I'm allowed to make fun of myself, right?
...
ten minutes ago
this piece of paper was blank;
tracks across fresh white.
...
ten minutes ago
this piece of paper was blank;
tracks across fresh white.
Tuesday, 8 December 2015
Saturday, 5 December 2015
Machine Learning Haikus
For Mike and Brendan.
...
society is
linear. "i'm an outlier",
said everyone.
...
neurons recognize
cats! this intelligence is
artificial.
...
kernels of truth in
quadratic parameters;
data lies discreetly.
...
forests echo, steps
down untaken paths; leaves shake
with what could have been.
...
society is
linear. "i'm an outlier",
said everyone.
...
neurons recognize
cats! this intelligence is
artificial.
...
kernels of truth in
quadratic parameters;
data lies discreetly.
...
forests echo, steps
down untaken paths; leaves shake
with what could have been.
Tuesday, 1 December 2015
Street dancing
For Keith and Sidney.
...
Transforming leading constantly mutating center of gravity free electricity caught locally in an arm that breaks in a thousand different places before shattering into motion spinning rotating wildly on the edge of control before subliming to a stop only to break again human made space made human as a function of time and music i can only smile
...
Transforming leading constantly mutating center of gravity free electricity caught locally in an arm that breaks in a thousand different places before shattering into motion spinning rotating wildly on the edge of control before subliming to a stop only to break again human made space made human as a function of time and music i can only smile
Tuesday, 24 November 2015
Faces
Sometimes, she collects nights
and hangs them by her bedside.
Some days
she wakes up without a face.
He lives on her streets
reads Murakami under her window.
Sometimes he sketches on a corner of the evening
the outline of her shame
reflected onto the blinds of her bedroom
window.
and hangs them by her bedside.
Some days
she wakes up without a face.
He lives on her streets
reads Murakami under her window.
Sometimes he sketches on a corner of the evening
the outline of her shame
reflected onto the blinds of her bedroom
window.
Monday, 23 November 2015
My Unfair Lady
How can Audrey Hepburn
look beautiful after 17 takes,
while all I can do
is keep my teeth clean?
look beautiful after 17 takes,
while all I can do
is keep my teeth clean?
Tuesday, 10 November 2015
Complexity
Alas,
that a good life
is NP-complete.
...
That which seem like patterns, in retrospect
are tendrils of chaos
under the microscope of the everyday.
Russell
I'm a subset of this
universal inky infinite set.
An infinite set myself, I thus
contain myself.
universal inky infinite set.
An infinite set myself, I thus
contain myself.
C'est la vie
Let us go then, you and I.
Sigh, and say 'lah we', and whisper, that
we don't add up, and don't love enough
to change the numbers we are.
Mutter in mature moments
that it's nobody's fault, as we
relax friendship into
muffled memories.
Gift each other in parting:
a pair of matching saccharine smiles;
one for you, and one for me.
To wear on familiar nights.
Sigh, and say 'lah we', and whisper, that
we don't add up, and don't love enough
to change the numbers we are.
Mutter in mature moments
that it's nobody's fault, as we
relax friendship into
muffled memories.
Gift each other in parting:
a pair of matching saccharine smiles;
one for you, and one for me.
To wear on familiar nights.
Sunday, 8 November 2015
Idea
I fall in love
with ideas
all the time:
quantum mechanics, you, communism.
You're just a figure
of my speech.
...
Darling,
this poem is not for you. It's
for the idea of the idea of you.
with ideas
all the time:
quantum mechanics, you, communism.
You're just a figure
of my speech.
...
Darling,
this poem is not for you. It's
for the idea of the idea of you.
Sunday, 18 October 2015
Ambition
... should be made of sterner stuff.
...
Love casts humans
into jugs of wine.
All my sorrows will be quenched (I foolishly
muse),
once I drink
of your arms.
Why else would I desire
only
when my eyelashes
are heaviest?
...
