Sunday, February 19, 2012

Figure Drawing

It was his turn to trace her.
The microscopic folds of her wrist
Parsing a youthful vernacular,
Seemed to sigh
Under the current of his calloused refraction.

He prayed she could not feel him staring.

He watched her chest rise,
Like a magnet spinning hydrogen
Between two lungs,
Every atom composed 
Strings of electric soliloquies
That rewrote themselves
With every fall.

He could taste the heat
Coming off her;
She was a solar flare of quartz and rain.

His eyes flashed
And his fingers seized the carbon
That was slowly slipping from his grasp.  
His palms were black and smudged
From artless musing.

It was his turn to trace her. 

Wednesday, February 1, 2012


The necessary escapes
the threads of detail
and loses itself in pattern,
patchwork printing over loves and past loves
of the films we’ve unspooled
in our ribcage projectors.

We proceed in a manner of adaptation,
merging our bodies to slip in between
touch and time
moving through the confines of space –
our minds wandering the infinitum of paradoxes
that paint themselves over
with play and persuasion.   

We become children in a museum.

We crave the novelty of our own imaginations
and race each restless thought
to the edge of its frame.
We tilt the world
to watch one canvas bleed onto the next
and wait for gravity to surrender
so we can call it beautiful.

And of all the perfect absurdities,
we grow up 
to lose their basic necessity. 

Tuesday, November 8, 2011

Standing Room Only

Saturday nights are filled with standing room only’s and awkward cocktail shuffling. You arrive late to be denied a cushy view of soul jazz serenades and chromosome-shaking harmonies that immediately erase the ego conflict you may just have had with the doorman, who could really care less that your bra size gets you in free at the Roadhouse. 

As your feet find their space amid the black and the ivory of cross-legged luxury, it glides through your fingertips and grips the last breath of your pulse, renewing each blood cell as if its vibrations were your oxygen. Your entire body beats in cadence with the unassuming bass line, once the synchronicity of strings softly withdraws its intoxicating caress. Your lips don’t even feel the vodka as it marries the vermouth and loses itself inside of you. Bridges arch themselves in your somatic fluidity and flick their licks upon your tongue.

Kissing never felt this good.

You let yourself fall in love with your eyes closed, waiting to weaken with every undulation. And in that moment, you realise that Saturday nights are better left to standing room only’s. 

Tuesday, October 18, 2011

Excerpts (2009-2011)

1. There’s a man who lives           stairs.

He paints god on the walls
And holds his rosary beads
Until daylight f   a
Through the c   ra c    ks of his window pane

2. We read controversy as false delusion,
Sipping saccharine wine to ease reality
And condemning his perception
For the lull(lulled babies)abies we pay to be sung

3.Home is our asylum and our hospital bed,
Our Bell Jar of softer compassion
Where we become our own cellmates;
Soulmates, sleeping in the same sheets
And speaking from the same tongue
                                                                                                         at last.

4. And you still look stunning in the dark

5. in a world that recoils to human touch we look for a cure under the veins of influence a venom that seduces our scruples and fuses our perspectives to match its AB blood type a recipient to every donor weighing down our eyelids as we medicate our hearts because the world looks better on rose-colored pills

6. But in the end, they will all sound like turquoise
And speak like velvet,
Dance with their own silhouette,
While making love to you with their eyes.


8.We are all impaired in this perfection,
Granted fault instead of reason,

C6H12O6(s) + 6O2(g) → 6CO2(g) + 6H2O(l) 
We fumble into vulnerability.

9. et je te donnerais mon cœur s’il arrêterait de fondre à ton toucher 

10. For silence reveals more
Than the mouths who’ve tied up too many tongues,
They presstheirlips against the quiet
And wait for their turn
To kiss complication
Good night.

Tuesday, August 2, 2011


Every knot wraps its musculature
Around pockets of nitrogen,
Distending insecurities,
Contracting capillaries,
Denying them their freedom
From a bled-to-mend body.

Ligatures recoil with every breath
As needled therapy
Digs into scarlet fibres;
Extracts of memory dissipate
In a current of blue,
Their blank slates wiping clean
Every strand of excess pride.

I’m no superhero,
Wide eyed and wonderful,
But I’ll play the part
Until my body catches me,
Lying to redeem itself,
To make sleepless of itself
To make time for more space
To live outside of itself;
To reassure my ego
That this indulgence
Can extend beyond
The human kinaesthetic.

But I’m sipping sedatives
To a slow twitch,
Waiting for these lungs to catch up
With the marathon in my mind,
Waiting for this heart
To quit beating for every love
That holds me irresponsibly intimate
With eyes and lips
That don’t live here anymore. 

And if I could, I’d separate myself in two
To split this feeling in my chest,
Leave more room for you to fill
And less for me to abuse. 

But I'm no superhero,
Wide eyed and wonderful,
I'm just playing the part
Until my body catches up with me.