Valley talk

They said, there, a door grows.

There, at the end of this valley,

Lays the end of all things closed.

They said there; spirits of fire,

Left a boy mangled

From his pyre, dangled

inside the flame that knows.


Moonlit quivers walked aside me,

Upon embers of old with the rock

cast in tears drowning to themselves.

A molten mirror came sight in that rock,

To show the night that knew not the stars

and constellations that know us ourselves

but Braille left untouched.

And in the quietude of unsettlement

amid the red rivers gyre,

Liars hid from the flame

pooling black-
A mantle rankling,

A child’s song;

-“I am cold”-


I walked the valley pass.

Listened to each leafs turn

In the drenched caves ears

that keeps time;

An overture to a heart beat,

Rising to the spires,

Veined into the volcanic rock.

Every crack an admission

Of the pulse,

Of a boy’s desolate fears.

A dance of mime;

In the aperture of crimson heat

Unfurling child’s desires,

Pained through the manic walk.

Every step the fission

Of the trust,

Gone in the wings of tears.


The night: a distant sail clinging to its rigging,

Undone in skeletal beauty surfacing from skin

A quiet myth to whisper from the grave-
The patience to believe in nothing.

And from this baroque of silence;

Salient this valley converged in another,

And a shadow of its cave,

Plunged and swayed-

In the stories and lives

of those that stole,

What he never knew.


They said the door was his fire.

An umbilical chord to the valley prophecy,

that left the silhouette of flames

In the kiss of his crazed eyes.

They said the red heat cries

when he becomes its flame,

Like the demise spread

when his sacrifice shed

him to be the keeper,

Of this night.

Ageless and mindful;

He remains

Their spirit.


In a chest lying deep

In burnt faces of his flesh;

A sonorous cackle

of a lone bone,

Fidgets restless in bedlam.

In the cask hidden

To his heart on the periphery

Of each echo sung from breath.

For the wish that never came.

The eye to a gem.

The peridot that glowed

In all the valley homes,

Grew dim.


They say he never sleeps.

That fear was his father,

Loneliness his mother,

Ardor a brother-
For giving him this name,

He can’t spell-
But will always keep.


They say too much.

To keep us away.

A tale. An allusion.

To keep us from him.

Shut eyed in smile.

Naked on his floor.

Innocence was his sin.

The tears sloping his skin;

Confuse him to blow on again

and begin the valley requiem.


Too alone to all the secrets he shadows-


A boy does dream

While sand smothers heat;

A boy does awake,

Still as the bone caught in his chest

And the inferno we see and hype

Is but an aurora of the cold chill,

Of a broken bone.

Left alone-
To endure the burn

of those that turned him for that stone,

Into a boy who wakes to the cold of death

in a cave of fire to sing to the night:

Tempt us to know a truth,

Within a door of fire.


Exodus and an abandoned soul

But not when abandoned to itself.


I walked back the valley pass

Through a night of stars,

I looked up from above

and saw more valleys

merge and wander

with the solace of

fossilized roots.

The night and land

came to be one

Panning headlong

Until in me sang

-‘I am cold’-

Then did I know,

The cruelty of

what we are

As what

we have made,

As man.

Dominion of a Nomad

Here he walks along the distant shoreline,

With water singing him unfinished yesterday’s

In the way his hand gently

Sifts through endless shimmers

Of the sands of his mind,

For crumbs to tracks laid

A long tunneled time away.


In creases veined to his palm,

Behind the pages sought,

The sea yearns to chalk-
The sentences flung undone,

In the white noises

Of a lonely wave.

Dissolving to puffs of slow fog,

That takes from him his eyes:

Where he began

Where he went

Where he walks

-No mans land-
Unsettled by the flayed feet

Of the restless sea;

Emptiness succumbed to

Pulls at him around-
The barren coasts bordering

The recluses map of his mind.

The dominion of a nomad.

With silver in the sands hissing-
A hollow horizon,

And the promise

Of depth in the distance.


Dunes swell and shift.

Oblique faces shimmy,

To the desolate grey culminating

In nights stone approach.

Flickers lie in the prisms

Of every distant stretch.

Salt thirsts to lick the wounds

And heal the darkness of things to come.

