love those who cannot be loved.



















His image,

Still so vibrant and vivid,

Clings anonymously like fungus

To a tree.


Between the senses, unused;

The unseasoned night plunges

Into a fiery well.


Memoirs of a love,

              A mere remnant of a lover's kiss

              The touch of our lips secured

Nature’s momentum once…  


The only

Reality now

Is abandonment.










Take me for what I am,

For myself, for my beliefs

Do not look at me to despise me.

Turn your face… confront!

For, I too, can be as thoughtless

And as shrewd as you.


My eyes, and yours, blink away

Moments of the day, unchallenged.

As Time desensitizes us,

It is not our complexion that reveals

Our age.
























Polished intimacy;

Varnished hopes

Ride the sweet air


Alas, this is but a

Blistered reminiscence

Of a once entrapped

Once living












Autumnal ghosts

Cindery vibrations

All that is beneath my skin.


They permeate, virally,

Into the blood

A foregone elixir

Kindles the flame.










Swept into the dust and into the past

The hollow abbreviation of yet

Another refined amusement

Vexes the rain-gods from submission.



















His short-sightedness

Has let his attention

Pursue the shadow

Of someone else’s

Jagged constitution.










Her passion for flaws has now subsided…


Past demurrals put to asunder

However magnanimous they stand on their Doric pedestal

She will become the greater storm that unleashes the thunder

So that once again, amid the cracks,

They become accountable.










I colour her





Her voice, beyond

Any rhythmical recognition

Recoils when

Our eyes meet





















Cradled, cornelian face

Stubborn you are in your budding!

Mere reflection of

The mercurial sun, upon a time

You were newly-weds.

You roam existentially

Beyond veils of an imperfect hue;

Equipoised in this bleak

Sacramental expanse.










Whispers in the cornfield

The chills of mid-spring

Bears with it the

Assumption of a new-born.


The presence

Of the last ten years




Ventures deeper into

The cordial clasp

Of its denouement.










Phallic compass


Impetus of might


Amoral conquests


To instinct’s delight.













The breathing,

A little off…


Moist disequilibrium,

Without the feat of artifice,

Pieces together the chaste centuries

Of an earlier ancestry…


But wanton affection

Never left the scene.










Enamoured mind-swills

Silent vigil


The hope that one day

Life declines a miracle.










Convictions of pandemic magnitude

(Processed like pillow-talk)


Bipolar and universal

A strangeness…






















I walk, bare-foot, curious as a sage;


The stimulation of past milenia fails

To wring dry the drunkeness of this age

And, of a life of purposelessness,

We convict ourselves as the forebearer.








You say my love

Is no good for you

But a boy’s obedience

Is never undue.


Your friends warn

That I am not

In the worthy few

My instincts forewarn

It is I you must woo.










Dissolved portrait

Doubled infinity

Salvaging temperamentalists

Make t\ his face top heavy.

























The penetration of a satiated mind

(A malediction of a milked, flesh-worship)

Gather in its stock, impiously,

A pile of derelict injustices

While bludgeoning the raising arms

Of a crippled figure;


High-pitched cry


His tongue, a vessel of malice.










Fly, Fly away

Into the vacant night,

Pure thoughts.

Sink into the lustre

Of the celestial abyss.


Intertwining, unfurling,

Exchanges encrusted;

Lixiviates our form

With veins inflamed.


This fixation, dimorphic,

Enshrouds naked North

And sullen South.






























Charlatan, my dearest.

A heavy heart ripens

Because of you…

Because it knows your secret well.


Performing deviltry

Upon any hot-blooded drifter;

Towed along by the groin-felt instinct

That has you on a leash;


A hellion you claim to be

To me you were never that real.










Chased by definition; now















Sweet criminal

You whine about your style

Yet you are masterful

With disguises.


Bloodthirsty, brazen



Give yourself up.












My friend, my virginal

Berlin acquaintance

You are but this open existence

That quenches my thirst

For the Art’s and for the impish…




Unfading blush.










The recollection of a yesteryear

Like a yesterday

Newly hatched.



By brief recognitions

Of a muted influence


This inner-séance

Dissolves time;











The thwarted jolt;



Livid senses;



Chronic sensitivity;















Latter-day clemencies

Intense undergrowth;

The mercy of a few Hail Mary’s

Enough to clear away the weed from

The copse…


A trend in modern religion.


