lacrimae lunaris

The moon was so alive last night,
cast shadows strong as firelight,
pressing me to with all her might,
and so, I thought of you.

The moon won't listen to my pleas,
she slips soft through the arms of trees,
whispers across the the cold night breeze,
your features, tinted blue.

The moon's magnetic midnight light,
drew me towards the window, bright,
to view a world glowing pure white,
where we have no reason to fight

our feelings; we are lovers here,
out in this city of nights clear,
our desire free on snowy piers,
or streets drenched in moon's tears

of light, plain as what's wrong and right,
or the paper on which I write,
fierce as a child's grip on a kite..
which slips, and falls into the night.


we can't survive here, try we might,
hiding from questions, wrong or right,
too much to lose, too hard to fight
the bite of sirens; dawn's first light.

x

ओं थे अर्रिवल ऑफ़ माय विंग्स

they have arrived now,
encased in the beauty of what can become of a tree
when a soul's work is added.

I hope to add another's, and
to give something in return;

quandoquidem, in honesty,
what I give is not given altruistically.

Let me explain.
I increasingly often find myself so bursting at the seams with feeling
that I fear I could cease to exist if it doesn't become something else.

And so, it's harnessed into whatever is nearest-
what do I have? Language. Sound waves. Light waves.
Beauty is what keeps us alive, really.
Don't you agree?

We fall in love with the world, and are left no choice
but to create more life to share the beauty with.
After all, when left with the soul's ultimatum,
who could ever choose nothing, really?

ab imo pectore,
ad astra per aspera,
ab urbe condita,
ad abque infinitum,
ab quisque corpusculum,
amo te.

to a clear night

Anger slides me roughly down the door,
leaving a heap of itself on the floor;
a seed of fury,
stifled,
reaching,
raw.
Aching
so long to grow
into..

existence?
nonexistence?

Escape.


*(still drafting)*

Nationality.

Nothing is the same in this place.

Here it's not "turning over a new leaf",
and there is no clean linen of snow.

The colors turn like something decaying.


Curdled milk falls from the dirty glass above,
won't allow me to forget my first true love.

":american".

x

doors

Doors slam shut
on my tear-tracked face
from every direction,
even yours.

So here I stand,
at my last escape,
the threshold of
the filthiest of doors.

spero

Change rings alarm bells in my pocket as I walk you home.
Alerts me, says, remember, this is how such things are grown.

Can I trust this heart,
this foolish ugly organ,
playing pretty all the wrong notes
to have finally learnt the score?

To have at last exhausted
this desire for disaster?

his

"you are my sweetest downfall",
"you're my favorite mistake",
what a pity that, like these words,
you aren't mine to take.

x

about heroes

How come all the right lines
come all at the wrong time?
The words stream down my face now,
making the perfect sense that I intended from the start.

And now it’s their turn;
Faces, staring back at me from all directions,
asking me why I can’t make them better.
And they scream.

And they yell and they tell me
that I’m as fucking bad as them.
And I am
and I am
and I’m worse.
And each hearse belongs to my sad selfish body,

because I could never
save anyone but me.

That is not a hero.

That is not a person.

I am undeserving of myself,
of even these clichéd, self-centered words.

I have always been sorry.

But that is, I am, never even close to enough.

on the Northern Line

She would've let me..

and so here I sit on the Northern Line,
surrounded by people,
but smiling anyway
as I think of her
and wonder if she knows...

that knowing that I could've

is almost as beautiful
as if I had.

chapstick

I cling to the fading scent,
& get the sense of an atmosphere
similar to that of
trying determinedly to chew the last pockets of flavor from
a piece of greyed gum,
 
and, again, the world has mirrored the external to the in,
creating a perfect metaphor for itself.

Is it really time that this was spit out?
And if it is, who is at fault for this atrocity,
this robbery of the beauty
and peace
and light
and direction, which I remember now,
which cuts through the tiredness & desperation it has
become
to give me a glimmer of a reminder,
of a hope, and bewliderment...
 
like the eroding of the gum’s commercial, bright beginning,
leaving only the industrial grey
of the lesser mentioned ingredients…
 
is that really what we are built on?
or have we just been chewed to death?

Golightly

There's no doubt that you're Holly,
that defining fear & charm.

And he's your Jose, honey;
ratless, high.

So left to cast is me, well,
what'll it be? Kinda funny
how I still don't know-
Doc, Fred, Paul,
who am I?

rest in peace, Tony Dangerfield

Oh God, the past tense is so ugly;
and all it leaves the present is its lessons.

technicolor

The face of the girl I'm in love with
looks over the fold in a newspaper at me
in my pyjamas
as I mournfully ponder my inadequacies,
things I could never be
and would have to be
for her to love me back.

Surreal.

