What can you read to me from the depths of hidden meaning? Forget your tired language and ease your green and blue tongue into returning to the chlorophyll of speech that is natural and free, evolving and organic, seeking and finding truth and honesty that imparts wisdom to my polluted ears.


When the trees are still and the forest is silent, the green turning to brown and the leaves curling, be more vigilant, for quiet is not always the peaceful awakening you crave. Here it is sinister and echoes the explorable torment of your hollow mind. Do not stay between these looming trunks for they are sucking your soul through their hidden roots. Run freely to the flowing river and allow the trickle of crisp crystal waters effervesce through your blood, reawakening the clarity of your heart.


We built our foundations on quicksand; slowly we sank, but with determination to hold onto any solid form around us.
We attempted the ascent out of the weighted deluge that had fallen onto our heads and shattered our protecting beliefs. I loved you fully, a pedibus usque ad caput, a capite ad calcem. That love was a brittle creation that we'd nourished with fervour but I polished and tried to restore with manic enthusiasm and this only made those fractures more delicate and fragile.
I cemented our feet in blocks side by side but now we know that cement is no match for a disturbance deep inside. You held onto great rage and my pleas were but muffled cries in cement torn apart by tears and regret.


Search for an academy where flesh can lay with the rest of flesh; let the community of fat and skin linger on bones, one as other.
There in the mound of banality will all human poison seep from our pores. My blood is your blood; my eyes see the same tangible fleece and the rest of proprieters of eyes sewn with poisoned needles.
We are trained to deceive.
Your nose, though larger than mine, still smells the same excruciating sulphur of normalness. It is only our souls and significant sensibilities that differ. Matter does not matter; we are one and the same in almost every way. But the way you think is entirely offensive to the chemical connections of my logic.
My conditionalities and comprehensions do not sleep sound at night. No. They fiercely crawl around my body as wolves to meat soon to be demolished by salts of saliva.
My conflicts are creeping spiders in the vaults of my cranium. I trap myself in a web with fragments of your glacier smile bouncing particles of piercing light on vulnerable threads.
You laugh with simple pleasures. I grimace with hardened concern. There is no rapture behind your eyes. No apology in your routine.
In essence we have no fractures to mend between us; the fault lines are weathered cracks in the sands of our time together. We need only to accept we are both the same sworn men of earth as well as opposing elements of reaction. My ache will not break you. My acidity may numb your sweetness but your flowing syrup will always remain strong in your blood. I will endeavor to compromise with savoury methodology; the kind that can only bubble to the surface thanks to your timely patience for my pedantic disillusions.
Perfumed by your opulent roses, my thorned garden will no longer show neglect. It will be coloured with new blood; the same blue blood that is both yours and mine, flowing with reckless abandon to oxygenate in clean air and once again remind me that we are as one.


My darling.

I waited for you. You did not come. I realised at that moment that all was lost. I had nothing to occupy my time apart from the functional misery of waiting for you. The hours come and go, as do you each day. I needed you most then, I could feel the falling. I knew the inevitable event would happen on that night and it frightened me. I tried to stop myself from wailing, shaking and taking. My love, I tried to find my exit in the same way I had before and was disappointed in myself, but desperate to continue the act. I needed you to help my profound loneliness come to the surface. I needed you to indulge my neurosis and help me overcome the stabbing pain in my chest. But you did not come. And I could not wait.

When the begging had been exhausted, and I too had lost all energy to scream, the clouds lifted but hovered over my swollen face. I was calm after breaking down to you. The clouds, they were not heavy with thick rain any more. But they were black as the night and ominous like my being. Would the third time be the success?

I waited for you to accompany me on my journey to the poisons unit. I saw the anger and lack of understanding in your eyes. I knew that this was a mistake. I knew that despite waiting for you, you could not wait for me to become better. You left me there. Your night had been ruined. I could not come back with you.

My love, that night has not ruined us. It has shown to you that what I have been telling you all along is true. I may well have scared you away. You may be polite and stay here for a while and make me feel safe, then you will leave and I shall run after you. I cannot apologise for those clouds that follow me. The sun does not break through for me like it does you.