I remember lying there with you that late afternoon, on your grumbling bed. Hearts were content, all aspiration silenced under the soft rumbling of fulfilled desire.
Ambition is human, to make love divine.
Ordained by selfish nature are we
to seek affection,
in quiet desperation.
Reciprocation
imparts meaning to our rootless brains -
every tiny touch
a silver medal.
...
I love you to distract myself. There's emptiness inside, spaces that yearn for something better, the latent hope that fulfillment lies somewhere in the external; I love in the hope that you will fill me.
...
Love casts humans
into jugs of wine.
All my sorrows will be quenched (I foolishly
muse),
once I drink
of your arms.
Why else would I desire
only
when my eyelashes
are heaviest?
...
I remember lying there with you that late afternoon, on your grumbling bed. Hearts were content, all aspiration silenced under the soft rumbling of fulfilled desire.
Ambition is human, to make love divine.
Ordained by selfish nature are we
to seek affection,
in quiet desperation.
Reciprocation
imparts meaning to our rootless brains -
every tiny touch
a silver medal.
...
I love you to distract myself. There's emptiness inside, spaces that yearn for something better, the latent hope that fulfillment lies somewhere in the external; I love in the hope that you will fill me.
Tuesday, 6 October 2015
Happy Birthday, Mon Gato
I can still recall
our last December.
We shared our love
of a certain
grey, somewhat spherical
kitty.
And now here we are.
And I finally have a dear friend
~my height.
Happy Birthday/Joyeux Anniversaire/Sana Halwa Ya Gameel!
My favourite Lebanese <3
Monday, 5 October 2015
Friday, 11 September 2015
Munchkin
The only real miracle -
turning plasma into pulsing potential, that
thrums between two tiny grinning ears, studded
with two tiny earrings - the beginnings of
feminine maturity.
We quietly throb with fragile complexity.
Eight years ago
my little cousin was born of, from and into
love.
Sap mounts in trees. Lovers kiss, unseen. An old woman sighs her last,
and in the other room,
A child giggles self-unconsciously.
Happy Birthday, darling Riva Ariana Kaul.
You are loved.
<3
turning plasma into pulsing potential, that
thrums between two tiny grinning ears, studded
with two tiny earrings - the beginnings of
feminine maturity.
We quietly throb with fragile complexity.
Eight years ago
my little cousin was born of, from and into
love.
Sap mounts in trees. Lovers kiss, unseen. An old woman sighs her last,
and in the other room,
A child giggles self-unconsciously.
Happy Birthday, darling Riva Ariana Kaul.
You are loved.
<3
Wednesday, 19 August 2015
From Concentrate
On a new summer night
I received a tetrapak of love in a stairwell.
High in fructose,
expiry date: 2 months.
...
the sugar still messes up
my insulin.
I received a tetrapak of love in a stairwell.
High in fructose,
expiry date: 2 months.
...
the sugar still messes up
my insulin.
Friday, 14 August 2015
No True Scotsman
http://www.nytimes.com/2015/08/14/world/middleeast/isis-enshrines-a-theology-of-rape.html
...
Blood flows from
a slit verse; but
They are men who would
interpret wrongly, who would
appeal to tradition.
And caged in between these lines lies
a girl;
her throat gagging
on herrings, her lips
staining them a garish crimson, but
We distance ourselves from false authority.
the language, you see, is beautiful
and obscure, like smiling
gasoline -
Is the fuel itself a sinner?
...
These fallacies are slippery:
there are believers, and then they are believers.
...
Blood flows from
a slit verse; but
They are men who would
interpret wrongly, who would
appeal to tradition.
And caged in between these lines lies
a girl;
her throat gagging
on herrings, her lips
staining them a garish crimson, but
We distance ourselves from false authority.
the language, you see, is beautiful
and obscure, like smiling
gasoline -
Is the fuel itself a sinner?
...
These fallacies are slippery:
there are believers, and then they are believers.