And somewhere in the alley walls,

Fraying behind the rheumy eyes-
He begins to recall:

The silence of the day before

And the cycle he has but given in.

Not knowing a start.

Or a nestled footprint,

Two hands apart.

Withered and thin.


The wind calls to him again,

As he fumbles torn shells

along his skein until he curls:

A fetal sage,

waiting to be lapped

By the moon and tide,

As he looks back inside

Himself a static glaze,



She sits, looking at him.

Blankly living in the stare

sunken to his sullen

clapped knees, his horizon

To that shoreline etched-
In hands outstretched.


She is all around him,



Everyday, she comes to

watch him lost to her.


She is the impossible hue

Of the tide,

The muse more powerful

Than the ocean.

Her hand,

Holds the key

To break him free-
Of this undying fallacy.

Yet he wanders-
Yet he walks-

To the silent


I know not my name

3-I know not my name

Find me among loss,

The constant chatter

Of cold teeth braving night.

The sweat on a heaving

Mound knuckled in ripples

On pure black worn skin.

On the haunches of solitude,

Carving rhythmically a tale

Beyond the palm fronds of reality,

Out of the suffocation let free.

Into a beat infusing the circle

Of an ancestral clan stomping

The spirits out the dust of land.

From the trees of their horizon

Comes the wood I turn to

A man bearing the entirety

Of the clan he once knew

Belonged true.

Grandparents were children,

Running in scream

From the flame

Squandering a child’s hopes

from those eyes forgotten.

A figurine of the unseen.

Receding blindly

Through his purging art,

To chill him back to

The end that came-

From his beginning.


A figurine in a man,

Holding the distant

Hands of the land,

Lost to the land

Of a white hand.

The lone root;

I carve on.


We sit on tethered banks

by the parched spring,

cast into too many times.

Beads of silver

lie in the depths

of this cracked clam.


We steal –

We render –


We draw in the silt.

Fickle veins plume.

Fallow gums rekindle fervency.


No more coasts tomorrow.

Only the one eye knowing.

There hangs the straining chord

of stories grown too old.


-“Hello Sweetie!”


-“What’s your name?”


-“And how old are you, Violet?”


-“And do you have a favorite animal?”

-“ummm lickle wabbits”

-“Awww bless you Violet”


It still rankles:

Her, the tiny frame

in the fluffed world

of her coat on stage.

The dimpled grin caught

by all that bright flash.







-“It’s a rabbit”




The ride home muted,

frozen in the Flash.

Her, the hollow in her bones;

The silhouette of the dance

of innocence and innate stain.


Name: Violet

Age: 19

Cause of Death: OD

Time: 3:00 PM


The truth lay in that flash.

Black lies on white,

They missed out the wabbits.

They missed out me.

Cause of Death.



The Worm

I come from a darkened alleyway;

A crevasse…

Hidden in a corner,

No light in my day.

Earthly goodness and me-


I began a worm,

Venturing on my way.

Jagged and ominous,

This new world lay.


Ring by ring;

The Hungry…

Took pieces from me;

Each starting,

Weak and needy-

To grow and unfold.


Rung by Rung



Without too much of a question,

The pieces forgot me

And the body we once-



I remember though;

Parts of me stolen.

Taken by the animosity

Of a world that forgot…

How to breathe.

Yet what is worse;

I let the brethren of my being

Join the breathless and sullied.


And now? …now?

I can’t help but live with the past

And the ghost;

His friend.

That takes away a present

And never,

Never makes it last.


This little worm saw it,

The slipping of the way.

Don’t be the worm…

That lost his way.

The Flame Tree

As I grew concealed by the raiment of a flame tree,

The slant of dawn’s light never seemed to catch me;

Shivering warmth’s fleet was my rule amid a worn hollow

With only refracted gleams teased through her leaves to follow.


Once, she blossomed the will of crimson among stoic sheen.

Once, limbs unfurled, stretching keen to bear light in her green.

Once, this light focused sharp through a drop of morning dew

to sign a faint pin burn reamed slow, finely twisting her hue.


