January’s Broken

“You are nothing

If not

Broken sentences

Or unorganised words ”

A misconception;

I am not

What you

Have perceived ;

Cold and more

And soft.

—my sentences

are scattered ,

As is poetry.

Lost and in love.

And —

My words,

Though yet to be heard of


Be careful .

—the middle—

A reminder;

Your love

Is like the months ,

Ever-changing and transient.

A delusion;

If love

Was to ever be a month

You’d be December ,

The end of all others.

A reminder ;

After December

Comes January

The month of Janus;

The Roman god of beginnings.


I am nothing

If not

The beginning of all ends.

the ending —

When Leo’s love

They love and they love

And they love.

When it comes to them

There is no ending.


Forever is a sharp thing 

Each day the shadows of your goodbye 

Mar the sunlight of this cuddle-less winter 

Before you, I had enough

Nightmares to mild a memory 

And tell my heart to never 

Rear its hydra heads from the sea 

Now I have enough memories 

To snitch into a nightmare 

If dreams had enough steeds 

To gallop in my wakefulness

How can I remember to draw a line? 

It’s weird that this sordid community 

No longer holds us both; 

That I would endeavour  an ocean 

But surely drown 

That we would, but we couldn’t. 

Lovers hate each other in the end 

And will not bear to see the face 

Of an enemy collecting fines .

Our love was alive that day 

They snatched you away. 

It took a long time to fit my wounds 

To someone else’s

And cover two souls with one skin. 

We molted;they forced us. 

You call me and we cry. 

Miles and chance 

Are snakes, my dear. 

The myth of the soul mate; 

You can find it. 

Doesn’t mean you can keep it. 

And isn’t that a dagger blow. 

Are there more than one? 

Will the next erase you? 

And clear the sky again. 

Will the next erase me? 

So you can kiss without aching? 

Whose eyes should I look to now.

To see the beauty that existed in mine? 

Mirrors are ruthless 

And the scars are no longer sublime. 

Being beautiful 

It starts as a spark, ain’t little whisper that then courses through veins like liquid fire becoming a part of who you are; fire that moulds you;fire that shapes your entire being.

It starts off when you are little, all around you are whispers and expectations, the stereotypes blending in with the voices inside your head. Words that crawl inside info you and claw on your inside world’s that tear you apart.

You meet people who tell you things that you really don’t want to hear, some that scream it out and some who whisper; People who act like they love you.

And the words that they say, you carry them with you —even after they don’t matter to you anymore —words that slowly become a part of you.

The mirrow isn’t something that you like to look at anymore and now you can’t go out of the room that you’ve looked yourself in -without looking for the things that don’t exist.

Staring at that mirror for hours at the person that doesn’t seem like you anymore, pointing out and prodding at the little things which you fail to realize, make you who you really are.

The layers of make up, the hundreds of products littering your bath room counter, hours at the gym, hiding behind masks ,buying the latest trendy everything —just to make the person staring back at you beautiful.

But the person staring back at you with tired eyes and the empty eyes could never be beautiful.

For you are beautiful when your eyes light up like the stars decide to settle in them, you are beautiful when you laugh, the loud ringing laughter ;the laugh that makes everyone bloom, and the laughter that brightens up your heart. You are most beautiful when you look at the people you love with the soft look in your eyes like melting honey; like liquid sunshine.

You are beautiful.

(and maybe one day you will feel that way)

In the embassy of closed eyes

Here, where the night meets us

Just barely like the tide at our feet ,

Where we dream about convincing 

The multitudes in their dazzled indifference ;

That broken things can still be fixed.

You with most simply illuminated knowledge 

Of dementia and comic operas, 

You should continously think of stars 

And how prayers remind you 

To become radiant. 

Not burnt out 

Or superstitious about that natural ringing in your ears; 

The darker tone demanding nothing but your heart. 

I remember now. 

My silence destroyed you. 

Abandoned and objectified you stopped. 

Like the tortuous dead in bookish confusion; 

You held out your hands!

Waiting for an answer. 

I remember now. 

I come back again and again. 

I maneuver the anesthetics out of affection —

Because so much of me is sick and forgotten. 

I facilitate the blade to hasten out eulogy

I teach birds to sing violently. 

Since the divine survived by imagination 

And a quivering youthfulness, 

We ourselves wished for once 

In the days before instant gratification may still exist 

Some where in our silence, 

I will calculate the length ,width and breadth 

Of your sorrow by folding my skin over every inch of you. 


In the embassy of closed eyes 

Where I will learn  to know you. 

In such impossible, beautiful dark. 

Manifest destiny

Listless and swollen

They return from the war

The young boys and girls

Who don’t speak

Whose pupils gaping, dark

Search among the souls

Of the blown apart

For the pieces of themselves

Left like shrapnel

Half way across the earth

Because there is no escaping

Destruction, they think

As the sky reaching down for then

Like pillars of salt

Like steak shot from

Exploding boilers .

City folds into suburb folds

Like some relentless and crooked origami

Heave the heavy sights of construction sites

Condense ash and dirt

Of demolished life

In the great heat of expansion.

Beleaguered soil and history cave at At newly pounded weight

God bless the lunatics who hold

Sandwich boards

Quote Armageddon’s

Paralyzed and redundant poetry

All they ask for is change

Some goddamned change,

But it’s too late for that now.


Below the windows

And responding to light

We stretch, reaching for the shade.

Under the bed, a junkyard;

Of old dreams,clumps of shapeless dust

The fetal boogie men and amniotic bliss

Of a missing and unexplored world.

Pictures of uncle Frank holding an open box.

Postcards from London,Versailles and the monasteries of Europe.

An old mute shoe with mangled tongue measures it’s soul in miles,alone .

When I close my eyes, I sink to the bottom.

A scavenger of my own antiquity

I dig through dirt and relic.

I carry what I can.

This world don’t make it easy, my dear.

I say to you, in my best Marlon Brando.

But you don’t know what that is —

We are distance

We are suspicious

The alerts on out phones remind us again

There is evil.

And there are great hearts and tears of the missing.

Who leaves holes in this world

That will never be filled.

So we took for what will stay;

Us in the multiple tongues and twists of God

In the shards of beauty

That cut out feet like brightly coloured glass brings us to our knees

Teach us words

Some have called prayer.

Winter solstice

A translation of light

Might move a mountain

Bring a word to the world

Wedded to waiting

Parables travelling the parabola of history

Like a knowing, hidden smile.

Static cling on the periphery

Catch the stars on destiny’s

Cobolt the blue blanket sky

Like a wishworth whispering

Whether we are here

At the beginning or the end

We are fused by the same heat and light.

A camel silhouetted on the periphery

An isolated exodus

Bears gifts from the flowers

Of hopeful astrologies,

Sewing what sweaters

In expectation of the cold.

You can have my body said

The Baptist who drank wild honey

Grasshoppers ,locusts,berries and nuts.

In loin cloth romance with the apocalypse

But my soul belongs to —

The swift blade that ends each sentence with it’s own answer

Give back to the stars.

The more beautiful question

Contains no answer

We open

It’s silence like a gift

Left in the darkest parts

Of our sleepless nights

Pretending not to be afraid.