Friday, 24 July 2015
Sunday, 12 July 2015
Again
Again,
An insatiable flood of colour streams
inside
Channeled by twin charcoal paintbrushes,
Murals are painted
inside
And every day
a fresh coat is applied
Again.
An insatiable flood of colour streams
inside
Channeled by twin charcoal paintbrushes,
Murals are painted
inside
And every day
a fresh coat is applied
Again.
Overdue
The smell of you on my fingers
Droplets of your skin in between the grooves
Of my fingertips.
Crop circles traced
on your back.
My eyes caught in yours, whilst
the future presses against my eyeballs.
the future presses against my eyeballs.
Oh, if I could store every
Disintegrating moment in
A bell jar.
...
...
The past cannot be felt
So what is the point of this living?
Harf
My words lie impotent
under the filled glasses
of wine that
were yours', and once
were mine.
...
आवाज़ दे,
कहां है?
under the filled glasses
of wine that
were yours', and once
were mine.
...
आवाज़ दे,
कहां है?
Momentum
I have the same realization
Fifty three times a day
Orbiting in an ellipse;
The gravity renders my wrists mute.
Fifty three times a day
Orbiting in an ellipse;
The gravity renders my wrists mute.
On Edward Hopper - written in the Trump Hotel, Las Vegas, May 2015
https://koriental.files.wordpress.com/2012/10/hopper-11-a-m-1926.jpg
girl sitting, naked
save for pair of
dress boots, pink
and tasselled.
boor-zhwa-zee armchair,
sitting
opposite her, window. Bare,
save for a
summer low-cut
curtain, barely modest.
She peeks underneath the hem,
and outside
opposite side of the street,
house.
Unornamented, save for
an unmown moat lawn, and moans
of familial life escaping from within.
Life that means the world to itself.
Across the street, she peeks at this
almost-silent house, and the house winks back
in the receding evening;
waiting.
girl sitting, naked
save for pair of
dress boots, pink
and tasselled.
boor-zhwa-zee armchair,
sitting
opposite her, window. Bare,
save for a
summer low-cut
curtain, barely modest.
She peeks underneath the hem,
and outside
opposite side of the street,
house.
Unornamented, save for
an unmown moat lawn, and moans
of familial life escaping from within.
Life that means the world to itself.
Across the street, she peeks at this
almost-silent house, and the house winks back
in the receding evening;
waiting.
Chilla-nashini
She hides her nakedness from Hāfez, and yet he himself sought consciousness in her wine, and
would give up Samarkand
for the mole above her upper lip.
would give up Samarkand
for the mole above her upper lip.
Friday, 10 July 2015
Swallow
Lost in a sea
Of strangers who speak
In liquid tongues;
This amber infection spreads fast:
All alone at last. Alas,
That happiness is framed in a
Touch and a word, and photographs
Of kisses never fade.
I wonder if white mice
Desire the crutch of their cages.
Mine is not large enough to dissolve me; I
Float in lumps above the everyday.
The sun holds; by night men lose their reason.
Cower in quiet desperation
As the day squelches; whirlpools into the unplugged dusking sky.
And I only find solvency in an English response.
Words like flotsam.
Sentences like driftwood, lost
in the evening slurry as soon as they're said.
I swallow.
Of strangers who speak
In liquid tongues;
This amber infection spreads fast:
All alone at last. Alas,
That happiness is framed in a
Touch and a word, and photographs
Of kisses never fade.
I wonder if white mice
Desire the crutch of their cages.
Mine is not large enough to dissolve me; I
Float in lumps above the everyday.
The sun holds; by night men lose their reason.
Cower in quiet desperation
As the day squelches; whirlpools into the unplugged dusking sky.
And I only find solvency in an English response.
Words like flotsam.
Sentences like driftwood, lost
in the evening slurry as soon as they're said.
I swallow.
Saturday, 6 June 2015
Nathaniel
You are
a mildly acidic wave breaking
on a shore of concrete.
You are two.
A girl who refuses to dance, but mouthes
Bonnie M at me
across a coffeeshop table.
