Kamorebi Slivers

The last rose clipped

Smothered by their mother

To heartless smithereens


Yet they still extend

Their hidden rings

Snapped by the unwed trees


Kamorebi slivers

Bleed their honest blues

Ricochet into the resting

Wanderer’s eyes


A Five Year Old

Shall the recognition

Be acknowledged by

unwarranted validation



Wasted praised

On scribbles made

By an unblessed hand


All their dwindling

Inklings as a vacancy

Seen through the soulless glass


There is noise inside

Neither anguish nor some bliss

Enter if You may

A five year old sun

Mimic Child

Mixing the

Compound of symbols



As they scatter

Without care

Upon Saturn’s rings


A child mimics

The mocking bird

Note for note


In a pinch that

Pitch turned

For who parrots

The mimic

And sings for

The caged birds

Sleepless Cemeteries

He looked up at the sky,

the stars were dead, the grass

grew over his shoulders

and tickling the sides of his  neck.


The silence seeped into his

head, we change so often that

when things become ordinary.

Some strangers passing in the

damask dusk of an ever-ending



Something nameless, faceless and

no way meaningless, Sisphus’

sermon on the mount over

those deities grave-yards.


Now noting these emotionless

thoughts, invoked by the sleepless



Upon him his weightlessness

lays heavy, grounding him to

the depths of his chest.


How he now yearns for tears

of the day and the taste of

morning dew between her legs.


He stands on the hill out back

where she conceived in him

all this scenery.


He remains without remorse

nor regrets, he buried her beating

heart in his stomach and chest

with some sauce and pasta.

It was pork so it was fine.


He made his bed by her

headstone, and he slept without

rest. Suddenly time passed

as the vines through his skin.


He kissed each bird and each bee

as they pollinated pink poppies

on his cheeks.


Ravens nested in his rib-cage

within a week. Still he watched

the sky after they fed on

his eyes.


His brain and mind had

become a hive, he was

absent for it all, and

presently his body has never

been more alive. Lucid his

passion laid restless in that bed,

as beside he remained, by her

headstone he stays.


He is one of us, the children

of a broken home fathered by

Logos and Mothered by Eros.

We were born jaded with passion

embedded within our heart. To

tell this story more honestly

our father passed away at the

age of three and our Mother

raised us alone.

So we hold on to the thought

that our passion will remain

whether brain dead or insane.


Only with time we understand

that our father dies of alcoholism,

because he could never reciprocate,

when when our brief step-father

was writing he didn’t exist.

We’re still playing the

game, of colouring between the seams.


Filling in the spaces between the pain,

like we did on our Mother’s wrists ,arms ,

and legs.

When we were just children, when

we were just children, smaller

than this.


Sprinkles & Memories

Variety is the spice ,the sprinkles, the chocolate chip. The profound in the mundane, mundane in the profound all that is new becomes dull, then new again. Everything is borroed, and nothing is ever kept, there’s no keeping each other, nor any other person. It’s not so much the person that is kept, but all the time we borrowed together.

Then we’ll have memories, even of the things we’ve forgotten. We’ll feel different and differently, about the emotions we had and the emotions we have. Young or aged, nothing new, movements made, altered, just different. All of us, each of us, changed.


As a child

I ran around

the house, not stopping even to watch

my mother’s vases shatter or roll.

Now I pace as thoughts

race, not stopping even to watch

my mind shatter or roll.


Blisters of

a carousel

The swings of

chariot goddesses


Places on

Spaces on

Traces, tracing

the catapult gest’s


Marooned curtains

on the moon shone



Soon born of

a crowned

mourning dawn


Of dilettante


and decádence