She’s damaged goods.



She’s the ship wreck on the shore that everyone loved to look at, dwell in her confines, and listen to her stories even though she didn’t say a word. They all thought she made the shoreline ugly, rust, decayed wood and wails of the wind that bore her sorrows but no one dared remove her.

She was a reminder of how fortunate they were and also how boring they were. They couldn’t bear to be the spectacle of ogle like she could. She took it with a throw of her white sail, and a flicker of mascara, sly smiling bow but her plank was there, solid and anticipating her next traitor.

What presents itself as damaged goods is often the most passionate and generous. They may not offer material, but they can sail you on a sea of impossible storms, loves crashing waves, the oceans darkest bottoms and wash up after the storm, another piece wrecked off them, but still mesmerising.

The problem is with cowards who don’t want to salt their faces and tan their hearts.


The Narcissist


She wanted him so dearly, at his request, she dived into his heart of sorrows.
Infatuated by his accomplishment to win her heart, he failed to realise she was drowning there.

He jumped into the darkness that engulfed her but being so narcissistic, he could not see her.
He marvelled at his own sorrows and killed them both.

What do I see in a woman



They ask me what I see in a woman

It’s neither hair colour, eye colour, width or length,
But perhaps a set of warm eyes draped in turmoiled strength.

It’s neither skin colour, cheekbones or curves and bends,
But perhaps the sweet fragrance her soul sends.

It’s neither attitude, anger, poise or wit,
But perhaps her relentlessness tenacious grit.

I don’t want a woman to prize my collection,
Neither do I want her to pander my affection,
As mentioned already I don’t care for her complexion,
She just has to be everything except perfection.

I want her hurt, her suffering, her troubles and woes.
I want her nightmares and dreams and tantrum throws.

I want her sadness, pain all bottled inside,
I want her incessant demand to never confide.

I want her unsureness and indecisiveness too,
I want her constant and perpetual blues.

I want her doubt and desperation all in one,
I want her forgetfulness when she decides to run.

I want her ‘I love yous, I hate yous’ mixed together,
I want her lost loves that she holds forever.

She can keep them all, I’ll never deprive her,
Because it means something’s alive inside of her.

And if that’s what keeps her going, allows her to tick
Perhaps if I’m tock, it will do the trick.

She’ll love me back despite my myriad of flaws
She’ll know I’ll kill for her even with my claws.

Perhaps if she’s fire, brimstone, volcanic eruption
It’s ok, I’ll be water, anti-sulphur, and earth for consumption.

If she’s rage and hurricane and tornado for days,
I’ll be calm, the butterfly and the blade of grass that sways.

If she cries, is sorrowful, wishes for death
I’ll be her eyes, joy and a new breath.

I simply do not care for your boxes and ticks, I’m far too developed to be confined by the limits of societal suggestions on beauty and love.

I’ve found the flutter of my heart in the braces of a teen girl in my own teens, too bashful to do anything but exchange smiles with her for years on end catching the same train. She had Pocahontas hair, night eyed with a penetrating stare; no one looked at her but me.

I’ve found excitement and thrill in the uncaring coldness of a light haired, blue eyed Caucasian beauty. She kept me chasing for more without a hint of returning any affection.

I’ve found obsession and devotion in the almond eyes and autumn hair of a girl that was never ever socially and culturally acceptable, slim, celebrity looks and a juxtaposed nature of cold to warm, all was well until she lost my trust.

And now, my heart resides elsewhere to it all without denying the previous influence with gratitude. She’s given me all of the above and more. Re-read it if you must, I’m not exaggerating, all of it. But she’s been my pillar for thirteen years more. She’s endured with me through the thick of it and that’s why when I get to the thin of it, she’ll enjoy all the spoils of war. Even my crown she so delicately has woven with the tapestry of selflessness I will plate in Gold and put in on her head.
For now, she remains in the shadows but soon you’ll all know her.


Artists are not drunk enough

intoxicated art

For me, the ability to write only comes in the stillness of the night.
Thoughts, ideas, musings and pondering pass through me during the day.

A word from him, a look from her, a thought from that person expressed through mere presence, my guard is up and I’m on alert and I take notes but I only find the reaping at night when silence prevails, my belly is empty, life forms are otherwise dead and the stillness allows it all to manifest.

Like a bashful girl summoned from behind a veil, some things deserve their own stage.

You must find that place and realise the worlds most noble sages, scholars, writers, artists, musicians and poets all revelled in solitude.

Some may need alcohol to remove these filters and inhibitions, but it will always be a mask, a psychotropic drug that keeps the demons at bay long enough for you to function. But the best of your work will only come when the body is pure, detoxified of material and of ego and ripe with a fertile soil.