Tasteful injustices

Like golden confetti thrown

Onto a festoon-clad procession;

Contamination in a soft,

Subtle manner


To a heart's desire.










Stricken, lust-driven

Addict of passion

Come back to me


Inflammable fixations

With immortal obsessions;

Buoyant on this mind-ocean













Requiem to the Baptist


Herodion’s chime


A mindful jingling


Awarded for his crime.










Astray in the subliminal labyrinth,

The wanderer adorns a straight-jacket

Of claustrophobia





The insipid fumes of a desperation,

A warped distraction

Titivates the lithic soul

Before casting itself

To the tight-rope

Of another spectacle.










Almighty Hades,

Model of a sedated world,

Expands its border

To reach this encampment

Where refuge from the unknown

Has kept us on our toes.

































Sub-human, lost property

Her frayed rag doll

Bead on a necklace

Pierced belly-button

She looks into me as

If a kaleidoscope.


Granite stature

With mood swings

Again nine month’s pregnant

Pregnant with the

‘flavour of the month’

Yet motherless to a child.


He is but a set of

Systematic measures;

The bruises on my chest,

Permanent like the tattoo

On his right ankle.


They reward me with painkillers

But it wears off like the

Caffeine of a morning coffee.


To them I am the truth behind their lie

Tarnished tin robot

A used syringe

In the forbidden den.


I am only eleven

I am an alcoholic

‘So where is my pint…?’

Says this non-conformist.











The inexorable parasite

Shadow’s own copy…

Lacks self-control


From time to time

It sinks unaware into the quick-sand,

And waits for the absent hand

To heave us from unreality.









She plays with my attentiveness;


Like origami,


Folds me two-fold with papery affections.










Emotions bare the emblem of lust.

From love to hate, anger or sorrow,

The uncommon thirst to fulfil

And absorb each one;

Invokes a numbing pleasure

Which our minds will secure and

Consequently mend our parts to

Prime us for a subsequent displeasure.










If only the heart could speak words

What would mine say?


Will it be voiceless before the mind’s opprobrium

And thus, not speak freely?
























Draconian reparations


Impressions of a rusty ochre


Glides through this glade


Along life’s meridian.










Thoughts of my eventual departure

Seize the minds of love-members

Yet what is inside mine

Is much less trivial…


I am not a prisoner,

But His prize.










An embossed metalanguage

Fills my page with a script

Of childish stupidities.

Like braille, these fingers

Are fed with an influx of sensations

That expose the undertone

Of an adult’s impropriety.


Unlike the convolvulus-attribute

Of earlier misdemeanours

That caricatured my youth,

My head is at last on my shoulders

And on my limbs…

Can I be forgiven

For yet another whim?













Death, you are a friend

Revered by many,

I need not pretend.


Like Life, your part is sacrosanct,

Though your tears are not of joy

They are still precious to the heart.


This soul, to you I send. 

I cleave to you sacrilegiously

In wait of my inconsequential end.










Resign from resistance,

Pause the pain and

Silence the shooting.

Halt the hammering and havoc;

Relinquish all provocation

By dismantling your misery

At the door. 










No stray bullets on this eve to dart

Through mustard clouds, but the

Stench of those perished, enshrouds

The men, entrenched, head down in prayer

On this cold, defended, holy day.

The calm, cerulean sky of a nearby dawn

Someone's mother prepares to mourn

The death of her child and of innocence known

In front of a grave she stands alone.















Shy in my remembering;

Unkind in my forgetting


Secret lover,

Is this how it will end?


When I try to forget,

I merely recollect.










Will I come to my senses eventually

And proceed in taking off the disguises?

Will I come full circle and permit testimony

To my actions?


To reveal a face, as it is,

As it was, and perhaps even,

As it should be…


No!  Cast off ‘the Pariah,’ ‘the Delinquent’

And this ‘Spoilt-brat,’

Set back instead the oriental smile

That everyone remembers you by.









Undue cravings,

An appetite for antics; my

Incorruptibility set myself

And the world apart.


Molten ambitions,

Uncombed dreams;

Escape into

Eternal abeyance.














Fresh wisterias bear witness

To an asphyxiating discord with


A fat angel.