Love always,


Oh, the death of that dream that I knew so well. It flicks behind my eyes; a heavy flamed candle burning the corneas.
I did at one time see the dream come alive before my eyes and that flame bounced, rising and falling into the cosmos. It grasped for the white light of the moon to compliment the gold light of our earthly fires.
Those days were filled with awe but the night has extinguished the bouncing flame; the connection no longer sparks and ignites when we see each others firm countenance, hardened to the obvious pains.
My eyes, no longer, are bordered by love. They have become windows of black leather panes.
Now the flicker of our fire is but a terrible burning that is weaving through my heart and singeing the delicate fruits of my limp organs.


The window frame doesn’t shake with the gentle vibrations of traffic
There is a silence that speaks to us more than the reasoning
As we know, it is easier to convalesce in respite rather than reaction
But the echoes of the stairs will be amplified to extremes
It sounds to me as if you can hear the pumping of my heart from under my
Grief saturated jumper
It jumps from one step to the other, giving weight to the presence of pain


I cherish your childlike joy: your face filled with a grin so honest.
I am in these moments forced to realise that I don’t need to take us so seriously.
I can run around in circles without being concerned there is no start or end point.
I may even jump into the middle and create a splash instead of focusing on the sharp edges of square and rectangular partnerships that hinder ease and instead cut and bruise.

(But I like to hurt sometimes… can we change our shapes from time to time?)


One sock resting on the knee bone, below the accepted flesh.
The other is a little more cooperative, falling slower and teetering on the edge of reason.

Walk in the socks, walk in the shoes, not so neat, not so perfect. Not so boring.


Rested... in placated slumbers
she clung to his arms that lay motionless upon her chest, rising and falling perfectly attuned to her movements. (It was as if those arms were extensions of her own lungs.)
The subtle pulse of his wrist beat against her rib, which encased both his and her hearts.
The beat provided a pattern for her breathing; slow and steady and perfectly mellow.
Her satiated breath was without conscience or concern, everything was slotted comfortably in its place.
In the dawn her breathing would change as they both arose in the smell of dew. This moment was her favourite of all. Pure and gentle, they savoured the welcoming embraces shared between them before daily corruptions.


I like to wear an expression of sublime splendor to show an affinity with the world. It suggests a consolidated rapprochement with the higher levels at work. This exterior is an addition to my cosmic identity which is energised in peace making with the difficulties of life. And as I stare at the nebula, my interior is strong and powerful just like the outside face I show to the embodied elements of the earth. I am alchemy, I am human, I am nothing but I am everything. I am not of this world but belong to it nonetheless. I make my presence known by functioning as an individual despite contributing to the identity of a wider group - the human race. My expression will change from time to time, but the feeling sublime splendor of being never falters.


We are earnest in finding truth; but why must we stick to such a rigid path? We seek out the most fundamental truths of our existence so what should we say about the false? Does seeking the falsities of our complex situations inevitably lead to a better understanding of simple realities?

It is my paradox that I face each day, I argue with left and right and balance the black and the white. I enjoy the grey. The grey is neither a truth or a lie. I do not cover up either in my explanations. I may be hesitantly fierce in action with others but I step out of myself and turn over the page delicately when in private.

Should I continue my directional walk or take a jog on the winding twisted embankment of confusion? I will dance with the queries and take delight in discovering fiery life in ash, charcoal and silver.

It's a life. A good life. The false does not always counteract the truth. Reality presents itself in a variety of manifestations and maybe finding the false will lead to my greatest adventure and dawning of insight.


weighted confusion clings to my being like
your shadow
clings to your ever perfect feet
I drag along my omnipresent ghost, while
You glide in ephemeral satisfaction

I am pleased for us both. I enjoy
the conflicts
planted by my feet
into the soil that lets
you grow. They feed me as
freedom feeds mankind
You can keep
and behold
the last three syllables
that I will speak


I wish you were the weakest sublime, yet instead you are the turbulent nature of the most sublime being. I try to see you without philosophy but you remain an inherent part of my being that attempts to make sense of the fullest feeling. And I can only do that with you.


