The bourgeois life

All colours appear to me as one.
Through motley stillicide I’ve become
A hue of white, a splash of grey
A glimpse of life within the fray

All my senses have grown cold
Though I am but a dozen-score old
I have lived centuries, but will never know
What life has really to bestow.

Death appeared to me one day
After years of simmering dismay
Speaking in soft funereal tones
Do you know what you have sown? 

What is life we while away
When all is gone and none can stay
What is suffering but a means to live
In ceaseless longing emptiness

None shall pass the test of time. 
And I have trouble now to rhyme
This inner fire, this fraught desire
To heights I dare not ever aspire.

So tell me what I do not know
To shovel out this perennial snow
And teach me how to navigate
The bourgeois life till I am sate.




Carve upon my bones
Your esoteric alphabet
The sharp edges of your tongue
Your instrument of inscription.

Your words are ancient but indelible
Etched upon lichen bones you used
To divine our omens. When my blood
Was not enough, you left these ruins

For another city to conquer.

Your runes are carved on my ruins
If I run my fingers against them
I can almost remember:
Your ruins felt like magic

Like resurrection

Like love.

Drowning Fish in Bell Jars

Everyone has their own Bell Jar, said Sylvia (or did she) 
While hers roasted in an oven, incinerating
The Mad Girl’s Love Song, never sung again (I think I made you up inside my head) 

If god considered what he made in seven days (does he exist?)
He’d see an ocean of fish trapped in oxygen jars
Drowning and undrowning in unique suffering  (No one understands my pain) 

It was Pandora’s fault. She held the first jar
That birthed the jars trapping all, without even
The semblance of hope that they can shatter (Your pithos became our prison, we think)

Struggling beneath frosted glass, we fail to see
Other jars and other suffering, but if we simply
Strained beyond our own fragility, maybe this

Veneer will fall away to reveal we were never alone, and never need to be.
(But I am alone in my feelings, surely?)

Four Frauds


I was (still am) burning up with a fever in bed when I received these notifications. Never in my limited imagination had I thought I would receive so much support for my work, and so quickly. Thank you, all of you, for following and liking my posts. When I find it hard to continue, your support is what compels me to sally forth.

On this occasion I present four fraud facts: 

When I was four, I was given a piece of gum
Lolled it, chewed it, shaped it back in its wrapping
Gave it back to my uncle who had no inkling.

When I was five, I pretended to see angels.
My parents believed pious children saw angels
But the eyes beneath my desk must be angels, or else
They shift in the dark, and grin toothless terrors in the night.

When ten I forged my father’s signature
It was a better alternative than admitting my failure
My teacher knew that the lines were too wobbly
To be my father’s confident strokes, but she too understood
Forgery is better than the receiving end of the cane.

At eleven I read poetry that moved me so much
I scribbled it down with my own inscription.
Plagiarism starts from the home, it seems, as
It was so good my parents said I should be published
But they did not see me burning the original poem, afraid
Lest my acclaim be shoved down my throat as shame.

Since then I have not written poems for over a decade until I started this blog. Rest assured, all works on this website are my own unless otherwise indicated.