A girl who cares
but is careless.
A girl with the stubborn goodness
of a tree.
A girl who
(like all of us)
is spiralling around a supermassiveblackhole that is
the colour of her real hair (it used to fall
in satin sheets of midnight).
She walks around in a haze of purple
and yet despite everything,
she is just a girl.
Happy Birthday, you unhappy Bengali.
a mildly acidic wave breaking
on a shore of concrete.
You are two.
A girl who refuses to dance, but mouthes
Bonnie M at me
across a coffeeshop table.
A girl who cares
but is careless.
A girl with the stubborn goodness
of a tree.
A girl who
(like all of us)
is spiralling around a supermassiveblackhole that is
the colour of her real hair (it used to fall
in satin sheets of midnight).
She walks around in a haze of purple
and yet despite everything,
she is just a girl.
Happy Birthday, you unhappy Bengali.
Monday, 1 June 2015
Clean
She decided to clean herself.
It was going to take long. But she had to start; to stay like this was unbearable. She turned the doorknob of the bathroom door all the way to the right, pushed it in, paused a second, and stepped inside.
She turned on the light, hesitating just a bit. The bathroom floor was cold and white under the skin of her feet. She breathed in. Out. She began undressing.
Her motions were infused with unthinking panic: the entirety of her consciousness was focused on the subsequent motion, the next thing to do; her muscles provided the scaffolding. She knew how to clean herself, and even though she couldn't fully comprehend the extent of the filth on her person, and probably wouldn't be able to continue if she did, she ripped off her clothes and kicked them distractedly into a small corner of the bathroom. She would burn them later on, she thought. Or maybe put them in grey plastic bag and tie the top and throw it somewhere she would never have to see it again or think about it again.
She shut the door behind her. And locked it. And double checked.
She peeled back the orange shower curtain, the rings making a skidding sound as they were roughly bunched up on the rod. She stepped into the bathtub, now fully naked. Goosebumps ravaged the smallness of her undress, both in anticipation and in post-mortem. She drew the curtain shut, to the left of her.
Now she was all alone, in this six feet by one feet by seven feet space. The light from the solitary bathroom bulb, that hung above the bathroom mirror shone from behind the shower curtain, casting candleorange shadows over her familiar body, sticking with greedy satisfaction. She didn't notice them. She reached out and turned the knob of the shower all the way to the right. Water gushed out, fiercely cold. She flinched back, and waited for the water to turn hot, and then very hot, until steam rose out from beneath the orange curtains and frosted over the bathroom mirror. She stepped into steaming stream. And waited. Slowly she began moving her hands, rubbing them over her arms, legs, face, cleaning, cleaning, cleaning, reaching into every crevice and rubbing with her fingers, dislodging, stroking. When she had thus lain the base of the cleansing, she turned off the tap, and reached for the shampoo. The purple plastic cylinder was slippery in her hands. She unplugged the top with her fingernails and emptied a sizeable pool into her cupped palm (the cylinder making a squelching noise as it was crushed), and rubbed it into her hair. She counted to 100. Then, she seized the bar of soap lying in north-west corner of the bath, and started scrubbing herself viciously, until little droplets of blood beaded in crimson streaks across her arms and legs.
She did this for thirty minutes. She looked down at the brown muddy water infused with with the faintest hint of red trailing down her legs and into the drain, and smiled softly, feeling the muscles of her face relax into unfamiliar contours.
Then she turned the shower back on, and eventually the machinery of her mind stopped screaming.
It was going to take long. But she had to start; to stay like this was unbearable. She turned the doorknob of the bathroom door all the way to the right, pushed it in, paused a second, and stepped inside.
She turned on the light, hesitating just a bit. The bathroom floor was cold and white under the skin of her feet. She breathed in. Out. She began undressing.