The concept itself is referential to the inherent symbols placed upon it. I am conscious of the abstract in which any concept has been placed and seek to arrange syntax in order to explain my paradoxes, parallels and perversions. I will lead the questions to the water as they call to quench their thirst and the answers will be drawn up slowly, refreshing the mind so it can think in clarity and without constraints of discourse or society.

It is in my own discourse that I will appear as post modern in thinking, rejecting discourse as a whole yet still feeding into the troughs of prose and writing. I am not scientific nor political despite the papers to which I lay claim. However I am fervent in understanding simple lies and complex truths. With this hunger rising, I will abate it with the occidental paradigms and realign the stars in my own sky until I can satisfy perceptions of absolute reality.


I will send you a horse
He will clip clop up the valley, treading on hard stones as he goes
But those stones do not matter to the sturdy horse
For he has hidden inside him something much more treacherous.
The cats on the hills spy him with a curious eye for they are suspicious of his secret;
The trojan horse I have sent for you
has almost completed his journey.
All that is left is for you to allow him in;
he will raise his hindquarters in the air and buck and jolt and shake his shining mane
And not once will the horse toss his head in shame.
He is proud and worthy of carrying the deception to you - because it is you that planted the seed.


My antiquated philosophies on love and mind,
appear to me as quite lucid.
Yet as I delve into
the writing of the greats -
Descartes, Baudrillard, Nietzsche,
I think my own work is perhaps tired, in need of review.
(but they are pure thoughts nonetheless)
So in the late hours of the night,
I change and think and read and write
And hope that in the day I will agree with my conclusions.
Yet in the meantime I can turn to the works of the masters
in Philosophy, Poetry, Science and Arts
and discover the truths they wished to impart
on the world.
For it is these subjects that influence, inspire, move and make.
So for now I'll settle for knowledge and wonder and rest till the morning sun
beams through my window
offering knowledge in the freshness of clear wake.


Oh you can sing and you can expel the profound ideas all you like, but your words are still arbitrary. Banality seeps from your pores.


Sleep is for prisoners: a way of blocking out constraints. Even if only for a short while in each cycle of 24 hours.
But you can't sleep; you sing to yourself and to anyone who will listen in the edges of brightness and darkness.


So beautiful that only the brightest of diamonds are allowed to trickle into the depths of her being.


The tongue of a mistress
The markings of mackeral on skin
Greasy like your hands
A sign of work created by malice
Hair may well shine
But eyes are dead
A smell of sulphur, ready to explode
a chemical voice into my ears


Downhill we roll,
wrapping ourselves in sweet coatings of stable roots


Grey cheeks, pallor flesh
But I am still pink on the inside


Your wings are cumbersome
and cling heavily to your body as if alien in being.
I will give you freedom. I will pull away from your flesh those hurtful wings;
Unload the burden of torturous extensions.
You'll feel lighter, your feet will grow new claws
You will push out and stand heavy on the ground due to purpose.
You will not drag your sorrow anymore.


At the north face, he stands firm and tall. He represents light.
His opposite lies in the south,
where she undulates under ice, in the extremities of the dark waters.
They face each other, with significant distance between souls, and
yearn for the day when the winds will unite them.
They are opposites and share an emptiness between their distance.
There is much going on but they cannot reach.
They do not exist as one only, but bounce light from one to the other, completing their fire and ice dance in the reflection of their division.


It dawns in the morning
It sets in the evening
And we think it's the same every time,
Our worlds will continue to turn
on the well oiled axis of familiarity and yearning.
The fire will still burn, even when waters threaten to end it.
But over and over, again and again,
perseverance and inspiration
prevail over those times before.
Some evenings -
Silly things.
We are good at what we do - we always knew
how to dispel the wind and bring the sun.
We hide our ears and sing with the birds
And realise that in the morning it all starts brand new:
Different in detail.


We'll slowly gather our belongings,
cautiously but without fear.
There is an authority that has bestowed upon on us
a less than savoury taste on our tongues.
She is sweet but like saccharin.
false but steadfast,
significant to the tastebuds.
Has she slyly injected my veins with ice?
My blood runs cold when she speaks.


