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. 

Desideratum

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. 

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. 

Excerpts (2009-2011)

1. There’s a man who lives           stairs.
                                               p
                                           u


He paints god on the walls
And holds his rosary beads
Until daylight f   a
                              l                   
                         
                         l
                             s
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.

7.YOUR NARCISSISM DOESN`T NEED(S) MORE LIPSTICK.



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

C₆H₁₂O_6(s) + 6O_2(g) → 6CO_2(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.

Kinaesthetics

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.