Her motions were infused with unthinking panic: the entirety of her consciousness was focused on the subsequent motion, the next thing to do; her muscles provided the scaffolding. She knew how to clean herself, and even though she couldn't fully comprehend the extent of the filth on her person, and probably wouldn't be able to continue if she did, she ripped off her clothes and kicked them distractedly into a small corner of the bathroom. She would burn them later on, she thought. Or maybe put them in grey plastic bag and tie the top and throw it somewhere she would never have to see it again or think about it again.
She shut the door behind her. And locked it. And double checked.
She peeled back the orange shower curtain, the rings making a skidding sound as they were roughly bunched up on the rod. She stepped into the bathtub, now fully naked. Goosebumps ravaged the smallness of her undress, both in anticipation and in post-mortem. She drew the curtain shut, to the left of her.
Now she was all alone, in this six feet by one feet by seven feet space. The light from the solitary bathroom bulb, that hung above the bathroom mirror shone from behind the shower curtain, casting candleorange shadows over her familiar body, sticking with greedy satisfaction. She didn't notice them. She reached out and turned the knob of the shower all the way to the right. Water gushed out, fiercely cold. She flinched back, and waited for the water to turn hot, and then very hot, until steam rose out from beneath the orange curtains and frosted over the bathroom mirror. She stepped into steaming stream. And waited. Slowly she began moving her hands, rubbing them over her arms, legs, face, cleaning, cleaning, cleaning, reaching into every crevice and rubbing with her fingers, dislodging, stroking. When she had thus lain the base of the cleansing, she turned off the tap, and reached for the shampoo. The purple plastic cylinder was slippery in her hands. She unplugged the top with her fingernails and emptied a sizeable pool into her cupped palm (the cylinder making a squelching noise as it was crushed), and rubbed it into her hair. She counted to 100. Then, she seized the bar of soap lying in north-west corner of the bath, and started scrubbing herself viciously, until little droplets of blood beaded in crimson streaks across her arms and legs.
She did this for thirty minutes. She looked down at the brown muddy water infused with with the faintest hint of red trailing down her legs and into the drain, and smiled softly, feeling the muscles of her face relax into unfamiliar contours.
Then she turned the shower back on, and eventually the machinery of her mind stopped screaming.
Friday, 24 April 2015
A.M.
Remember the night we drank dreams in Styrofoam coffee-cups?
Stained with the froth of an acoustic guitar were your lychee lips, that night I wore you like a blanket -
the magic stretches
like a rubber band only into the early
morning, and no more -
It had snapped when we smiled at each other sleepily on the other side; ignoring the advice
that you should never use the same pillow twice.
Stained with the froth of an acoustic guitar were your lychee lips, that night I wore you like a blanket -
the magic stretches
like a rubber band only into the early
morning, and no more -
It had snapped when we smiled at each other sleepily on the other side; ignoring the advice
that you should never use the same pillow twice.
Monday, 13 April 2015
Googoosh
About fragile peace and military repression.
...
Elegance
is in a deep blue shawl draped lightly over light green shoulders. Barely there, like a soldier with a helmet for a face standing by elbows of mountain days drip like cosmetic sweat tracing a crescent-like eyebrow -like cliff roads glimpsed from a split-second car window shards of chandelier light stuck like (fire)flies inside tiny bubbling cauldrons of champagne.
The guardian of your self and dignity shielding eyelashes like drapery:
all important self-important dignity.
Constraining, as you lightly move your white marionette shoulders to a light grace that feeds off of your steady lightening tune, shuffling them to the beat with a cherry-red smile you'll never run out of and this smoky overture to the slow fading fire a modesty that never falters.
...
.
...
Elegance
is in a deep blue shawl draped lightly over light green shoulders. Barely there, like a soldier with a helmet for a face standing by elbows of mountain days drip like cosmetic sweat tracing a crescent-like eyebrow -like cliff roads glimpsed from a split-second car window shards of chandelier light stuck like (fire)flies inside tiny bubbling cauldrons of champagne.
The guardian of your self and dignity shielding eyelashes like drapery:
all important self-important dignity.