It sits, opaque and offensive, offering nothing more than insipid tastes of something quite unnecessary for my human stomach.

When presented to me, with its smugness, my mouth produces defensive juices and causes my jaw to ache.

It is heavy, sitting on the stomach like an intruder. It makes its presence known and wants to be avoided.


You crave and you carve, you think you still need to feel brave as the red nectar seeps from tired arms. Feet are bruised from walking never ending circles. Heart is full but brain is dull. Fingers still attempt to fix mistakes made by the tongue. United in power, heart and mind come to an agreement and the courage is put to the test. It lies in the forgotten dusty den of your mind, where dead spiders dwell but their webs live on, ready to catch your weakness. You are still suffering in a desolate green of renewed spring growth. Summer is not far away, it will enhance your cold memories of winter's depths. And yet as you carve for the hundredth time, a wry smile appears on the previously down turned corners of your mouth and cravings become less significant, because a knowledge of rebirth has sprung in the pleasant spring.


Dreams and aspirations: beautiful words of which I should not speak. Flooded with disillusion, my heart aches for the reality I created in thoughts fed by wise trees and bustling life.

I am drowning in a constant wave of sadness. It grows and grows and has eaten away at any positive balance that had restored in my anti-climactic confusion.


I will drink from the water that has crystal moons quivering in its depths.
I will scramble to find my soul in the caves where bats are tranquil in their slumber.
I will continue to send my eyes to the heavens and allow a small sense of contentment even if the rain falls heavy.
I will ignore the forked tongues and create my own antidote to poison sent through my veins.

I will grow into myself and my searching will one day come to an end.
This is a warning to myself.
I will not hurt for the wicked, nor will I hope for the hopeless.
I will instead find a path that spells my own name in its twists and turns and I will come to see the light between the canopy of my dampened forest.
It was me that took your sun, the liquid gold by which you live. There are no more questions to be asked. I must confess, I liked doing it but it didn't hurt so much because you didn't kill me. I'm still here. You're not too far from confessing your own truth, are you? That your passion flowing in you is because of the freedom I gave you. The transition you made was exciting wasn't it, little one?
Oh look who feels it. I am sorry, but I'm still not dead. You; they; no one has quite penetrated that deep yet. I'm nearer to those gases yes it's true. But I have the shiny gold in my pocket. It's safe with me. I promise. You're glad really, don't tell me those words! Oh no those harsh lies you speak. The truth and I are quite happy without them. I can't be how you would like, I know you want me to touch your heart but that's not what I can do. OH the WATERFALL!
It's so salty. I've tasted your salt once before, on my fingers. That time when it wasn't honesty that provoked but when my arms were your blanket to keep you warm and dry. But then you saw my hands were dirty and you wanted to be wet again. Lo siento, yes I feel it. I am sorry.
All those looks I see in the faces in the streets can't all be because of me - I take the sun wherever I go. Our sun. It's the thing you need most to encounter. I've found out how to show you too and it can be perfect. Myself and the shiny gold are happy. You are too, I know. I'm watching you from the place of truth.


