gracelette

i lie in a state of catatonia as thoughts of you linger in my mind: i did not permit them to be there.           in my dreams your hands           are interwoven with mine,           while we lie in the grass and watch           as stars gently rake the night sky.           i fit gently into the curve of your chest:           you breathe in with me (within me)           and each of your fingers fits perfectly           bet

i. there are days where i dont feel real: days like those are like being in a different reality. maybe i live in a world of plasticine, and my day is an entire stop motion film. but maybe i'm the one in plasticine, and people skirt looks out of the corner of their eyes, too inhibited to point out this fact to me. iii. orion leads a waterfall of stars into twilight and while sitting on the ground my mind is truly tempted to depart, and ride along to sirius, for i was once told that our souls came from the stars. iv. mars was bright last night. bringers of war always leave traces: when i awoke, i was greeted by clouds of s

people used to think that i talked too much, so one day i just decided to stop, and then the walls caved in, from lack of wind to hold them up. then, they tried to make me angry: attempts were made to spurn me into fits of rage. it almost worked. well, no. all that happened was instead of going out, i went in, and within. they can't find me anymore. i am my own master, i am my own slave. i bite my tongue now, purely out of habit: there are no words left to say.

misleading mistakes and shortcomings make for wanderers-turned-nomads, searching, seeking and yet, not finding on solid land. i know it's true... but do they? i wonder if their search is in vain. (shi shang zhi you ma ma hao) 'ni shi i ge xiao mei mei' -- wo bu shi i ge... see, how may might turn to june and still, and still the lights turn on but off again. and it's like a morse code message over the hill but can anyone see it, yet? yet still, it's quiet, now. (mei ma de hai zi xiang ge cao) a breath of wind, and each footstep is another fight against an unseen foe. have you spotted it, yet? time washes grittily like how

i'm inside a hollow of a hollow and every ghost of a whisper and shadow is ten times louder but fainter in here. pin drops become kettle drums beating, and beating again. (am i inspiring you, yet? because i can't inspire me. and no matter how many times i breathe in and out again i don't make any more sense within misery.) whispers give way to less quiet sound -- or rather, to a slightly un-quiet ebb and flow of waves running in and out and in again. and a want to be inspired seems an inadequate excuse for hiding away, but yet hiding away is all i want to do. no, i cannot be happy as you, for you. i don't want to live a

this is a requiem in b(urned bridge) flat, tunnelling out towards the sea from a land of bitterness and acridity. many a time you have sunk a tune to davy jones and his locker mates (the tune never reached, but it never came back) and so you went humming, in it's wake. the seas swell high, then ebb and flow -- the moon is calling softly to waters inside the cove that breathe (with me) in and out with the seasoned shouts of a sailor who lived off salted air and blacks. but sharp is his call, over the sea (white frothy foam and mahogany wings) and over rattling, cackling ivories that grip onto bottles of whisky and rum

i. tonight i am in gumboots and a summer night dress chasing dreams. it's almost surreal -- i hear cock-crow and lamb bleat, mingled with earthly angel voices and i think: 'why am i here, in this place that's in between awake and asleep?' ii. darling, i know i'm not all there in the head (you're not even here at all but through your letters, poems and wisps and remnants of memory) but we're both plagued with our own miseries. cancer did well to choose me. but why should you care? tonight i lie in bed and write this in tribute of you, hoping, if there is a heaven, that you can read this. iii. and while i lie curled all cat-lik

i. i get inspired by broken dreams (see? i'm not quite as bereft of hope as others think) -- its a compulsion that i have. but admitting it makes me blush not crimson but magenta (my most hated colour), and certainly it comes with a certain amount of elegence -- or is it eloquence -- to be able to say this and still sound intelligent. in a way, sophistication comes with having hopes and dreams, even if they're impossible: it is with ideas like these that the world will grow. those of you who still dream, unmarred by expectations, with feet and toes nestled in the mud and a head that breathes fresh mountain air will come