In the finite universe of my living room,
the sun lies swallowed
in a lightbulb. The glass in my
eyes draws in the atoms
of light; sound is an
alien element – the silence is
splattered on the walls
and is glued to my gums. Though
it is quiet, it is bright and I wish to
sleep. I wish to wake
in a crack of thunder
and drown
the world in a furious
rain. The clock strikes thirteen.
It is time for a dull
pain to slither and crouch inside
this finite universe of
flesh and bone.
The atmosphere is colourless and
clear, the wind of
breath is stifled and hurried.
Eyelash, lungs, spinal cord lie
synchronised but apart. We dream of
condensing into a grain
of salt and evaporating on
a demon’s tongue. Time is
running out on this
sphere; time is up
for the inhabitant of tonight.
The night is seized, dreams are
dead behind the womb
of eyes wide awake.
The sun grows cold and these
walls of silence come
crumbling down.
Daylight streams in
to find this cube empty,
its life form awake and alive somewhere
else, but not here.


Ashes at the end of mouths,
begin your journey from fire and
end in powdered nothingness. As I draw
in, again. Fly away, the silk
of smoke, grey air-
choke the skies and fuse with clouds.
Murderous fumes, go where
I cannot see you. Nestle the heart
swim through the throat
and away from sight,
plague the lungs, blackening the roots.
Small white pillars of slow death,
seek the vehicle of fingertips, who
ferry the passengers day and
night. You have won, I have not.
I have only inhaled and thought.
Exhaled and thought.
Circles glow slowly, grow a beard of ash,
snow over and are crushed.
Darkness and cold, rain and drink
enhance your pull. I am seeking you
when the time is right, when it is not.
I am there to destroy and
burn your kind as I burn and destroy
myself. Exhale I must,
release your stinging airs before
they cause too much pain. For a
tiny bit is all I need. Enough to extinguish
the thirst that can only be
quenched by fire.


Airy sweetness,
deep inhalations, deeply held
breathing bones are truly alive.
Although the achings return
always, like hungry snakes,
a yawning ball of light
is revolving and grows,
ever bright,
devouring the darkness,
defaced by the snakes,
yet undeterred.
When the storms subside,
it is time to
release the sickening grip
and assign symbols to your
sorrows, gently gazing into the needles
and breathe the air
like you were buried
at sea,
a thousand years ago.

Yellow hell

A forest of moaning suns blinds
the souls of the dead. Who
churn in and
out of the fire; formless.
Their bodies are empty screams,
their voices have
turned to ash.
Paradise is a million
miles downstream, far away
from this sea of flames
somewhere in the shadow of
another flickering star.

Oceans of Sorrow

Dead people are calm
creatures. Free from the
hurricanes of emotion and the crawl of time. Life is a fruit
sweet on the inside but
it has the skin of acid. Man
has been broken into
hopelessness, and it has run the race for thousands
of years. But we are alone in is small pebble of life,
we are not even the
dandruff in the universe’s
scalp; we are just
another pinprick in
this vacuum. And perhaps that is the reason why man looks to the
skies and hopes
to see bigger miracles than the sun. Maybe one day, we shall
find that every
moment of sorrow
we humans endured was spent for something greater.
And beyond the
curtain of death we shall see, the shining vision of perfection
only witnessed in the
most memorable of dreams.

Symphonic Farewell

I saw my school unfurl
in a dream, the sun
swam in the concrete
and the
empty caves of classrooms
were oozing noise.
Boys my age and
younger than
me laughed from those
cool chambers, but where
are those
sounds now? I skim
over the surface and see
myself walking past
the basketball
courts, past the shade
and the cool air,
into the corridors. There is
no one waiting
for me there, no one
to look at my
homework or
examine my fingernails.
Laughter is all I hear.
Coming through the empty
chairs and past
the galaxies of dust
floating in the
shafts of afternoon light.
I descend the stairs
and walk barefoot out onto
the concrete.
The instinct to run
pulses through
my flesh. I start to run with
with the sound of
laughter still
in my ears. I run in
the heat of the afternoon
as the invisible symphony of
the vanished children
hurtles towards
one last

The Earth Song

The earth.
The massive blue home of human
beings. A globe
bursting with life and a
soft fire inside its belly. In
a dark corner of
the forest of the universe,
a glimmering speck is
the earth. Galaxies with no
name know of no language, what is
laughter to them? Billions
of light years away,
in another corner
of this desolate
universe, there are gods exploding
like stars and immortality
is the winedark
sea. Ghosts of dead
galaxies haunt the darkness stretched
out beyond the
green fields of thought. Out in
the endless vacuum,
there are worlds
of blackness; there are cannibal stars;
there are distant constellations
blinking like fireflies and
there are no mothers,
no smiling children. Rivers
of darkness scream
and burn. They fuse with other
dark oceans and the
tiniest pinpricks of life are swallowed
up in time. Stars are
immune to the pain of separation.
They morph and twist
into each other like
heartless creatures, their souls
are designed to destroy. The earth
is a moth, circling a
flickering ball of flames.
The earth.
An oasis of blue and white wisps.
A speck of lively dust,
in the sandstorm
of nothingness.
The instinct to disintegrate
is a fluttering butterfly inside
every atom; it
awaits perfect weather and flees
itself, only to be transformed
again, in an unending
journey from form to form.
From plastic trees to ecstatic supernovas,
from human hearts to
parasites of antimatter. The fathers
of all men are
electric bolts and we are the
children of a miracle.
Miracles are little insects in this vast,
airless forest.
A blue miracle is the earth.
With its flowing contours and gardens
of light. With its
flowers and volcanoes, its
trenches and snowy peaks, its burning
caves of heat
and glittering streams of water.
The earth gave birth to life. It detached
itself from the
burning rocks and
swam in the oceans, it feasted
and grew a spine, it sprouted
wings and soared
through the blue, it leaped
from trees and howled warnings at the
moon, and so on,
until it became man and wrote
itself a poem.