My soul, the anchorite. Forest and mountain prone. A silence swimmer calmed at the great stillness of falling leaves. At odds with the noisy dialectic of the religious proletariat.

My soul, full of twists and turns, with a weakness for artificial flavours, like obscure chemical chocolates that contain just enough rot to expose those secretive alveolar tooth sockets. I should be more discerning, even of spiritual gummy bears.

My soul, the winged one. She seems to have a distinctive butterfly shape, with eyes protruding like giant yellow flower cups to attract the slender fae forms of a gentle winged wisdom.

My soul, the honorary coin tosser into the fountain of fate; ah, but even that is of dubious quality, more likely distracted by the shady financial plop of riches, rather than rest and reason.

My soul, the floater, often detaches just below my head and enjoys a post-Hippie romp among the white clouds. Things seem so different up here. Do I have a cultural permission slip to see a little differently?

My soul, the critic. Shunning the canned vocabulary and intellectual flaccidity of nice books; yeah, I know, she’s a rebel at heart with a postal tattoo of smug-seeming naïveté, but I have learned to listen to the sadness behind her rants.

My soul lies on the fringe, a spiritual mutt. A little piece of pseudo-art embarrassed by the brutal candour of those mysterious baptised smiling masses. When I lean down and start a conversation with myself I really don’t like her eccentricities, but she seems so electric.

My soul, the driftwood. Sandle-wearing, sitting meditatively cross-legged before the moon and the stars. Longing to see the night sky for the very first time, an unnatural calm obviously belongs to a peace not of this world.

My soul needed control, gripped the steering wheel of life so tightly that her knuckles became locked in a solid skeletal trance. Unrecognisable, empathy depleted, zeroed at the base camp of exhausted clichés.

My soul, mercy beggar. Mystic. Some would say esoteric, yet still, she remains extremely wary of bowing before the conventional and monotonous. She seeks a secluded mountain pass, where clover or phlox bloom, therein lies a remarkable simplicity to console beyond all reason.

My soul, oscillatory flirt. She has a marvellous capacity for misery and happiness, and both at the same time. She is distinctly and originally odd, a conglomerate of clarity and confusion, and with that an unusual degree of intensity.

My soul, egoic saint. She has reached the heights of an elegant, but fiery egoism. Shall I scorch the earth with wisdom? Shall I loose the orbits of planets? Shall the world gaze upon my un-famous words and be filled with impossible longings?

My soul, sweet essayist. Ah, but see how she now hobbles in an unrefined way. Inflicted with a kind spiritual scotopia causing a brief half-stagger. Humility inducing for sure, but still, she cannot resist being as radiant as the sun.

My soul, grinning child. She has a saucer-sized circle of a smile, though you would never have guessed it, she is always wrestling with the angel of language, limping away with a series of rhetorical bruises, lexiconic welts.


Love & Life

Life’s a series
Of mistakes
Of missteps
Of false fronts
Of beautiful blunders

You fall and flounder
You lose and learn
You slide and stumble
Life’s a circular path
That brings you back
To where you started

It’s a walk through darkness
Without a glimpse of light
You never seem to know
Where you’re headed,
You just know
It’s probably not good

But love …

Love’s a series
Of corrections
Of clean slates
Of fresh paint
Of absolved debt

Love’s a million happy endings
That make up
For the previous
Billion shitty ones
Love’s a dance to a beat
You never stop humming
It’s a Get Out of Jail Free card
With a pulse and a smile

Love’s not a reward
For a life
Love’s a result
Of a life


She has galaxies under Her skin.
Flashes of starlight and fire,
explode from the melody of Her laugh.
Her smile.
Purple promises draw me closer,
endless tomorrows,
the smell of rain,
the crunch of Autumn leaves sparking
red and orange under bare flesh.
I’m floating.
Held only by strands of silk ghosting my lids,
the taste of a November bonfire on my lips.
The air is a tornado spinning,
thrashing, whipping every surface of skin;
desperate heat, back and forth until
I’m lost.
Exploring the trembling planes of Her universe,
the ups and downs.
The taste of salt.
My name, spun out like a thread against the stars;
Her voice forming new constellations.
Her eyes glazed like honey.
Inky and blown.
Filled with the wonder of a new world.