And you can tell me that you love me, I will believe it because the words spill easily from your mouth. I can see the strings connecting us from my heart to yours; they have droplets of perspiration from easy chores. I don’t know why the sky dropped them down to us, because this love seems to me so easy in the innocence of our young hearts, although it’s not quite as naïve as it should be. I wish I could know what our futures hold, because today in one moment of a daydream, I clearly saw your gently calling eyes smile at me and tell me we will be together forever. I hope this is true and I know that sometimes it’s difficult to have to feel my pain as I do, but my heart feels its blood pump strongly when you are near. When you’re right beside me I am warm and my senses smell and hear your words and being. Que me duele when you seem annoyed, I’m not put here to antagonize you; I have faith in us. There is a band of trust linked around my finger, a whole hearted chain of freedom I have in your soul.
I wish they knew.
If they could tell how much I care, I don’t think they’d continue to say those things – it hurts; it hurts when I see your pensive eyes that inside are groaning because I had on my disguise and turned you away. It was wrong not to be serious for you at that time when the lime was squeezed fresh and stung your cut. It’s now as new as the sun that arose this morning. But the moon and the sun, they are best friends like you and I. They shine for each other like we shine for ourselves in the silk of our faces. The morning was painful for us both. You do it to me sometimes, don’t you notice? Tell me if when I speak, I hiss, if I throw away the words you speak so sincerely. I didn’t want to do that today nor did I wish to start those actions yesterday. I won’t repeat it tomorrow. I’m going to realise your dreams and mine. Our love is still strong and the dent where I fit into your shoulder gets more comfortable with time.
The times I’ve spent with you left marks on my skin and I stroke the indentations to feel you. We must endure the life we carved out for ourselves in soft wood. We will create layers. There must be grief to realise the good. I feel so strongly that all I have to offer you isn’t enough. But you still love me, I know you do, even when it’s tough. And I’m sorry, truly sorry that I offended you, it’s only because I care. The sparkle of a diamond is the strand of your hair, each to me so precious just like your feelings inside. You’re the quintessence of perfection. In my eyes I see beauty in your madness and interrogation. You taught me how to do that with just a smile. You’re captivating and it serves me well that you are honest and worshiping.
I love you. With me will you hold the dreams I’m clinging to?
Oh the death of a dream that I once knew so well, the shards seem to scratch my feet when we walk. Does that happen to you? Tell me of the expectancy you held, in our romance when we knew of serendipity, when we met.
The occasion was meant to be, even if you didn’t feel it. The invasion of your voice into my ears was love and intoxication. Pour your sweet acids into me.


Take my shoelace and unravel a dream,
He said.
Such pure innocence was inconceivable
To me in those moments of mine
And then, not one but two dreams
Descended their journey into my mouth,
‘let’s run away’ , I said, ‘for the voices
are telling me it’s time’.
The second dream laughed at me with
Sympathetic eyes and told me he was the reality.
‘So I must stay and rest. For I am what I am
and here is my home’
I tied back up his laces and we
walked in content shoes.
I will wrap myself around you like cellophane, my shame of being so translucent in my desires will not stop me from draping my white canvas over your bold and bright design. We will fit together - not like a jigsaw - our edges are not so predictable. We will mould and adapt to each others whims and confront the rips in our foils, made stronger through being a layered body.
I have a terrible habit of talking when you need silence, and offering cold nothings when you need to talk. Standing opposite me, your reflection will be mirrored in my glassy eyes. My pupils will be dilated, but yours will tell a different story. They seem like the desert, in need of salt rivers. But don't worry, my waters are sufficient for us both to float, swim and drown together.
Lay yourself next to me for a while. I'd like to watch you breathe.
And as you inhale and exhale with lips kissing the air, I'll rest my palm on the flat of your stomach and feel for your pulse.
It will beat to a melody that has neither rhyme nor reason other than to emulate my own pulsing love for you.


What is the size of your thought for me? When you look into the future, do we caress the leaves on trees as we walk along a winding path, hand in hand?
Do I factor significantly in your mind's eye? When time has flown by, do we submit ourselves to the ocean's embrace?
What would you wish for if you had your way? A youthful mischief borne from the brightest of days and the coldest of snows?
If I am a weighted thought in your life, can we ascend the mountains together with ease? Laughing together when hurt by jagged rocks?

Tell me your thoughts, I will not control them. But let me in and give me your word. I allow my thoughts of you to swim freely in the river of my being. Can you open the dam, which has stopped your understanding enter your stream? I can be your future if you grow those thoughts of me.
Had I been given the chance, I would have recognized the awkwardness.
Tired; lines appear to be circles,
Shadows lose shape and billboards continue their timed rotations.
I am moving through this space, dazed and lacking structure.
I check the minutes and hours. The clock almost offends me.
Time is not mine anymore.

Silenced and damaged, I'm ready to make amends.
Almost ritualistic in nature, I repeat my actions again and again.
I've done this to myself.
Bit by bit I take small pieces of recognized faults and chew them over.
I savour the bitterness created by my routine.

