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.





Let us pollinate our minds tonight.
Let us spread our cerebral tapestries on
My yellowed ceiling like glow in the dark stars
That hung above my dreams from two to twenty-two.
We will peel each other open like old photo albums
Leaking sepia onto our fingers with each memory.
And when we are done, not even the morning can sever us
For between these sheets we have created our own galaxy,

Our own gravitational forces

Our own orbit.

Night Sea Yearning

Paisley rocks, flowered stones blossomed in your eyes
You told me to follow your chartered constellations, but
I was only led to distant, crustacean shores. Here,
Your words wash against me, foaming gangrene seaweed in your wake.

My ears, curled with the same canals of a conch that
Remembers the ocean’s voice to sing in memoriam —
So will I cup my ears, to hear your voice once more
These murmuring sirens, calling you from an alien shore.

You are still cetacean, impenetrable like evergreen
On cerulean coasts, bewildered and bent but never broken.
While I wait, I will sail your tessellate, undulating mind
So I can navigate you like tides of my turquoise night sea.

Apologies for my prolonged absence. In the past month I had to deal with a seismic shift in my life, including completing a university degree, moving houses and going away for a family vacation. But now that these tectonic plates have calmed down, posts will resume regularly. 


There are so many details I can describe to you, but

to you, I am just white space. 

I have found all the negatives of your life, stashed away in a dark room

you thought was locked by cerebral encryption

It is interesting what secrets you show to the dark

when you think a black box is your only witness.

while you were busy producing double exposures

with lovers who thought your images were faithful; unadulterated

I found your dark room. I prepared the chemicals.

Are you afraid what your negatives will reveal in the light?


I buried you last year.
Like Egyptian pharaohs, your
Funeral was a stately affair.
I embalmed all your memories
In polished urns detailing our
Sultry summers surrendered to oblivion

I painted my lips crimson, with
The life once in your veins
Your chafed heart, weary
Of loving too much in vain
Has its special jar amongst my shelf of
Expired hearts burst from futility and shame.

You said ghosts were cutouts of souls
Plastered onto the cornea of the living
All their visions have a hole the shape
Of a tenacious shadow bleeding the past
Into the present, reluctant to die.
I was like that to you, you complained

Little did I know

By burying you like a pharaoh,
You achieved immortality.
Even if your eternal life is
As a spectre in my retinas
Always present, like fuzzy eyeworms
Disappearing upon focus.

Yes, haunt my dreams tonight.
If I did not bid you to die
I would never have known
The saccharine bitterness of
Falling asleep every night to
This sweet somnolent lullaby.

From my Wayward Island

Sometime in the last decade, I gave birth to this island.
Vaguely Hebridean, relentlessly aloof 

Erupting from the travails of a mangled spirit
Thirty thousand miles from any other land —
A subterranean volcano spilling its guts
To a primordial ocean that cares not
Whether its passion bleeds or ossifies.

Marooned sailors struggled on my barren shores
Only to wither from exposure and hunger, for
If I could sustain life, my own would not be
A carrion of bleached bones and rigor mortis
Already picked clean by ravenous seabirds.

If you ask for a map of my unchartered terrain
You will only find the nocturnal ramblings of a madman
He is lost in convoluted obsidian caves, eyes glazed over;
Years of wandering the omnipresent dark taught him:
The only solace in life is the embrace of one’s own arms.

I am unanchored, my spine floats from my nerves
It juts out as a crooked mountain range from North
To South, mapping the constellations of my rivers
Frothing with the crimson promise of life and love, only to
Pool in a mooncrested bay near the bottom of my heart.

There you will find the Blue Elm Tree:
Maybe I am the girl who lies in the water
Maybe I am the man waiting in the nook
I would tell you, trust me I would
If only I remembered how to (feel).

The Blue Elm Tree

Follow me down to the Blue Elm tree
Where the river babbles around your knees
There she waited for him, and him for me
Her eyes screamed ‘robbery, robbery, robbery’.

You remember her swirled in morning mists
As her hair swept over her wistful lips
Wading between the reeds, silent and swift
And in an instant gone was her silhouette.

Slipped upon white eggshell stones
Adorned by layers of moss overgrown
Her bones upon the water did float and roam
Lost to dancing iridescent foam.

If you look in the Blue Elm tree
Though gnarled and white its skin may be
There lies a man in the alcove, collecting debris
Waiting for her, and waiting for me.

Splayed open for all travellers to see
His bones as white as his beloved, deceased
Picked apart by ravens for their winter feast
Scarcely given a chance to bleed.

There will be a day you forget the Blue Elm Tree
But until then will you wait for me?
She lies in the water, transparent and free
He lies in his nook, in her thoughts and my dreams.