Between the Glass Windows

The mannequin behind the glossy glass window, is
Stiff with rigor mortis.
Perfection in plastic, plastic restricts
Rigged, ram rod, eyes a fixation.
Alas! She is but dead!
But forced into a fate worse than death.
Beneath her pristine, prim, plaster cast,
Lived a staggering, star-gazing,
Dewy-eyed dreamer.
Mind, foamy as a Tsunami’s crest,
Eyes with the glimmer of Aurora Burealis.

Forces of indefatigable power could not avoid,
Splitting open new veins, rust-red, exposed.
Raw like red meat on a butcher’s hook.
They had hot molten plaster to
Seal the wounds and gushing arteries.
Like fresh cement over a criminals grave.
Crystallized, her silent scream

The mannequin behind the glass window.
With chiseled jaws and Dionysian bliss.
Isn’t she enviable?
Her torment is absurd to the vagabond,
Leaning and peering into that glass window.
Jealousy erupts and envy corrupts.

Though movable limbs and fertile womb.
She shares this universal despair.
But bounded by a plaster of a different kind.

Different plaster to numb different minds.

1) Weltanschauung

1) Weltanschauung

Naked, pink and huddled
With the milky, moist smell of birth.
Journeyed from ethereal to cradle,
From dreamscape to landscape.

Then, you, cradle snatched,
To a vault, entombed to ultimate Thule.
To darkened woods and faded parchments.
Became the foam on waves ebbing on
Melancholic shores.
Out of space,
Out of time,
Into a distant phantomine.

And I,
A toppled vase, a tramp,
An Eidolon, formless, white-robed ghoul,
Encamped in an ill womb.
Waiting, like a statue, greened by the salty wind.
A floatsome bobbing on a shoreless sea.
New wounds and lonely old scars, and
Still death intertwined.

I longed for a stasis shattering reply,
But intoxicated by a strange nepenthe,
So vanished you into my labyrinthine mind.

Two decades forth,
You rattled at my door,
Jolted memory,
Like stars of dizziness,
A fiery morning in my desolate winter.

Like two grains of sans on a common shore,
Reborn infants to newly weds.
You emerged from your tomb, and I from the ill womb.

Like tempting eve,
I, a ripe berry,
Craving to be plucked and consumed.
Settling on your warm lip,
Dark night juice nestled within you

‘Untitled THX 36473’

‘Untitled THX 36473’

The streets are ablaze with the cawing of the birds.
A cacophony of crows and jack hammers crushing, convince me I am in Megiddo.
I whisper silent, hoping to be heard.
A fleeting sentence floating on wisps in the air.

These dire times have proved to bring out the best in me.
The ticking second hands, the melting ice, the fan rustling.
With my lover beside me.
And the omnipotence of the innate fear of the unknown.

I fall, arms drawn, pistol flashes and whizzing bullets down to their last.
Scarlet threads asphyxiate me; Entangled, dangling from the tree like strange fruit.
I seek comfort in the ambiguity of silhouettes.
Illuminated by the blinding lights glaring at me from behind.

Flicker, flitter, flutter, trickle.
My blood is dripping on your nipple.
I dread the day, photographs turned sepia.
Devoured and ravished by silverfish.

Regression, oppression, suppression, progression.
Who sings the songs that know the aching of my heart?
Will someone please circumcise the encasing crust and lift the wooden shutters that blind out the Sun?
They say these barren wastelands will never have a home but I lift my arms to shelter what I do not know.

How I long for fertile fields that sprout spring flowers that feed on our dead soldiers.
That sway and dance playful in the summer’s breeze.
Decisions or fate? That decide which side of the fence, the ripe apple falls upon.
The birds will still call in this maddening heat, with one less swallow who really did sing.

I am teetering on the tight rope between obscurity and obscurity.
A circus. A spectacle. A freak show.
Of what shall come and what must go.
For the yesterdays or for tomorrow.

Please accept this love medley presented in my weather beaten palms.
A potpourri, a motley crue, an amalgamation of nothing new.
I begin to wonder if you already know.
That I know you will always be this bold.




collaboration with my precious star
xoxo

For we are incandescent stars circling different orbits

On a reclining bed, ceiling gazing
A pillow beneath my head
Perfecting my spinal disfigurement

If I wore a Guy Fawkes mask to sleep
Will it induce the sleep paralysis I’ve yearned for?
I want to dream of derailing trains,
Weep upon an Aurora Borealis
Lust for my profane love,
And watch a nebula disintegrate into
The nothingness of a pitch black hole.

Here, there is no shelter from the rain and the pain
Of errant skull shattering hail stones of no mercy.
All I need is for you to
Talk to me, ravish me, lynch me
And spit in my face.
As you scourge me,

For ye, For all our shared deeper conversations:
With Love


Fettered, manacled, hung from chains.

Or will self flagellation be a more alluring option?

Please build me a hollow home in a dark, dank chamber.
A hermit who can hurt no one but myself

For we are incandescent stars circling different orbits
Perhaps someday we will meet, greet ,
Then crash and burn

The spectacle
The Mise en Scene
The Sublime

Collaboration is a coping/defence mechanism

shit will always gravitate towards the fan
if you get in its way you will just get shit your your face
so let it be let it be let it be let it be

Life is like a box
When you open it
you find
a dead frog