Friday, 24 April 2015

April 24: Sunset and Thoughts

Evening settles down
in the warm lawns and
corridors, darkness has
not invaded just yet;
remnants of sun
leave bruises of light
in the purpling sky.

What if the only kind
of magic that exists
is what you choose
to imbue the world with?

I shudder, but smile,
making space for a sliver
of silver moon, placed gently
in the clear bowlful of sky.

Thursday, 23 April 2015

April 23: Heroes

The thing with heroes
is that they're always
and seeing through the
screens is the worst part
of growing up. By far.

The thing with heroes
is that they only know
as much as you.
They're just as strong,
as brave, as kind, as
true. And when you
have bad days, they
can too. The thing
with heroes,
is that one always
expects too much,
hopes for magic
in the form of a
mother or a poet,
an elder brother,
a brilliant teacher.

Magic comes,
but it's everywhere,
and it's always fragile,
that's the thing. Magic
isn't something concrete
or solid - it's more firewater
or thundersmell, more like a
sliver of silver moon in a bowl
of sky. Don't you wish heaven
was a place in the map you could
plan to go? It isn't though, paradise
is as alive as you or I, but you can
never sit in paradise. You find it in
the middle of motion, in a moving
river, in a journey that whips back
your hair and stings your eyes. You
can't stop. You must keep moving.

There's no perfection
in a slice of time.

Wednesday, 22 April 2015

April 22: Circles, ad infinitum

Life as an endless
learning to love
only to lose,
settling down knee-deep
and then dusting yourself off;
learning and unlearning
like the endless motions
of the oceans - the tides
falling and breaking
falling and breaking.

Life as the infinite
moving in this
brightly lit circle,
round and round
a single-corridor maze,
the blossoming of flowers
leading only to their death.

Ideas that you hold
close your chest as if
they were precious - you can
only ever truly love knowledge

if you're willing to let
everything you learn


again, and again. There will be no water
in this flickering flame. There will be no
sand. Only the anger that swells in you
like a flooding, only your eyes closed tight
that realize what it means to live in time.
Marking circles on the ground with your feet,
again, and again.

Tuesday, 21 April 2015

April 21: Tuesday Morning Blues

1:13 pm
(late morning or early afternoon?)
dusty sheets in disarray, beginnings
of sunshine lacing the room with light,
Radiohead and Nietzsche starting the day;

amidst the bloom of debris and disaster,
a pair of lonesome legs
locating memory and desire
in an unrelenting maze

1:21 pm
(quiet pangs of hunger)
prayer flags hanging still
dust and decay gathering
on bookshelves and dreams;

in the wreckage of fear and forgetting
the ache of tapping fingers
searching for sleep in a circular dream
ache of music and multiplicity

Monday, 20 April 2015

April 20: Writing

Stringing together words
with thread of silk; there comes
a time when dreams stain reality
and the metaphors build cities
in your belly, unwilling to leave;

you, as a series of similes, as a
continent of darkness in oceans of
light, the gentle bloom of touch
rising like a trance in music and
memory, unwilling to break
the surface of water, unwilling 
to face the splash and sunshine;

both arms to the sky and throat
to the stars, declaring yourself
a new-born god surrounded by
skyscrapers of regret and revival,

looking in the mirror 
expecting wholesome countries
identity holding you to yourself
you find the fragments of faces
a hundred different names in 
a hundred different mouths
smelling of lies and water;

the words pile higher, debris
and disaster, the wreckage of
desire in ant-like black alphabets;

language blossoms in your eyelids
your fingers 
your curled toes
in your chest rising and falling
with the beat of music: hiraeth 

Sunday, 19 April 2015

April 19: Song of Smoke

burning eyes and guilt
(even though everything is okay,
everything is okay tonight)
thankfully nobody can read
your fingers laced with smoke

today the sun was the lightest hue
a singular clear orb set against
a sky made only of clouds 
grey and smoke

everything is okay.
it isn't hopeless anymore.
fragments of a moving life
follow you like stains

sometimes when you hold
the cigarette between two
fingers, you forget that it's

your eyes follow me in the dark
my days are sandcastles 
next to your seas.

Saturday, 18 April 2015

April 18: It Matters

I know it's hard that
everything matters.
I know it burns you
that I nitpick, catch on to
'inconsequential' things that
you say. It burns when I bang
my fists on the table and tell you
it matters what you eat what you
drink what you smoke what you
wear, what you put on your face
what you put on your hair. It matters
what you write what you cite what you
choose not to fight. Goddamn it, it does.