By now it is late and sky is painting itself a dense grey.
The twilight moon beckons everything into silence.
Lavish solstice spies into incomplete space.
It is not the time for sun now.


Encapsulated in the weary breath are secret whispers telling you 'it's going to be ok.'
In their world, your voice is stifled. You struggle to give yourself freedom to express yourself. Someone told you to take yourself away from there and find the light in your dark. It is a suggestion and a need. In your world, the illusive spear of light breaks through a corner window and the sprinkled ideas across the hardwood floors of your mind are illuminated like forgotten specs of glitter on a pretty face. In your size 5 shoes, you take steps towards an passageway, creeping slowly and tentatively without reason. Stop and take a deep breath and spear yourself on. In this world, your delicate disposition is not futile but like a daisy chain crown bringing joy to the head upon which it sits.

The passageway is dimly lit with cold hard spiral staircases in each direction. Neither option is right or wrong. The cold stone feels pleasing to the touch, and the full round shape of the wall is inviting. You lean on it. Rest. Advance up the stairs, allowing the grey to guide you nearer to the climactic state of enlightenment.

White light that shone on the forgotten memories and ideas in your mind now shines on your face. Thoughts flood to your frontal lobe and become real and loud. They almost spill out of your mouth, you want to shout and scream. Approaching the outside at the top of this stairwell, all has become clear. Your voice has been found and you no longer have to keep your ideas to yourself. Set them free in the wind, and shout to the skies.


A rose on the elephant's head; such a fine way to conceal the web of deceit in which her thoughts have been tangled. Yes this is such a fine accessory to ensure no one would suspect her selfishness.
An eternal human inquiry manifests in the form of heart and brain. Brain controlled by heart, heart controlled by the other.
Pumped around, syrup blood flows quicker with the steps of the other. That other; often pained and rarely perfect, can only offer the parallel of what you have to give. More intensely, possibly equalled, unlawfully less.
Pursuit of sacred joy, find it not in the self but in the face of the one who smiles with sincerity. A journey for all, many paths to choose, many roads to discover. Beaten, Elated, Elevated. Broken. Pursue the story again, find your other.
I am writing myself. The slow process offers a chance to reflect on misgivings I have created out of my own virtue. Perspective; I can sense the nests that house hornets and bees. They whirl around me and I tense up, cower, close my eyes into thinly-lined slits.

I am writing for my own recognition. The slow breath and heavy chest moving up and down calm my panic. Words are typed quickly without a second thought, and then a pause arrives. I reflect on experiences in this moment of clarity.

I am writing for myself. I am writing to develop my perceptions of the actions I have taken and the actions I wish to do. Glancing around - frightful and fretful - but still able to find consolation in my equivocal plea. I offer it to myself and I offer it to you.


You're just a middle aged waitress
Augment and delete. Hot tarmac, dustbins behind supermarkets
Grass shavings, Indescribable blues
Sea smell sea gull see often scene full
Busstops Hilltops lowtops, no cars
Cocktails, pints, canals, tobacco. Rizla? Filters.
Rusting Poles, cracked wooden tables, a bee and uncertainty
Pain, Work, no work, Need work
London Birmingham Foreign lands
O,M,E,L,A,L,S and others.
SO together... again
Me. Solitude Sun Rain
Where's the thunder?
Water bottles, solero ice creams
Sun cream - not yet. Jump the gun
Yawn, stretch, jump, laugh, sleep
Stroke. Touch.
Cry, wink.
Photographs, streams, familiar streets.
You are a stolen peacock and I have webbed feet
We stumble together and I fall in your feathers
They're not as soft as they look
Display to me, your mystery, oh pretty peacock.
I stole you for a reason
Waddle with me?
CTRL those fingers
ALT that mindset
DEL this feeling


Hop in
Jump out
Back down
Jog on


Make way for the witch
clapping drums on her walk
through the beating forest
In the chiming bells, the chants
of voices
Fear not the unknown, it becomes familiar
Talk to her as the lake talks to the sky
Rest, live.

