We can’t forget the
sunglasses. If we do,
we’ll be conspicuous.
Twenty Ten FourWe never notice.
Our alarm doesn't ring, it sings
Pharell beating our mornings
till we remove from our snooze. We
forgot the tink-tinker or
and emerge the same.
The same commute to work:
Heads sunk, tired eyes drunk by
thumb movements. Our ears dumb
locked into a Will-I-Am trance. Not
a glance of the changing scenes;
the only birds we see are angry.
The same office echoes with
of emails blaming others and smack-talking.
instead of actual talking. We fall for
the hype of Skype and only Siri’s
voice drones narrow answers
we accept as truth.
The same playground, huddled corners;
Children pick a blackberry instead of
picking blackberries, for their late-night
Facebook fights. Words will always hurt see:
no kids to hit with sticks and stones. Unless
there’s an ap for it.
What do we do when stop?
Orwell you're too late
took thirty years to demonstrate your
doublethink and we all cling to
The Beard of intrigueHis beard was fascinating.
It was a loom, woven with intricate detail and so long it would put any wizard to shame. Each pattern in the coarse mound of hair seemed to share a secret. Perhaps they were memories- I’d heard others collect memories in such ways- etchings on their bodies, collecting objects and even journal writing. Maybe this man was his own journal.
The rest of him seemed positively ordinary. He rested in his chair in a blue business suit- albeit a little outdated for fashion, but suited the character I had begun to form in my head for him. His sorrowful eyes narrowed on a frustrated brow of greying features, illuminating a sense of tiredness. Perhaps the beard in all its might was weighting down. His skin was as rough as sandpaper, blotches and scars etching his hands and face with no revelation to the puzzle of his beard.
I wanted to move closer, debating whether it was rude to ask. The very notion excited me as I built up theories as to why his beard had the
Shopping and Wizards.A thousand bags
shuffle down the high street between
clasped hands, scrunched with new purchase.
They’re buggy-dodging the determined mothers,
the rushed businessmen-- a pinball
machine shopping centre.
A green-robed man, tall with wand and hood
must be a wizard. He’s happily
procuring sushi and sparkling water
whilst his companion;
short with her piercings and jeans treats him
as if he wore the same.
Down the high street,
two track-suited parents
zoom past on their children’s scooters—
half-smoked fags between fingers yell
how fucking amazing this is.
spotted teen raps
his love for Jesus on a muffled
He raps for the Father,
He raps for the Son
and Holy Spirit.
He raps for peace, for hope, for you.
In a corner,
Brown eyes, hefty tears,
a snot-ridden face--
four years old.
A train runs through the mall toot-tooting
as grumpy shoppers move out of the way.
Napo 8- SusanWhy did you lock her out of heaven
and throw the key
into the lions land?
A beautiful girl enjoying
a new fantasy to live.
She'd stopped believing, but
faith stays in a heart longer
than a head.
"She wasted all her school time wanting to be the age she is now,
and she'll waste all the rest of her life trying to stay that age"
Napo 7- Teen of the 90'sI wanted to be Posh Spice because my
hair was brown bobbed and she dated David
Beckham; I wanted to marry him. I
had no internet and recorded songs
on the radio to tape, daring to
pause and knock out the DJ’s droll. I sang
to S Club and thought I was the coolest
in my smiley faced top and my yingyang
friendship necklaces. You had to know the
Macarena not just for weddings but
school discos too and then every steps routine
to fit in. Slow dances with boys made me
wish again that they were David Beckham
and not greasy teens with bad curtains for
hair. They pressed themselves against you before
travelling to the next girl in leopard
print skirt. Viva forever was merely
a fantasy ; one I’d dream the whole of
the nineties, hoping my teenage self could
find her inner strength, her true girl power.
Napo 6- IreneShe left you a letter
outwitting at last the greatest.
A photograph, filched;
a King’s humiliation.
In your eyes she
holds the highest.
Napo 4- Warrior with painted faceThere’s a warrior with a painted face
and streaks of black across his chest; he stands
wild with pride. His merciless eyes ignited by the
echoes of fallen enemies. He slew
two hundred men and just scars mark their defence.
There’s a warrior with a painted face
who prays to gods mightier than he; he kneels
arms open to implore. He calls upon his army
to pray with him; equals once more. He watches
embers burn before retiring to his tent.
There’s a warrior with a painted face
and inside his heart rests a son and daughter
sleeping. There is a reason he is
Napo 3- Leaving the Train Station
Leaving the train station
alone I watch strangers head home.
The waves for yellow cabs and
stench of fresh-lit cigarettes, I let
the cold cloud white breath.
Even at midnight, a long-coated businessman
hurries past with laptop bag bulging and blackberry to ear. Behind me,
a clip-clack of heels and giggles-
their night hasn’t ended.
Across the road, three youths in hooded
tops kick a can whilst eating chips only stopping
as clip-clacks pass them and swoon
immaturity. Swear words exchange.
In the ice-wind rubbish travels as if taking
a commute, tapa-tapping the concrete.
Exhausted I can only wait with
white breath etching blue hands desperate to be
warmed. Eyes fight; tired and
Napo 2- Zombie ApocolypseTurn, turn, slow turn. Twist bones
broke but drag drag behind, pull
tug flesh ripped. Shuffle, groan desire
only for blood brains.
Undead, unliving, unknown.
To survive a zombie apocalypse don’t be
a hero. Do not fight marauders without
necessity. Attrition; gnawing for bare
minimal (lest you be gnawed upon!). To
survive ravenous army equip your
your wits and an axe.