Decadence seemed shy to scar until embedded in her rings

that circled into my nursing ply as I sat under leafed awnings

Venturing afraid along her threadbare limbs, willing her to bud

solely to find that only to distant winds her blanched veins flood.


Torn I now stand at the split of her last two crisped leaves

With this light singeing liquid innocence till I burn with truth:

A sickle shade unwittingly charred away the pith of my youth.

Will regret limit desire to the cindered flame tree’s sleuth?


Beauty of those left in shadow

Facing everywhere out, but this back

Steps out to the night under its skin;

The moonlight strikes the lurking eyes.

I never see.


Into the wind that unwraps her

In them, there undulating hips,

That sway a moonlit allay

Into the creased folds,

Pulling, at the fabric white

Of a dream tonight.


Into the mangrove scrawl;

The limbs in arch-

Of those lost to a search,

They move for her.

Part slow in the divine,

Lovers traced lips.

Disclosing secrets in the stars echo;

High in the lone hills,

The flickers of the hushed

Wind on her sanded feet.

Every shimmy uproots silence,

Swollen in me.


The night walks her by,

She skirts into it-

Unto the pier outcast

In the carcass creek

Hiding from the sanguine

water rippling to her touching feet.


An anchored ribcage moans,

to it’s sails rustling.

I see skin.

Static form gone

In the mystic haze,

Chased out to the mangroves.


She stole me to the tint,

Reflecting one: sea and sky

In a tear fallen

from her face.

To fill me into

The emptiness of the moment

It found the sea.


And the mountain lights put out.

And the water was black

As the eyes it took from.

And she was gone.

And I fish with the moon,

For a pearl tear

Left in the shadow

of this dream.

Shadows uncast

These roots run underground.

Dark and bound.

Deep and Wound.

Under the fretful sea,

Of both you and me-

And our wayward philosophy.


These roots have veins;

Veins lined with unencumbered histories.

These roots have rivers;

Rivers that end in your mysteries.


Yet these roots;

They wither and make no sound-

With backs hunched like a mound,

When forced into our calloused dives-

Where no essence is to be found.

And we? We are simply the hound,

Cankering their hallowed ground.


We can shape them,

Twist them and mould them.

We can harness the beauty of patience-

And see it in their form.


Instead we make them mourn.


Make them look up to an empty sky.

Empty of their sisters-

For whom they searched for

And found nothing more –

Than a listless breeze,

Blowing at a phantom core.


How would you like to be-


Immovable in your past-

No shadow of yours to be cast,

Slowly starving from the unrelenting fast.

Forced to see –

Leaves not coming into green,

Losing their sheen.

While you lay…

Forever unseen?


Centuries of secrets they may keep;

And yes they may weep-

But don’t you be fooled-

Because these roots-

Ha-ha these roots run deep.


I’ll drink this life.
Till the eye behind mine
goes unseen before the world.
The eye behind the mesh,
That webs and rots interlocked;
spirals base to sky-
follows round its circle-
afraid to meet its start.
Unafraid to blind the world.

A net hanging
above and tear greased,
Creaking rust in the wind.
To stop leaves grounding,
Touching us.
Iron protection,
From ourselves.
From each other.
from truth.

The unchosen.

For in the end:
We only meet and confide
in the drains of our waste.
In the shadows behind opaque windows,
With curtains drawn in case-
In case we see more
than just a shadow
but ourselves,
trimming roses.
To give to little girls.
To hand out in the street,
where their mothers
lie cornered and gripped
by mens broken frames
in promises unkept.
Ready for flowers,
to announce their death
and take rosy cheeks
from bent children’s hips.
That were young in smile
until bitten by this cold.
Said I’ll spin this world;
Till I see again.
Till I have an empty cup
of a life that’s full,
of scars and stung lips.
Full of blighting truth
and from the oak chest;
The heir of family deceit,
I’ll coat the dust and webs
from forefather cracked lenses.

I’ll watch the world
with an existence
in the freedom,
solely found within

I’ll see a boy.
Hiding under smearing red sheets,
Clutching at used shells.
Hoping and picturing every silhouette
on the horizon, his Father.
So he can collect one more shell,
To trick him into dreaming
of a night of no dreams.

While we are sat here,
Afraid to live ours.