Tip toes of a cheat
and the line comes to an end
the juggle tumbles
and dices cease in rolling

The sound of palms slapping
and shoes tapping,
the squeaky, hoarse cheers,
flashing teeth and flipping tongues

All silenced by the bluff
of Hearts.
Game Over.

Spotlights dizzying the centre
mist obscures the fantasy
and instead of tears
the dark sounds deep breaths of fears.

And a new Game begins.

Where truth is an erupting volcano
boldering path.
Sweat rains slowly into dust
mud feet between melting fires
and the line comes to an end,
permeating the strange smile from your heart,
permitting the strange smile on your lips.



We ask all these questions,
sucking them from the thumb like milk, dripping
honey from the petals of marks of polysemy
and still
we ask, we sit or stand or sleep
and keep accelerating our minds
crossing paths and thoughts
And thoughts. Shoving and hustling
and exerting the poke with force,
squeezing every letter into the steamroll
where the question is the railroad
made of stones and skin, bodies of uncertain gist.
Fatality in our honey-sucking petals, a shear
from our hallucinosis, our diagnosis
our inquisition.
rambling, rambling thoughts.
We ask all these questions,
instead of sucking the answers from our roots.Alveolus. Core. Honey comb, our chambers
of sweet and thick antiphons of pleas.

Idle Day

Arduous, heavy sun, so
full of yellow,
fulgid, cumbrous star
being a burden to day,
forceful to the chaste clouds
pulling your burn a-far
in a timeless motion
keeping the eventide away

petulant I am, by this cussed notion.

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Colloquy Drop

Threads of ink penetrated
by the needle-tip of writing
suffused in pores
guzzled by orifices
choking in the corners of mouths
throttled in throats
exuding, emitting, escaping
the piercing
the pressing
the strain and crusifixion of ink
coronal of fatality
on paper, on lines – Elysium
Breath; breathe
A waft of free
Liberated by a full stop
probed, perceived, permeated.

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Stymied in a web of air
confined by the particles of atmosphere
Thwarted by breath to stone
where one cannot stir
but only stare

as fragments move past my skin
smidgens of forsaken fervour
relinquished to a static state
of desperate melancholy

A web of nihility aiding
the duplicity in my spine

a web to my limbs
As eye stare from the Inanimate I

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Wet Paper

My pen was drowning.
there was no lifeguard
and no flares.
Only an anchor; a block
of iron pulling my
Pen down to drown.
Distances of darkness
Black liquid of darkness
No air. No lungs. No ink.
And my pen was drowning –
Only to find dead dry ground
and surviving wet paper.

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Peace came in a rain drop
spreading harmony over pious grounds

the hiatus of carte blanche;

where liberty stood proud
against the aridity of fire – détente


with each stroke of the strident
falling water of Nut

in honour of the greens
to the snuffed Sun.

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