disparity of the dawn

Thursday, February 4th, 2016

many a drugged moon has set foot on this haphazard town

long nights spent in soft soliloquy

sporadic evenings spent on the mass incarceration of a medieval sofa

a mockery at its finest, quite honestly

i spent all morning pondering the end of the rabbit hole

the finesse of a pistol headed gal

those poised to help at the drop of a hallowed pin

whether it is the man who let his machine scream

when i proceeded to–

perhaps meet the intersection halfway

no one is quite sure these days

in the fall from grace

the fall from this season’s distaste

the tranquility in surrender beckons

tip toe once or twice around the constant influx of vices and voices

belonging to little Jim and Jane

during the intake of poisoned harks

they squeeze me in vain, for

sweet summer spices linger in the air

thought of it twice or once or a multitude of once upon a times

led astray, but of course,

to the bottom of a gutter

the squaller of the misdeal and their wholesome banter

once it led me in chorus of laughter

now silence me softly on the summit of a cold, summer night






on time’s bosom

Wednesday, December 30th, 2015

What is eminent in our time being on Earth is the strength in singularity.

To myself, the promise of expansion towards another day comes to mind in the dire hours of the morning. The sky, in its brilliance, transfixing to meet the shade that comforts the beholder the most.

To the woman at the jewelry shop, who sought to hide in display and quicken her step at the sound of interest; the color was of a rose left out in the frost. It is not sad. It is only draining. It gets the most of us in our better days.

What is to happen when the escape taken becomes the peril of the outside?

It consumes at the inner ticking of the brain, and it consumes on the walls. Take a look again at the cracked corner on the wall. Watch it again. Again. Look towards it as if it were 2004 and the wall spoke to you of the opportunity to make a fool of the constrictions of space and time.

Touch it again. Recall how effortlessly it all went away. And so it goes once again.

Do not listen to the clock.

Housekeeping was the most curious of the bunch. How to plug holes of the wood floor because the popcorn of my ceiling kept dripping into the seams. A bit of my grandfather clock was stick on the wall and the cuckoo bird took my finger again. Time and Space became a companion of mine.

Never once did it speak, but it was alive. It would seep into my eyes– where the pupil and the iris met. It told me to rid of my friends and stay on the edge of my bed.

They were not always There.

When i was Here, i was never here. I was There, but over Here. When i am There, i am on the frontier and i am Alive.

And so i did what any other explorer of the worlds would do, I took upon a voyage of the familiar. Remorse was found in the thickest of books. Length, however, was not always the most dense of the matter. I read of men in power that seemed to hover over the third dimension and want to conquer the fourth. It was not enough. These were concepts of Here and Now.

The Companion of mine beckons on the horizon and I have always answered.

I seemed to have found There while i am Here. Stories of the small and immaculate; of the grandiose and meek, where there was no need for the Here. On the platform of catacomb theorems and quizzical angles of observation I made my stay.

And I loved it so. (do not speak of it so loud)

It was then that I had discovered that the most evil of our own is disguised in our own version of paradise and the colloquial. No longer was my Companion on the shores for anointment.

It came Here for me.

The stones crack underneath the solidity of my heels and winter leaves its flirtation on my virgin cheeks. They clack at the frequency of the grandfather clock.

Tick tock. Tick tock.

It made a home of the continuous and it left me in peril. The stones have groaned on the heaviness of my soul. My feet dance wickedly on the cobblestone street of There. Here, however, they stumble and scream coarsely as a beggar for realism. The painting above me no longer is a stream of the doings of vagabonds and scholars.  It stifles.

The pivotal merry of sadness is a maiden to the impending anguish of joy.

here and there i was.

here and there i remain.





i hate spices of the summer kind

Tuesday, December 15th, 2015

it’s always the ones that keep you on your toes

the ones that drain you of your prose

deconstructed and exposed

pendulum of construct remains


concavity in the lines draw above my scattered heavens

idiotic it was, illogical at its point




a plight of the quizzical

Tuesday, December 15th, 2015

summer sought to drain the vitality of my soul

and yet sober I have been in the dawn of the perpetual

ongoings and midmorning brunches where spice was never easy, never put

dreading it so, i let my sorrow and woe up for retaliation

months by three, placed in bemoaning acrostics

taken by the hand, we kissed under the arch of periwinkle misconceptions

two stones thrown left and a dime left by a beggar, i am sat on decay

months by three, thy pleasantries have left me simmering in an abode

in a conquest for the tinkering mechanic,

onto the the plight of the free

Wednesday, November 4th, 2015

Tell me why I have been staring at this computer screen for the past two hours and tell me why I have written nothing.

