The hue of desperation


Desperation is such an ugly dress,

beneath it is the reality of disloyalty,

gnash the silence with the opioid of your fetish,

oh what an incredible appetite you have my dear,

incisors and nails,

acting all frail,

your ego needs to set sail,

and there you are,

in the thick of men’s hands,

ever on demand,

and all it took,

was a rejection of,

a painting you,

a showing of,

a man,

telling you where you stand.

Be well with your dress,

or take it off,

you’re naked anyway,

why on earth would the pit of your fire burn with such rage,

if indeed you want this veil,

if after all, you indeed are frail.

Perhaps the frailty you express,

is a need to undress,

perhaps it’s nothing more,

than feeling the hands of your father hold you like you exist.


A moment with suicide

I’m overcome with the feeling of things being taken away from me.
This sofa I lie on, worthless, but still they’re coming for it. My children’s home, my things, worst of all, my pulses and heartbeats, one pump after the other, gone, never returning and soon, they’re coming for the rest.

It was my lowest day since my father passed.
Death stood hovering, lustfully whispering in my ear, the top of my eyes heavy as I pen this in hope it is merely passing.

Suicide has always been repulsed by me, and I by it. We could never agree, it wanting swiftness and I wanting a spectacle.

But yesterday something happened for a moment, a reconciliation if you will. Perhaps it was courage catching up to fear. Perhaps then a duel was about to take place, let me set the scene.

If anything, it will be in the desert, a fitting backdrop for solitude that they both abide by.

My fear has always walked alone, marred by hypocrisy and sin, let us amuse ourselves and reserve to it the idea that it is embarrassed.

My courage too, alone and aware of its extremities. I once wrote, ‘I have extremes so far fetched of so far fetched’, and now perhaps you will see why courage, like fear prefers to take the solemn footsteps away from the crowd.

But this backdrop of a desert couldn’t be more fitting. It will make legend out of this allegory of my moment.

I rose from writing, head still throbbing, eyes still feeling like they were pulled down for a lobotomy and I undressed to walk to the shower. Perhaps I could wash this feeling away, I thought as I had an inkling of sense still remaining, tugging at me to not pull the pin, surely ablution would rinse this evil out of my soul.

But it grew and I could feel the devil inside me growling with such anger that it drove me to raise my hands to my face and place my fingers on my eyeballs. ‘Gouge them out’, he said.
‘Then what?’ I replied.

He’s a prick of a bloke. He entices you with rose, wine and a whisper, gets you intoxicated on his voices, scented and in love with him, commands you to evil and then washes his hands clean from you once you’ve committed your deed.

Then he was gone.

I finished, dried and got dressed. The feeling waned but lingered faintly.
Suddenly, it daunted on me and I wondered where this feeling came from.
It has me confused and misplacing my demarcations between a trigger and a pen, a sword and words, a semi colon and a full stop.

I don’t know exactly what to make of it,
I won’t discuss it with anyone,
and yet, here I am writing about it,
the only way I can express anything these days.

Was it something I ate,
or was it a taste of my fate,
delivered to me in surrealist carrot sticks,
not dangled, but on a plate.


Grief is a muse



Grief is flawless,
without blemish,
like crossing eyes with someone,
across a room full of noise,
suddenly there’s the tinnitus of silence,
you hear yourself,
introducing yourself,
to your self,
the type of relationship,
that amuses poets for the rest of their lives.

Yes grief is a muse,
a patient one at that,
like a chord that plays on repeat,
so you comprehend the scale of its sorrow,
of its disharmony,
and how, so many flat notes,
bring such symphony.

Grief is the poets skin,
that knows scar tissue like it is the norm,
that doesn’t cower from emotion,
frailty, vulnerability and scorn,
lives with valour amongst prying eyes,
and flourishes between the caress of mourn.

It’s the perfection of grey,
of clouds, of light, of darkness,
the perfect storm.






all this time, my tongue,
was his heart writing grief,
prose and poetry unsung,
his spirit showing me relief

he leaves me with a weight of unknowing,
that is filled with my pastime,
relics of his past life,
the reminder of the white dress,
that death awaits me in.

elixir of friction,
concoctions of hurt he could not pronounce,
I don’t grieve,
because the shrills would deafen her,
would slay me,
rupture the lips they are meant to pass from,
and hold the world in contempt,
of the court of love.

instead, he finds me,
in pangs of writers blocks,
in moments filled with an orchestra rattle,
there he is,
the brown moth of white noise.

it doesn’t bother me,
that you see only fleshen mass,
this cavity is large for a reason,
but did you ever ask yourself,
i wonder how much it can hold,
what it can hold, or who it’s held?


trust issues



The saddest individual is not the depressed, not the lonely, not the one fighting demons, or mental, spiritual, or emotional issues,  but the one who won’t admit them nor aim to rectify themselves, one grain at a time.

I can’t trust people who paint a veneer of perfect.

I don’t want a confession, I just want the truth.
That truth manifests in your presentation outwardly, the way you look at people, talk to them, stand around them, walk to or away from them, communicate with them, treat them.

I have serious trust issues with people who persist on acting outwardly.