Eye lids falling far; yet close.
No matterring whether there is a meaning or end
Quieting minds as each thought descends
Only when we’re broke we will make amends


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

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.


iii. Nurtural

Nature and


The differnences

between people

The similarities

between siblings


As it may be

in a parent’s

nature not

to nurture

As nurturing’s

as nature is

to a child


How naturally it

comes for us, to us

to dream

Evermore natural

not to nurture

those dreams


The nature of

waking up in


So often, that

we fall asleep

to realities

i. It’s Like My Mother’s Baking

This is the standard from

which I base my taste

for baked goods

I can tell when

it’s not her best

I can tell when she tries

something new


It’s my mother’s


I can tell

I can’t tell

When it’s

not my best

When I try

something new


My friends

My family

And all others

who have tasted

her art find it

to be really good,

and even ask for her art



I knew they

would never

come for me

Take me



Because the

best form

of rebellion

is self-destruction.


Cracked tile

floor, the sealed

slightly by

the footsteps

of a sleep lost



The tiny chunks

whisper beneath

his feet, then

runs through

into his dream


Twice awaken,

once that sleep

was painless

as each parental

prescription carries

him off to a childish



The television has

nothing more

to watch.