It's hard for me too.
It's hard because none of us
will ever be able to make the
kind of difference we want,
never be able to truly find
the right blend of meaning
and reason, never be lauded
for all the things we secretly
want to be lauded for. It's hard,

because the world is the strangest
carnival I ever did see, by far the
most neurotic psychosocial fantasy,
the worst kind of nightmare that you
don't know how to flee. It matters,
despite comfort. It matters, despite
the fact that yolo. Because this world,
this beautiful magical fucking scary
world, it does not live one life.
This world lives a hundred stories
every second, a hundred heartbreaks
and a hundred secret tears of joy, this
world is larger than you will ever be,
and yet it's only, only as large as you
choose to let yourself see. Only as kind
as you will let yourself be. Only as wise.

Friday, 17 April 2015

April 17: Ode to Angie

"Dull Gret: We come to hell through a big mouth... I'd had enough, I was mad, I hate the bastards. I come out of my front door that morning and shout till my neighbors come out and I said, "Come on, we're going where the evil come from and pay the bastards out... You just keep running and fighting, you didn't stop for nothing. Oh, we give them devils such a beating. " - Caryl Churchill, Top Girls

O Angie,
you big baby.
you sick child.
you image of
everything that went wrong here,
in this particular hell, this apartment,
this schizophrenic society where
forgets to be kind
and change forgets
what it needs
to change.
You are woman and
forgotten, woman and
fallen, woman and

You scare me.
You are the big mouth of hell
and you are the devil's desire,
you scare me because you are
larger than life, and yet small.

The spectres that haunt you
give me hope. You are the
big mouth of hell
through which the women
can walk through and fight,
finally too angry to stand
another night, you are the
devil's desire
that will carry us through
past tonight, do you know?
You are the world
in an angry child.
You have so much
to fight. Not just
the men and not
just the devils.
Women too,

more for
more for
us all.

Thursday, 16 April 2015

April 16: Loving, & how

I'm afraid
that too many people equate
growing up 
with forgetting 
how to love
bigly. Wisdom is not always
kindness, & well, intelligence
definitely not always wisdom.

I'm afraid
that I too am not able
to love like the ocean.
Not perfectly, contained
in all the right boxes, but
big. wide. liquidly. 

I want my loving to be
the colour of the sky, &
as shamelessly willing 
to cover the world. I can
forgive myself for not loving
the right people the right way
the right amount the right time:

but I will never forgive myself
for not loving strangers enough
not giving enough birthday cards
flowers poems hugs notes & smiles.

I'd hate to be afraid
because people around me are afraid.
I'd like to love fearlessly even if I am
loved fearfully. I'd like to love bigly,
always. innocently & shamelessly,
no matter how old or cynical I get.

Wednesday, 15 April 2015

April 15: My Little Date

I might be blundering a little, falling
more than I thought I would. Perhaps
the darkness is throwing me off, pushing
me too hard for me to balance, hang on
to things quite right. Sometimes, I'm
afraid of silence. Of solitude. Last night,
I had a little date

with myself. Quiet, and yet so loud.
No white tablecloth, no roses or candles.
Only a wooden floor facing the bright
windows of the library, only a single
strip of sky and two stars, only a plate
of sandwiches and namkeen. Only a
phone resting on tired knees, playing
soulful strings to myself. Only the wind,
tousling back hair and the leaves of potted
plants in the vicinity, only the strange looks
of passing strangers. Only the smiles I could
give to myself. Only the smiles.

The music grew bigger and leaked out
of its bubble, until it filled the collegescape,
coloured everything a warmer hue, floating
into my badly-lit corner and rising, soaring
past petty worries and little aches, my bent
back and clenched limbs, the weight of the
world in the bags under my eyes - the music
painted everything lighter, named it all brighter,
called me moonshine and firewater, touched me
until I tingled, brown freckled skin over bones
and dreams, as tall as mountains and as deep as
the sea. The music grew so big I couldn't see it
anymore. The music was inside and outside, the
wind grew louder but more silent, and I flew.

The sandwich was divine. The corner was serendipity
in form. The moment, though trivial, was incomprehensibly
large; my little date with myself was a sonnet to solitude.
I had no white tablecloth, no fancy restaurant - I was dressed
baggy, unprepared, on the ground with throat to the stars.
It was all I needed, to tell myself
hey. I love you, man.
I don't need a white tablecloth or a black party dress,
the bright lights are enough, the dark sky more than plenty.
Life itself is all I want to aim for - life itself, my friend.