Moan as much as they moan- both sides are hungry.
My Personal PreferenceI don’t care
For pretty hearts
I like the ones
That are scarred
And taped together
Because those are the ones
Who have been through Hell
And have the courage
To keep beating
she is an asteroid,
through belted dresses
that skim past stomach
and smoothe her flaws
and soothe her faults.
an axis awakening;
bend like this, flex like that,
aspiration reminding her
with angry rotations
that she is still present
in her heavy astrosphere.
she is seeking absolution,
absolut and freefallen
she flirts with the night-
club lights like aurora floating
just out of reach
under an ashen sky
atlas stained with atlantic salt,
there is no hall unmarked
and these nights segue
she strips her face acoustic
no make-up, no need to wake up
an hour early for this adagio
addiction to adding,
always adding more to her skin
to hide the parts that
gasp and poison her vision
like asp assassins.
be quick or be dead,
she moves so slow.
she measures minutes
by an aftershock timeline;
stunned autumnal by bricks
crushed to powder,
she's stuck between the faults
as they line straight through her world;
the things we cannot knowand darling, there are things
i never told you; like how
i blessed you while you were sleeping
in the hour before the end -
asked the universe to watch over you
and conspire towards your happiness,
covered you with be brave's and
goodness and mercy and light,
fingers touching your spine
like a rosary
and my darling, time is a flat circle
so you are still sitting at my kitchen table,
still asleep with your head on my breast;
we have already come together like waves,
repeatedly, and dark against the sky;
you have yet to walk through the july night
to kiss me on a crumbling riverbank;
i have yet to know if i will see you again,
and where, and
Life Hides Lovethe whisper below your words
is your soul telling me
that you're starving it
that the end of infinity
can't come quickly enough
and i whisper back, my dear,
that life hides love deeply
in the most painful of places
that love finds its way
through the maze
not by looking for light
or dark, but by
balancing and building
both into something
tall and climbable, yet
low and comfortable
so when curious eyes rise
peer over the walls
and realize the labyrinth
stretches into forever,
there's something soft
between you and the ground
to catch you
when you let go
love is bigger, sharper
softer than what any selves
can want or need
it's our all-scention
through, above and below walls
without ever leaving them, it's
our becoming a station
of peace along the way
TiredI'm so very tired
Of this daily routine
Always the same thing
Day after day
Life is grey
As dull and boring
As it can get
What happened to my dreams?
What happened to my passion?
Why can't I live
Instead of just surviving?
untitled (broken records don't have names)my fingers flutter sunrise butterflies,
floating in the morning
as it breaks through the gloom
that came post-gloaming.
but i confess,
i have no grasp
on what to do with daylight
you were a drop of sunlight
reflected in my cloudy-sky eyes
eventually you became too
good for me, and i gave up
my waxed wings are still intact, but
my shoulders are too sore from
carrying this deadweight with an
obnoxious, obstinate heartbeat
and how are you faring this golden afternoon?
you will never answer and yet
my mind loops broken records,
asking as if you could hear.
light halos the plain beneath my feet
but i shy away from sunshine,
an icarus-inherited fear of falling
or just of
because we were supposed to
be something beautiful, something
worth falling for
(or you were, at least, and there is
no way to ask if you fell hard enough)
but shattered cds still lie on the floor
collecting the sunlight that i
don't know what to do with
because i can't spend it on you, anymore.
Masked Pain Masked Pain
Bright eyes, big smile.
sobs silenced in haste
Bursts of laughter ring out
tears stifled within
Grab my hand lets dance
while my soul drowns in sorrow
We'll jump and touch the sky
my heart sinking... sinking ...
This is gonna be a blast!
don't mind my shattered heart.
Can't you see I'm all smiles
when really I'm crying inside
We're 10 feet tall!
though I feel 9 feet under
Isn't this the best day ever?
the pain seemed to go on forever
I hope you had as much fun as I had.
I can barely contain the turmoil inside
Goodbye my friend, let's have fun again.
Hurry! Leave! before you see my pain.
Alone... I'm alone now....
Let the mask fall...
...pain... all there is... is pain...
Vesuviuslone silhouette in an arctic expanse,
suffocating del(e)rium, suffering the sound of
dearth, of death
the deep breath of Thursday (wood day, would day
white is still white in the cradle of night
tea party for one, brush of lips on white china
a nib kisses white sheets and
not to savour, but to cling to eternity frozen in time
breathe in. breathe out. move.
shooting up, fire shoots though arteries
(sp)utter with ashen hands and choke
through wood smoke
charcoal lines the abyss
eight letters blindsided Pompeii.
in aqueous lumens
in ruminating half-starts
we press our cartographs
closer to human form
swarm of failed lives
and unweathered storms
god help us
as we bravely
solidify a circle of wry smiles
that verify our circuits are worthwhile
final breaths can't be taken back
and your tact won't serve you well
when your strained tendons
impact the seabed
no weeping here, love
the salt does not provide
a place for confided truth
or wasted youth
or broken sternums
only a terminus
for acidic sermons
look at my expert failure
and tepid future
my tea leaves
in my molar mass
in absinthe leaks
bruise, you are
my sweetest endeavor
and i swear
i will maintain
your violet smirk
and the brilliant ash
of your charred grass skirt
at this point i feel like
but that has not always
been the case
i wished you had destroyed me,
broken both my legs
and scoffed at my searing
the glory of a hallelujah
from the comfort of dirt