..but strangely fitting,
now that I think about it;
I'm looking at her now the way I always do-
as one would when admiring a work of art,
behind the importance of a rope,

just too far away.

The girl I'm in love with,
my first love.

Her flawless features high shine through the dull print
and enhance the color quality of my life
in that same unique way her presence can,
from far above;

technicolor from this black and white.

seeing her:

I sat down on my bed,
& crossed my arms across my chest,
& leaned forward ‘till my eyes
just almost kissed my knees.
And that was perfect; couldn’t see the
world-unidealist, painfully.
Why do I keep doing this to myself?
The right decisions were so simple before,
when there was nothing really involved on my part;
no emotion but fear.
Now, sitting here, in this life, I almost miss the fear.
It almost seems a luxury now, to be afraid
of having too much so available to me.
An excess of a commodity I did not want,
but had already ordered.

How did I lose her, the last one? That person I know
only I could’ve saved.
I just had to turn around, didn’t I?
and now, the unimaginable, unbearable, she’s gone,
swimming in the Styx of their sickly hands.
So many things I just can’t ask, can’t let myself.
Does it still make her stomach turn?
Or has she forced herself to learn to tolerate it?
She was on the verge. And I had the opportunity to let her
wait it out & make the right decision for her.
But I panicked when I saw her standing there,
who wouldn’t? I tried to save her but
instead I inadvertently pushed her in.

Sometimes I can’t help
thinking that
maybe her lungs aren’t full yet, can’t help longing
for that person I know
she is
or was.
But these are thoughts I push away.
Even if she’s not too far gone (which I know she is),
I’m not the one to save her. I’d just make the same or
another mistake. That’s clear. I just wish this wasn’t how
I had to learn.

the least likely answer to your lack of one

So, here’s what I’m thinking.
In attempted sinking (or descending) order of likelihood.
Perhaps for some reason you don’t have your phone with you,
or maybe it’s not working, but you would.

Or maybe you’ve simply developed a dislike
for the way we’ve been talking lately.
Or maybe I’ve hurt you and somehow
I’m significant enough now that you’re mad at me.
(I can’t see how that could be likely, but see your lackings transferring to me).

But then there’s this,
probably the least likely answer to your lack of one,
but the one that both terrifies and gratifies me more much so than any other one.
There’s the possibility that you just know how much I care.
This could mean that:
-you’re pissed ‘cause you think I’ve only been getting to know you because I think I have a chance (in which case you’re wrong, & I’m offended but don’t blame you.),
or,
-you’re terrified. ‘cause when you realised that I really like you,
it occurred to you that maybe I’m not the only one who wouldn’t mind this going further.

sanguis sano

sanguis sano, et est almus,
tamen, non sine instilling
fear in those who think
only of it’s connotations.
Just as the harsh elements,
when beating across the face
of a shallow thinker provoke
only insolent complaints.
He does not appreciate how
deprived the land would be
without them. A comforting
contemplation when the blade
of emotional uproar separates
spirit from sleep, and sometimes
it’s very case, as cold tears
settle in confused emeralds:

the more they drown in turbulent
times, and the more they shed
their stinging liquid crystal,
the less they will have left-
in time they will run dry.

In the world of immunity
there may be harsh winters,
and lonely, too, admitted.
But you can be sure the
gems remain always dry and clear,
though they may appear
glazed over & emotionless.

M25 (dolomites)

The sudden hum of passing traffic relaxed
every muscle in my body as I watched
the fog lights flash by. Beautiful as it was
to be so close to the awesome power of nature
that I could see towering mountains out of my
window, they somehow did not reach my spirit
in the way towering buildings could, and I felt
a deep longing once again to see the bright
gems which light up the intricately entwined
streets & avenues of a city come into view
& gradually move closer, reminding me
warmly that I was on my way home. Finally,
now that I had figured out where it was.

lacking.

the pale pink of the sunrise
just clashes discreetly, pathetically,
with the red brick of the building below.
It fails miserably to penetrate the deep grey
which puts its arms around me, threateningly.

I can’t handle the entirety of it on my own,
not after appreciating the wholeness of it with you.

Of course, that’s it.
The strange sensation of emptiness as I walk.
I thought maybe my load was lighter than usual,

but it’s you I’m lacking.
Isn’t it.