Que Me Matou

Que me matou
e agora aqui estou
aspergido na rua
na cidade que é sua

meu silêncio é admissível
e era inevitável
que não havia nada mais do que nada
para o coração não houve entrada

Queimado na sala, meus pensamentos
Durante três dias consecutivos
O mercúrio se para mim saber
E para o meu amor para receber

Ele me quebrou no país que eu amo
Quando as crianças escrever nomes na areia com um ramo
E a minha lápide lê as palavras bonitas
"Sonhando com os Anjos"

E lembre-se de lhes dizer que eu amo todos eles
E que eu não sou um "daqueles"

Que me matou com seus rostos violentos
E na minha lápide, as palavras bonitas
"Sonhando com os Anjos"


Take five long pieces of string. Find tiles with letters or create your own alphabet on single squares of whichever material you enjoy the texture of the most. With these tiles, you will pierce them with a hole big enough to allow the string to pass through easily through the middle.
Start creating sentences with your letters. Slide on the words and arrange and de-clutter the thoughts. Allow the process to become part of your fingers and brain and permeable knowledge. Seeping into words that are seen each day by millions, allow your emotions to move them around so that they flow with ease and tranquility.
Do this with each string. Interchange your emotion for rage, despair, longing, nostalgia, melancholy or apathy. Run your hands over the strings. You will have a paragraph. You have written it and you will appreciate it. You offer it to others and send out your message. It might be understood. It may well be seen as not quite as grand as you initially intended. But these are our words; they are our windows to our souls. We have created and we have thought.
Knock Knock
Who's there?
A rabbit with her heart bleeding on the outside
A rabbit with her heart bleeding on the outside Who?
A rabbit with her heart bleeding on the outside of the hare.
'DOUR and >> ..
_____________>> ..
COMMAND and ope.....

seven. mostly 5.
Well, we will integrate into each others privacy, she said. I am unsure of your confidence, he replied. You are erudite. Take a chance and share with me the most tender meat of your being.
<.letter here.> is for poison.
Take my felt feet out of the cement
You’re stuck to the ceiling, seeping out of walls.
O costumo danando, de falar de homem.
Betwixt the trees in twilight, one can see a solitary river. She is meagre and slight. She is trusted to run through thin exhausted bends. The bends are neither expectant nor weary, they simply accept the melancholy trickle that slopes around smooth pebbles. You can rest here between the daffodils and regard yourself in the shallow waters.


If it looks like a duck, swims like a duck and quacks like a duck, then it probably is

An elephant.
Your Gentle Gazes creep around these walls, asphyxiating me with worshiping eyes.
I’ve extended a vision into the daunting realms of possibility. I’m chewing you over. Deciphering code. 01010111 01101001 01101100 01101100 00100000 01110100 01101000 01101001 01110011 00100000 01101100 01100001 01110011 01110100 00111111
Promises and wandering roses. Strangling each other with thoughts of ivy. Slowly griping my throat. I choke on our realism.


Sou Bruxa.
Sou menina.
Sou repugnante e repulsiva.