Constraining, as you lightly move your white marionette shoulders to a light grace that feeds off of your steady lightening tune, shuffling them to the beat with a cherry-red smile you'll never run out of and this smoky overture to the slow fading fire a modesty that never falters.
...
.
Friday, 3 April 2015
Monday, 30 March 2015
Gibran
Spaces in between:
outstretched fingers like
naked branches of the oak and the cypress, on winter
days,
shivering in quiet hope
of consummation.
Learn to strum lightly:
strings do not touch well, and
an electron derives reason
from separation.
outstretched fingers like
naked branches of the oak and the cypress, on winter
days,
shivering in quiet hope
of consummation.
Learn to strum lightly:
strings do not touch well, and
an electron derives reason
from separation.
Friday, 20 March 2015
Thursday, 19 March 2015
Tuesday, 17 March 2015
Old
Perfect faraway icebergs
of bittersweet stillness;
a river is free from happiness or sadness.
...
Emotion lends itself well
to autopsy.
of bittersweet stillness;
a river is free from happiness or sadness.
...
Emotion lends itself well
to autopsy.
Friday, 13 February 2015
Home and the World
A few centimetres of
a squamous celled fence:
a permutation
of the immense and the microscopically immense, with the
self and not-self.
Thin layers of life separate
infinities from solipsistic infinities.
...
Matryoshka infinities,
boxed in skin.
a squamous celled fence:
a permutation
of the immense and the microscopically immense, with the
self and not-self.
Thin layers of life separate
infinities from solipsistic infinities.
...
Matryoshka infinities,
boxed in skin.
Tuesday, 10 February 2015
Perfume
You cut through my
reality like a
speedboat and your floating
wake carves my
daydreams into frothy
impressions of now-musty ideas shared
like evening cigarettes.
reality like a
speedboat and your floating
wake carves my
daydreams into frothy
impressions of now-musty ideas shared
like evening cigarettes.
Monday, 2 February 2015
Comma
I am in love with Homayoun Shajarian's voice as it bends and quivers in ecstatic pain, screaming for a face; poetry pores out of me like sweat, and all I want is...
My heart sculpts sentences furiously, senselessly, drunk on the memory of a summer night where it soared and it was all I could do to stop it from leaving me (chera rafti!) oh love oh insanity. Wild is what this organ is, wild and mad and insensitive to reality and oh, that I want to leap out of my bedroom window and soar among the lit candle windows and doorways and verandahs and maybe one of them will be yours and my heart shall sit outside your door or on your verandah and eat the croissant you packed so that I wouldn't go hungry after sinning, and my ears live in the aestheticity of the clicking of your fingernails against wood and paper and pens.
Yes, it's in love! Why? Who knows! Young and in love with ideas and memories and no one to share this screaming joy, this joy that gallops, only slightly slowed by the stake through its heart, only slightly marking the fresh snow with droplets of blood, as it gallops, gallops, gallops with no one to share itself with, impotent in its fulfilment, fuelled by music and a voice that rips the fabric of my skin a little every time I hear it (chera rafti) and yes, here it comes, here it settles again, laughing maniacally, driving the stake through its heart deeper, deeper, until it reaches you, but it hasn't reached you, and I am yet again reckless and young and flawed and alive.
Remember that night I could have swallowed the mountain? It's good that I cannot reach you. This insanity needs a heavy shell.
And now I am spent. Now, gloom.
My heart sculpts sentences furiously, senselessly, drunk on the memory of a summer night where it soared and it was all I could do to stop it from leaving me (chera rafti!) oh love oh insanity. Wild is what this organ is, wild and mad and insensitive to reality and oh, that I want to leap out of my bedroom window and soar among the lit candle windows and doorways and verandahs and maybe one of them will be yours and my heart shall sit outside your door or on your verandah and eat the croissant you packed so that I wouldn't go hungry after sinning, and my ears live in the aestheticity of the clicking of your fingernails against wood and paper and pens.
