In Stability

I don’t know
what being stable
feels like anymore

I only know its enemy
Yes
The one that suddenly threw this poem off its triplets
The one whose currents don’t ripple
but instead sends you swirling

But wait
Currents moved in one direction,
didn’t they?
To shore
or sure death
and there was never a middle ground
or a void

Yes
A void
There is a void
That’s the middle ground
that has a fault line darting through
that changes crescendo in tandem
with the vivid raptures of petals gently losing their color when they feel like they’ve seen it all
From a simile of tears
to a metaphor of a desert

Maybe this is what they call change
this constant flux of all things madness
that only settles into an ebb of organised chaos
that beats and beats and beats
through random streams and perturbed rockfalls
sending vibrations
through this intricate web
that has such a mess of wires
and hearts
and warped continuums
which can only breed in mayhem
never in control

thrive in frenzy
never in peace
survive in clouded futures
never in surety
breathe in fluidity
and never,
in stability
.

Hue

The morning

After the schizophrenia,

born and raised;

whiskey whiskey

feather by feather

on floral range,

with soapy water

trying to contrast; somehow,

with the troubled bridge

above which your tied hair

sways; have I ever told you

they match; with your

refusing eyes? that it reflects

the tranquil

of what runs underneath; that

your true palette; the one

you never want

to show, paints the sky

a hue that

starts with the letter

a

Midnight Headlights

Still you slide, in your perforated seat

Like a drive with little to vie for

 

Four lanes, they aren’t quite enough

For your headlights will blind

The worn man who walks off a jaded day

The fulfilled child wanting sleep after play

The girl in tears who’s lost her way

 

The starry night seems to vanquish all pedestals

Turn them to blocks of stained white concrete

Numbers will all count into one

When the tiresome sun fades into the loom

Phantoms / Remnants

A glance in whispering smoke / They begin to drown

Talking in mellowing tomorrows / As your mirrors begin to swim

Streets shifting to tangle / Sulfur evacuates your lungs

Meeting at time’s zenith / It hangs round your neck

Gradients in the horizon / Only a bottle catches it

Antiseptic phantoms / And the remnants of dawn

The same way your starlet eyes no longer believe / They slip from the sky

Vanilla Scent

I long

to see the rain

in the beautiful light it deserves

in its symphonies of

pitter-patters

harmonized with awkward synthesizers

in the form of people cursing and rejoicing the water alike

 

I want to realise its majestic composure

unhindered

even by the sun

as the creator

of the things that breathe pretty vanilla scent

into our anxious lungs

 

not in the catastrophe

I see it to be

nor in the ruining torrent I watch

effortlessly corroding my being

 

all the rain seems to do

is crash my pity party parade

and sprinkle its filthy contaminants

into my gaping wounds

as if to intensify the sinfully good taste

of my innocent blood

 

I wish I didn’t hate the rain

and grimace at every drop

that pervades the earth

or shriek

at every snake of lightning

or bullet of thunder

 

But I know no other way

no other way than to abhor it

with every ramshackle of my worthless existence

because if I didn’t

what else

will I have to blame

for being the harbinger of my pain?

Derelict

you can room in my derelict space

vacant and fleeting; senile in meeting

delirious encounters are our wind in the still

dotted in belief; your blouse with a crease

snuggle in my irregular rhythm

make yourself feel at home

“you’re more than welcome”

always, sweetheart

i promise