Sweet Melancholy

Deep in shady sadness
Like a weeping cloud
Sweet melancholy comes
Drowsily on a morning rose

She dwells within beauty
On the rainbow of grief and sorrow
Where the dead leaf fell
Melancholy more beautiful
Than beauty’s self

Beauty must die
And joy must bid adieu
Thy mistress sweet melancholy
I shall taste the sadness
Of her aching pleasure

Turning to poison
Upon my tongue
Cold fingers closer to my lips
There did I rest
Amongst her trophies
Sweet melancholy

Light Patterns

I watch the light filter
and change as it dances across my ceiling
and I wonder why you love me
and I wonder why me.

Ripples move through my chest area,
A hard flutter in my rib-cage.
Something is alive in there.
Sometimes you wouldn’t know it.

I blink. Breathe.
Like coming out of water.
But I’m dancing out the door.
I leave the rustling behind.
It lies on my bed, wet and quivering,
looking for warmth. I know
You’d see the symbolism in that.

Paper Thin

When my skin was thin
and my heart naive
when all I knew
was not all I believed

Words struck their target
all the sticks
all the stones
chiseled my memory
clawed at my bones

Desperate and lonely
singing songs, covering ears
time chose to be ironic
now it’s silence that I fear

Once More

I want to keep telling you the same thing.
Over and over.
I would let you know the colour
Of the the burning sunset.
About the way it shines
Against the strands of your hair.
Or how the words crowd
My mouth when we are alone.
Some people dance with a
Tune in their hearts, the
Noises guiding their path
Like a harmonies orchestra;
Your orchestrations discordant
Rhythm is a stark contrast.
Our arms entwined.
Once more, I say.

Sweeping Up The Stars

Under our blankets,
with your body warm
and the midnight
between us

Our young souls
resting on their laurels
creation hums around us –

Explosions that
silently rock
empty space
and the brilliant
show it
leaves behind

Skyward Bound

This love flourishes
In any climate
Skyward bound
Entwining ivy
Without a trellis
A connection that
Bends like the
Flexibility of willow branches
In a stiff wind
Knowing its strength
Together, supporting
Branches touch daily
Leaves drop and scatter
Yet we clutch
Daisy petals tenderly
As your heart holds me
In the tightest embrace

Dreaming Queen

She lies there; inhaling, exhaling small silent breaths,
Motionless movement, a queen in her element.
Her naked fingers painting dreams against my skin;
As my gentle hand strums the pulse across her breast
A million sensations bursting down her spine,
As I cradle her close and devour the tiny breaths
Which leak from her lips.

Sleepy Eyed

Moth wings on dusty lights
Illusions and shadows dance against windows
You still prey on my thoughts and mind
As if you still take up so much of my time on life
Only to breathe in yesterday’s past
I trace shapes of happy faces
Over phone screens and smile along train rides to places
Where strangers brush up against
Elbows and seats are warmed from other passengers

You’re well and I worry less
That chances remain open for weary hearts to rest
In big cities and busy streets
I still imagine winter jackets in the middle of July

And still someone pens away words for you
Dark haired girl that sometimes stays just a
Bit out of your sight
Little hands that will always hold on just a bit too tight
Small body with too many feelings
Who will make room for just a bit more
Of life to fill up her time
Sleepy eyed with laughing lines

Your presence still remains in my heart

Sea Foam

The mind is an ocean of thoughts
Ideas galore and seems never ending
Abounding, that you can’t handle them all
So many that some are impermanently
Gone at your call
It comes fast and outright
Like the undulating power of the waves
But you can still keep its gentle and calm
Harnessing it’s use is possible.

The Game

The cold dense darkness
Cave like in nature
Blinded by a facade
The sunshine my preacher
Consuming my existence
The rays penetrating deep
So hot, yet invigorating
The mind plays tricks cheap
Games I’m unable to win
Trapped in a battlefield
Armour wearing thin
The happy smiles fade
My aura runs dim
Lying naked in the shade
My faults blaring bright
The world stares intently
While I put up a fight
Too weak for the mask
No strength left to care

Theories of Thought

Cast away with forked tongue
The whispers that lie
And point to the sky
Deep into the ashes
Of the past and desire resolute,
Striking electric explosions
Against the skin.
The colour of bleeding remorse,
Flanked into overdrive;
Fire riding skin with
Painful canvas, painting
Theories onto the living flesh.