Thursday, July 30th, 2015

a cunning displacement of the virtues cutting into my cheek in the searing slap of millenias steaming cup of reality that sits on my top shelf
breathe to me once again the worry of your cumbersome bedsheets and how every wrinkle became the embodiment of the endeavor of desire and will
allow me to scrape the accumulation of the hours upon hours of self pity that left hunger on my forearms and the need of refreshment in the girl who deemed self proclaimed ballerina who aimed to give the audience a chance to dance upon their toes and leer
my mothers detachment sought to carve settlement and bargain into the echo of my worthless aura that has been croaking at the doorstep for a chance to step into the line that others so carelessly brushed with their curled toes and outlived in prose in two or three
a pulse that rehearsed the regeneration of the slightest feeling of an echo that sprang back the words of a foregathering that at least would speak to the inner of my bristled sleeves that are so utterly cold despite the knowledge that I have been sprung from the remnants of a crumbling ground that disguises as stable
nothing claimed but the refrain from the quivering light that sought in the future a soft lighting in a obscure japanese shop of trinkets of objects so rare they seek to lunge straightforward into la Luna but never take root long enough to become a regular day by day occurrence
instead it crumbles rapidly before i could take the soul of the quill in my viens to mark the date set forth of the desecration of the simplicity of luminosity when she walks down the cigatette littered pathway to dig into my mind the sensation of a god forsaken fuck and run

Monday, June 1st, 2015

steady state theorem of a girl in a constant hypothetical dance of discussion and speech
let me dream to the rhythms of a fake mockery in a roulette with a flirtatious, wicked smile that is reserved for the most intimate of moments
captured in a steely glare but to no hearts avail i gave my soul into the Piccadilly of your twenty miles a second mind
the one that speaks and spoke of time and changed the word of science in the ways that would make the silent virgin blush
knock me down to forty cents a piece and a summary of a past hindrance
to make it appear to the galactic sisters that it was nothing short of a fall from grace
allow me to devour the words told once of a weary traveler who godspeed sent his love in a tangerine basket full of malady in good intention
bind me to the notion of the signature of a beauty in hindsight and in western books that build up the claim that might be greater than the pen
good riddance in the former and the construct of the latter for the savior of the theorist is in the newest spice in the northeastern meadow

Wednesday, March 4th, 2015

do not forget how much i despise you, for making me feel all too human. for prying open my soul, much lighter than previously thought


Sunday, February 8th, 2015

kiss me like a fool with eyes scarred blind by a pathological need to tunnel into my stars, my life, my love
touch me like you’ve ached with the oppression of a million stranded lovers who at the touch of the hand would send the nearest elder in search of the beginning
love me so when you make me cry out no longer will it be in pain of a long gone tomorrow who buried in the charred remains but instead with a passion too loud to answer to the walls of mother church but too quiet for the eager man to tear at his page the sounds of the dearest sin
end me end me end me like the final desperation to cling on to a life thought once magnificent yet nothing but an ill fitted prose of a beggars lost wife

“well you should be content with yourself, why are you sad?”

Wednesday, January 14th, 2015

If there is a time for the big comedown to happen, this time is not the best of them.

Yet I ask myself whether I am content with my life, and ironicaly I can say I am. However, explain to me why I find myself too hostile, and times of sorrow become part of one’s routine far too often. Why do my mother’s screams feel directed to the dead centre of my body, even though she no longer looms over my bespeckled head? I stand on top of a mound of self accomplishment, and yet I find myself kicking the ground before me. I look too far ahead and I am hopelessly distraught. My heart feels like a chamber for some heavy lead that has replaced the functuality of the heart and has left it to the purpose of being deadweight. Constantly, on the hour, the tick and tock of a cry that I have yet to calm down sits inside of me. A meloncholia of the darkest sort, and I have begged for it to come away until a later time. But when do the tides of nature ever speak to the poor famrer who weeps at its shore? It seems that progression in age only summons up another and another worry that would make a poor man’s scientist look for a deity. Yet I have none, for I lost faith for the pendulum in the reminants of a childhood long ago. Is it of nature for the poet to be surrounded in circumstances of gratitiude and still find it plausible to stand at the edge of a well whose bottom has been reached by many other writers, in search of finding someone who can cause permanent sunshine of the mind. Or perhaps they were caught in their reflection, and threw themselves inside with vainful disposition and dying aspiration? Until that answer surfaces, I stare into a space where my teardrops become grand submarines in search of a purpose in their journey. Surely they have gone farther than their conjurer, at the stake for their own accusation of treason of the soul.