5. Veneer

I dreamt the other day-

Of a night that dreams danced my way-

Of my small and slight, self-made shade-

Of the flitter caught in my harp as the wind, it gently swayed.

I could hear my quickened breaths leaving,

As the wishing wind murmured me secrets where I laid

And those colors of my frequency left me believing.


Dreams danced gallantly in my furtive refuge-

I was alone, impassioned by my deluge.

I was perpetual to the pull of our sphere:

Try as it might, it could never leave its smear.

Slowly I was plucked from boxed bliss-

Taken to inverse rationalities of reality.


I was noticed, seen was my extrinsic veil.

They glowered that I had it all,

That I was but an easy call.

Given to me was it not, my depths chance to enthrall.

It changed them-

And tried to change me-

Then I couldn’t dream.


Couldn’t they see?

All my smiles and laughs were feigned?

All my childhood truth was constrained?

The convoluted belief of what I was and who they saw never waned.

Loved by all was my shawl:

A twiddled misconception of my impression,

When all that was needed was discretion.


I dream again today.

No longer do I ponder to deep into the fickleness of belief.

No, into the wishing well I flung that leaf

And the answer of my breath again awoke me to relief.

I cast myself out of the flocks,

Cut through into my childhood box

And back to the boy-

Who kept warm pocketed rocks.

The Passenger


There’s a sun shining-

And a warmth.

There’s inexorable joy:

A mother smiling for her boy.

He is lisping in sing-song.

It’s a world of colour-

But before long,

There comes a train-

And in, flows the misled throng.


His mother puts him on.

There’s a sign:

A red circle,

Spliced through by blue.

A caution, if you will.

But still she puts him on.


After tears are taken away by momentum,

There comes a lullaby:

The train’s monotone

The ceaseless groan,

Sculpting this boy-

Into yet another drone.


He boarded this train-

Speaking half nonsense,

Half verse.

But now words are fed:

Word’s of hypocrisy,

Not those of lyricy-

That honed him his own.


A train full of faces.

Everybody is on it:

Sacrificing soul-

For the train’s ambivalent ambition

The guileful mission



There’s an occasional shudder,

with the passing of yet another:

Vicariously striving,

In life’s cold shouldered lane.

A chance to escape,

But no they remain.


There’s a dreary loop on rewind-

Warning them of the gap to mind.

If the boy would only leap:

He would find-

Unrestraint, bodily and in the mind.


He makes a call:

The dialling tone beeps.

Then Silence.


No reception between boy and reality:

Oh the Calamity!


There’s green outside,

taking over beaten tracks-

The past softly speaking of others on the train,

Fully faulted with sealed cracks:

The one way thought plain.

The boy, there in maim remain.


You see;

The tracks, they go on-

But this world is unduly heavy,

Without imagination our levee.


But there will come a point-

For his heart to anoint,

With his passions grease-

And no aspect of caprice.

Perfect Darkness

Switch off your lights.

Perfect darkness is all I want to see.

This is how I want to breathe,

When the shimmer comes in-

And your voice rolls to me like water.

Feel us topple from our ledge

And revel in you.


Stay under-

Keep me under-


Let’s hide in this crestfallen tide,

Under ripples we’ll delve-

Cycling from within:

Dreams beneath the fathomless swell.


Stay under-

Keep me under-


Hurts estranged exchange:

Fill over me-

Rise over me-

Paint us in azure.


Twisted euphoria:

Roam us.

Tainted magic:

Hold us-

Own us


Follow me-

And let’s dive

Into perfect darkness.



Dangle in askew,

Teeter from the blotched trail-

Veering fragmented-

Cloaking looped in-

The corner scavenged.

Archaic in my jaundiced mind.


Play it back.

It’s teasing taut-

Dampened and rich,

Squeezing and strained.

Break in focus:

Shatter at once-

All of me.

Let me take flame.

See it again.


Pulse me into the echo-

Seek me,

Haunt out of myself-

Into you,

Rivers speckled shy

In my bairn eye.