I thought about it

I thought about it, you know.
Every once in a while, we’d be in there-changing a film or whatever, talking.
And I’d just think to myself ‘What if I just said it, just told her how I felt? What would happen?’
And every time I played it out in my head, the same thing happened.
Exactly what happened when I did tell you, eventually, by text.
By text?! Jesus.
But if I actually had, at the time?
Would you have just gotten it? Realised, like I had, that we just fit?
Or would the reaction have been just as painful,
Plus humiliating?
I guess I’ll never know now.
Although, I’ve thought about that too.

haunting

too much caffeine today, not enough logic.
Nauseous from the drugs now, I’m pissed off with the stupidity.
Flashdance is shit-only worth it for the music.
I seem to be regressing every time I think I’ve learned lately.
I know you were never any good for me.
I’m even completely aware that I could never have had
a healthy relationship with you.
But that doesn’t stop me missing you.
Fuck.
It occurred to me today that maybe there was more
to what you said than I first thought.
I actually almost made an incredibly bad decision;
something I wouldn’t even have considered if she was here.
I’m clearly not to be trusted with my own life.
but to be honest I’m just talking shit at the moment.
what I really want is to get it out of me, all of this
that’s been building up, everything I want to say to you.
Maybe then I can actually start to let go, instead of pretending.
I want to ask you if you’re ok.
(I want to know if you’re happy with him.)
I want to tell you that I don’t hate you.
(I want you to know I miss you.)
but remind you that I should. & wish I did. & tried to.
I want to just forget the emotion, but keep the lesson.
But it’s taking far too fucking long,
and I’m sick of you haunting my peripherals.
Just get out of my goddamn head.

circa six/my dear

He doesn’t even know I’m here,
well, he or she, but I can’t stop watching,
the spring rain whispers messages to the earth
from the sky, seems to be the only cover
this friend I’ve found feels
safe to leave the house under.

Still, the paranoia is evident in
every twitch, the slightest switch
in lighting, lightning, the heaviness of the
sky’s gift. I guess that’s the scar
being preyed on for centuries leaves;
seemingly entirely unaware of the
weapons, the crown gracing his
nervous mind.
Strange to see one now, technically,
but, then again, this’d be
when I’d choose.
Nothing to lose.

I’ve never really had appreciation
for spring, never got into
Horace’s ‘fons bandusiae’ thing…

but it’s difficult not to love
anything through sheets of
purifying beauty.

The adolescent groups of
leaves which, this morning,
looked out of place & awkward
on his majesty, the established oak
framed perfectly in my window,
now, next to my pal, look
like baby creatures, some
clutching on for dear life,
some venturing out towards
the world, the fall,
like my dear,
furtively stepping
out into the stark grey spring light,
a grandfather’s bemused frown,
like a looter,
to feast on the results of this
terrible British weather.

I move. He nervously gulps down his last bite,
licks his lips, trying to look nonchalant,
thought in truth he might bolt at any second…


I leave the window.

I’d rather retire with the image of him there;
pretend as though I’m unaware
of any reason he should be scared away.
Pretend? Or remember that the world
can be this way; as safe and
stunning as it has been
this moment, here, this day.

as the world

as the world grows steadily
darker around me, & night
is draped over my shoulders,
I finally see that it can’t
become light again until
exactly the right moment,
when everything is at the
right stage; ready, peaceful,
open to welcome it as a whole.

"a"

“,-ae f bud, precious stone, jewel;”
-all of the above.
Something I can (curiously) cope with,
even couldn’t care less about,
being.
A description you fit so well; so beautiful,
so cold, so beyond my understanding.
They’re everywhere in relation to you;
in my eyes when
you are,
currently huddling moderately in my inbox.
You have evolved me.
And yet, you don’t even realise how
“Everything”, everything,
you are, this is, could be.
Hands, words, how could I
not adore you, when your name is
a Latin word?

height

I can’t really sleep tonight,
Well, to be honest, it’s not exactly as though I’ve tried.
And now that nature’s waking up; it’s morning, birds serenading,
I decide to take a look outside.
I want to see just how beautiful London is right now,
When the only people awake are the people who are free.
They’re the people morning-running, or opening bakeries;
The only people breathing this pure, rare, London fresh air
Are happy people; me.
Cause I’m finally seeing you again today,
& because I control my life,
& because life is stunning and waiting,
& because I know who I am.

Do you seriously need a higher power than that?
If you do I’m sorry that your eyesight is so poor.

our consequence

This anti-culture.
Corrupt, slothful,
Fuelled by money and lethargy.
Leeching the good,
Killing the potential,
Feasting on scraps
Of the way we could be living.

I hate you,
You who made me capable of such vile emotions.

But what are you, really,
Other than a learning experience;
A labyrinth we have constructed of the mistakes we perpetuate fiercely?

Am I just attempting to cling to my naïve optimism and tolerance and hope?

How would I explain?
How will I avoid??
How can I not try to fix this
In any way possible?
I could never create life to present this world to.

Painful; the power that hatred holds for us,
The level of panic and fear which incarcerates us,
Our inability to love or understand,
Our insatiable appetite for pain,
Our frantic quest for “happiness”
The gradually surfacing truth about our consequence.