Yes, it's in love! Why? Who knows! Young and in love with ideas and memories and no one to share this screaming joy, this joy that gallops, only slightly slowed by the stake through its heart, only slightly marking the fresh snow with droplets of blood, as it gallops, gallops, gallops with no one to share itself with, impotent in its fulfilment, fuelled by music and a voice that rips the fabric of my skin a little every time I hear it (chera rafti) and yes, here it comes, here it settles again, laughing maniacally, driving the stake through its heart deeper, deeper, until it reaches you, but it hasn't reached you, and I am yet again reckless and young and flawed and alive.
Remember that night I could have swallowed the mountain? It's good that I cannot reach you. This insanity needs a heavy shell.
And now I am spent. Now, gloom.
Friday, 9 January 2015
Last Day
"Last night, I threw a bucketful of the Pacific at you and
The water froze in the vacuum between us in the image of diminutive glass birds in flight.
You are God
Of Ice.
You weighed the fragile birds in your wise right palm all night long and then let them fall in the dust.
The morning Sun followed your instructions and burnt them to death.
There's a puddle in my breast and you float in it, confused.
...
You went to look at the happy sweet peas hanging in bronze in the balcony.
Morning found them dead.
Frost, she told me.
Cruel, love.
...
The baby-pink cashmere that you draped me in had a glacier on its inside.
It melted all night long.
All night long, I was cold. So cold."
- Hayat
...
You are poetry.
And since when was I so generous and inarticulate.
The water froze in the vacuum between us in the image of diminutive glass birds in flight.
You are God
Of Ice.
You weighed the fragile birds in your wise right palm all night long and then let them fall in the dust.
The morning Sun followed your instructions and burnt them to death.
There's a puddle in my breast and you float in it, confused.
...
You went to look at the happy sweet peas hanging in bronze in the balcony.
Morning found them dead.
Frost, she told me.
Cruel, love.
...
The baby-pink cashmere that you draped me in had a glacier on its inside.
It melted all night long.
All night long, I was cold. So cold."
- Hayat
...
You are poetry.
And since when was I so generous and inarticulate.
Saturday, 3 January 2015
Romance
This love*
is selfish.
It's self-serving;
it cares only
for its own fulfilment.
It does not care
for you or me.
...
My blood flows
hot and thick and most of all,
painfully, but
it flows.
is selfish.
It's self-serving;
it cares only
for its own fulfilment.
It does not care
for you or me.
...
My blood flows
hot and thick and most of all,
painfully, but
it flows.
butterfly
I capture
a flutter of your eyelashes
on my left cheek, and save it
in a bell-jar
...
for a snowy day.
Desire
I ask.
What you did, what did you do,
that I am become a brooding madman? All
happiness expended
on keeping thoughts of you at bay.
What you did, what did you do,
that I fight phantoms in my head? That
cloud my vision and taste
for that which is real.
What you did, what did you do,
that this frenzied lust
(for that but which exists in the spaces in-between
my synapses)
haunts insidiously every fibre of every starving muscle,
like slipping poison.
What you did, what did you do,
that you are become the locus of Beauty
in my half-awake brain.
...
I would wish for
Freedom,
from this suffocating desire. But I fear
that to lobotomise this love would be to silence the taste-buds of aestheticism. No,
I accept this, but
A little more control is all
I ask.
What you did, what did you do,
that I am become a brooding madman? All
happiness expended
on keeping thoughts of you at bay.
What you did, what did you do,
that I fight phantoms in my head? That
cloud my vision and taste
for that which is real.
What you did, what did you do,
that this frenzied lust
(for that but which exists in the spaces in-between
my synapses)
haunts insidiously every fibre of every starving muscle,
like slipping poison.
What you did, what did you do,
that you are become the locus of Beauty
in my half-awake brain.
...
I would wish for
Freedom,
from this suffocating desire. But I fear
that to lobotomise this love would be to silence the taste-buds of aestheticism. No,
I accept this, but
A little more control is all
I ask.
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