Two hands gently brush.

Two hands effortlessly touch.


Two secrets to hush.

Two secrets too much.


Two breaths feel the rush.

Two breaths confined in the hutch.


Two sons silken in Blush.

Two sons and the slipping of clutch.


Two loves that can’t be one,

Two loves imprisoned by the shun.

Two loves. Lost. With disapproval spun.


A journey that can’t be begun.

Night Fox



There’s a furtive current bending my will,

Perched in nonchalance as night slowly cowers;

The turquoise fox slips by my windowsill.


My Thoughts are lost on memory’s lone hill,

Echoed solemn through the fed drip of hours;

There’s a furtive current bending my will.


This hollow thirst, this thirst I can’t fulfill

Flakes mottled in her night of ours;

The turquoise fox slips by my windowsill.


Glimpsed the tail: a splayed thread to unravel twill

Or the crimson shadow presaged by scours;

There’s a furtive current bending my will.


The tussle segues to the dull groan of a beaten thrill-

Caressed oblique in each poignant bead of nightly showers;

The turquoise fox slips by my windowsill.


Cold’s messenger hummed a frost to glass’s chill,

Eyes strain a fear for the secret lost before it flowers.

There’s a furtive current bending my will.

The turquoise fox still slips by my windowsill.



If every step into an unknown

was a father showing his son fear

Then what are we?

The segue stuck

to a pause.


The dormancy of nothing

but ourselves scolded,

Spanked, broken to a mould.

Trampled by the grounds step

and the absent hollow

of our own. Love given

up and soiled by

what we remain in

who we become.


The crack fell through itself

Into us, who dwell in the cavern

of our cold cleft bones

etching our brittle

on our walls.


The world goes mute

to an ear left in bow.


In between splinters-

There, scabbard within our gossamers,

Where we hid tucked in sheets

And our arms meek in tether;

Tried to fool us-

Out of night’s existence,

With our tiny traced hearts-

Wishing scared for a lull.


In between those arms-

I felt whole your fears,

Infusing potency to my antimony.

Just us,

And those there walls,

The grunted thuds-

Leaving pleas in tears

And the stark contrast-

Of rained black smears.


In between silence’s choke-

The walls grew morphed,

Slowly warping, neither out nor in;

Emulating those beating throbs-

Suffocating from within.

Then came our awaited lull,

In which walls returned vapid

And our venations to them go.


In between slinked steps,

I picture you there-

Swollen from these nights

And my steps fill out-

They walk me

To that lurid, lurid taint.

I become like the man-

Who inlayed this sinuous tapestry

In our own home.

I use his vices vigor-

Make it my own.





In between my hands,

Comes the cold, cold metal-

Cradling me to myself;

Fog sweeping dense behind,

But you are there

And so is she.


Only Then-

Do I realise what I’ve done.


In between these veins,

Sweeps thick a blood resounded;

A blood shared in anguishes ache

But a blood that mocks:

Calling me and him one

But saying nothing of us,

You.  Sister of Mine.

That I never had.

Kicking Stones

A voice coloured distantly

through the water of memory;

Fingers through shadows like the mist

meandering breaths along a black creek,

Until in me comes the subtle tongued sliver

of your voice…



In Dark alleyways under the mirror lit moon-

I Saunter rugged corners, kicking stones-

That slate the chalk in the back of my mind.

Where there lies the musk of a worn notebook,

Within the promised warmth of your overhang-

pressed clean like the veins of a leaf,

Stowed away among pages unwritten.

But like the charm of an old shell

that breathes in itself if you hold it close,

I often hide in that silence.

The silence of the known.


And all these stones that I have kicked,

quietly echo the Morse of blind chests

to sweat words unsaid, wolfing down my spine.

And all these stones that I have kicked,

quietly fall to place like the Braille of night

that danced in our faint lipped eclipse

To show the moon not only as a reflection

But our gift.



…when you hear a voice

amid the tangle of knitted walls,

Swim back through the shadow

within a shadow on black waters past.

Open that notebook.

You will find me.