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
'til 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 app 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 He rested in his chair in a blue business suit- albeit a little outdated for fashion, but suited the character I had begun to form in my head for him.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.
a picture of perfectionShe was a painting;
not a Rembrant or a Da Vinci...
much more vibrant than those, she was
the fade of Monet,
her quirks just shy of a Picasso portrait,
and at the same time not quite shy enough.
She was a Van Gogh landscape:
full and bright and articulate and beautiful-
but a real mess up close.
Like someone forgot that when you make people
they're supposed to stay inside the lines.
ways we constellate/a. dictitious/
am a spell
that does not release
and never tells.
to speak in hearttones
on rugged pavements.
this body has
forgotten its infinite
itself the luxury
this body has
remembered its lovers'
last names, phone numbers,
birthmarks and kindness
the only cruelty this vessel knows
is from its middles
with patient dynamism
that the goddesses
they have moved
and hoisted dark seas
then returned them
such instruments deserve more
than my doubts
the veins tenacious
i allowed these
to hold me.
i have yet to feel
than a Dali
my little ashes
are coming close
to me; i carry
till it is perfected
GoneGoing far away
Observing the road ahead
Never considering going back
Ending another chapter of my story
MemoriesI would spill gasoline
On my memories
And set them on fire
If it didn't imply
Melting the outlines
Of my being
Spreading the atoms
And losing track
Of my existence
For But a Blinkthere is little grey left
in a sky going white
we are too soon
to win the struggle
for memory, history
far too early-on
to be trusted
see me through
me you us
we found everything
and lost it
in the hot blurry
of the ember
we pretended we weren't
a burning window
and this brief
mess of man
for but a blink
in the snap
of its cr
au(roar)aa shy glow of apologetic
sunrises, she will never
know how beautiful she is
his magpie eyes, they pry
at her colours, leaving
her with only
the itch of dried tear tracks
at 3 in the morning
rough tissues scrape at her
strewn around her like white flowers
that he never gave to her.
and he never showed her
the glow of the stars,
a bond between this morning girl and the universe
they should’ve been
entwined in dawning light, but
he was a night guard and night
is afraid of staining golden black.
so she took the light caged in her heart
and threw it into
the abyss of sorry’s and i love you’s
as the moth he was,
she wanted him to catch
a spark (on fire)
instead, he never came back.
sometimes the midnight feels
warmer than a sunrise-
it guards her and between the black
she is beautiful
finally, the emptine
misconceptionsand as he paces the cliffs of my ribs with his
fingers and contemplates jumping off,
i leave his bruises of purple milky ways
at home on my skin
and push us both over the
hold me tighter, cause i'd rather be a bag of bleeding veins
than nothing at all
little porcelain doll.
It's terrible to see you again.
It's the two of us
here in this dark room
Stop analyzing me.
I'm looking at your flaws too
If I were to reach out
and touch your smooth surface
would you feel warm
Oh little porcelain doll,
trapped in a glass box
forced to watch the world
pass you by; never sparing you
There are cracks trailing
up and down
your arms and thighs
Why are you breaking
I would help to piece you
back together but
you would rather
Silly little porcelain doll
Can't you see I'm damaged too?
It's just the two of us
here in this lonesome room,
I've got time
our relationship should improve
If I were to reach out
and offer you my hand
would you return
My dear porcelain doll,
we are far from perfect
but life and beauty
is something we want to learn about.
If I were to love you
as you love me
then do I have a chance?
If I broke the glass
and set you free
would you be the better
half of me>
(though I'd r
ConflateI don't believe in beliefs;
I believe in cycles instead
to toss and turn into wisdom,
live and learn from, until then:
everything is a learning experience
and comes with a subtext that
if I can get through this,
it won't be forever.
When the lyrics of my favorite songs
won't let me get some dream sleep
I feel comfortable with the beats
in my head syncopating my heart
that someone might compliment,
I like your rhythm.
When the beat drops,
And when it drops off,
I will listen for the melody
of the memory, remembering
it doesn't matter to me if others
can hear the happiness.
It's all inside me and
I'll still be me without
I believe in cyclical beliefs;
like turning a key opens
the lock to the music box,
feeling a cynical relief.
The swirl of melodies
brings my back straight
and builds me up....
To build my way, on my own.
Belief cycles helping me along
Give comfort to an unsteady future.