Shellac coated hands but still drips run down and human becomes too human. Wound and bound, open and close slowly. Pull back, jilt and peer. Hide behind tobacco barriers. Stay away from me.
Realise without verbalising. We are too human, more so than those who solve, embrace, feel and use their own philosophies without dread. Those who make. Not we who speak.
A journey of cerebral inquisition leads to infallible learnings of who I am and what you do. Soul gazing in Io’s lava lakes with an abundance of ineptitude that can only come from damaged hearts and demotivated ambition. Mediocre at best but remain confident and talk as any good genius would. I will aim for the unattainable, lest I settle for this stagnant mediocrity.
But the smell is lingering here in the L shaped room. Many possible solutions have been developed. They have culminated in a paradox of exhilaration and ennui, a parallel of desire and hate.
A feast for the senses… your soft voice, slow hands. Devour me. Blood runs dry when my mouth is empty. Bruised arms, I’ve clutched too hard.
I have a fever. Sweating out every last drop of your existence. I’m starved. Longing to smell your musty glistening hair.
Standing in the darkened shadows of the stairs, I can still see you. On the painful days, I rock back and forth, shaking the bed with my toes. The tremors comfort my whirling thoughts.
I remember at that time, when the clouds were as heavy with rain as my eyes were with tears, my star and I stood at the bridge and remembered that when I was younger I had played a game. My star threw stones into the river of which my salty tears held up the branches; those branches and those stones had both floated back when I was happy and without incessant curiosity. But today, as I stopped to think about how it was possible those heavy stones were able to float, I looked at one as I threw it in. It sank. Dreams were only possible when I believed. Lonely are the people that cried on the bridge of this river before I, the tears had filled the embankment and made it a river. But those tears glistened, shining with hope. I ask my tears, why have I broken again? Go and join your friends. There will be more to follow, even if it causes this river to swell and overflow. There used to be an overflow of something different in my life… my star called my name. ‘Don’t listen to the world, there are too many questions. Are you crying yet?’ My star shone in the sky tonight and my tears stopped. The stone I had dropped earlier rose up as the moon shone in my smile. The reflection was beautiful just like the glistening hope that carried my stone.
Just as the sun shines through my window I hear a voice of gold, smoothly calling my name as if the owner were the sun itself. I feel the bite of my love for you curl my stomach and for a while I may even stop thinking.
The skin that you so naively possess is made of creamy ocean breezes that evoke thoughts that the world would be nothing without you. Your voice is that of the tropics so exotic and melodic every time you speak. That aniseed mouth of yours is so perfect and soft.
I was searching for you before I even knew it myself, but the seas sought you out and now I’m not prepared to let you go back out with the tide. Did I ever tell you I would crumble like the pantheon if you left? I’m sorry to say I would not be rational.
But while I wait for that day with fierce eyes half closed, I know that my love will lead the blind world by example. You are the hottest fire that makes me persist and I am the highest flame reaching to your soul. Perhaps too forceful at times but you need a push in the right direction.
You take the lead and I’ll always follow your footsteps. It’s the inevitable road of discovery of which we can travel free. I will float over strawberry sweet clouds with you as my companion and I’ll never be without you because you’re one memory that would never die.
Melancholic music resonates around these four walls. You rescued me when I was dying, watered me when I was wilting and comforted me as I slept. So move your heavy legs and wrap me up and I’ll talk to you in my voice of silver.

Helogale parvula; versão Português

Galera Velha Pulo _______ Old guy leaps
Pagavel Luar, Olhe! ______ Payable moonlight, look!
Vagar, pelo Lua, Lhe _____ For he wanders the moon
Opala Gula, Lhe Ver _____ Opal Gula, he sees

Para Gula Leve Lho _______ To Gula, take him
Para lhe, Luva Gelo ______ Give him an ice glove
Agulha Levar Pelo, _______ Bring on the needle,
Repago Velha Lula! _______ Old repaid Lula!

Lula, Pegar Ovelha _______ Lula, catching sheep
Geral Ovelha, lupa _______ General Sheep, magnifier
O pelve, gralha, lua _____ The pelvis, crow, moon
Ovelha Leal, Purga _______ Faithful sheep, purge.

Helogale parvula

Alpha Ovular Glee
Ha! Plague all over!
Leave Laugh Polar
A Lavage Hell Pour.

A gale; vapour hell,
Upheaval allegro
A vaguer alp. Hello!
Parallel. Ah, vogue.

Hello Guava. Leper?
Aloha Vulgar Peel!
laugh, parole Veal.
oh, all grave plea...
Lost, but never to be found. It didn't exist at all. Can it be made? Shared and improved? Slowly grown by taste and touch, feel and learning?

Touching grooves with oily fingertips, seek out pleasure and reason. Necessity beckons. Find a mould in which to curl up inside and rise like a bountiful cake. When done, slip out easily, confident and beautiful. A sight to be seen, opportunity and hot presence, a languishing dough has transformed into souffléed glory.

It still won't exist. It can't be grown. It won't transcend across hot smoked deserts and wild baron plains to find its host.

There is a way to create. Do not force. Do not wait. Hope may offer itself, but if it is inherently lost due to an emptiness from the start. It cannot be found.
Trussed up in white whale bone,
hold in your sickness, gently now, stand tall
Don't look away.