Ex.

This ecstasy, pure and tainted,
A sheet of white, with a splotch of red.
A single dew drop, on gossamer wings,
A stiletto heel,
cherry flavoured lip gloss,
or platinum plated rings.


It creeps up,
Bit by bit, higher
like mercury brought to boil,
a parasite, a stalagmite,
just a point of desire.


A love drug,
Inhale, dream, repeat,
Hallucinations and helixes,
Of Spirals and lines,
Taken with a long stemmed glass of
Pinot noir or Merlot wine.

Creating paradigms,
Or paradise within
Neither gained, nor lost
Where only fools rush in.

To covet or covert
To digress or regress.
To feel the sparkle,
To see the warmth.

A piece of dark chocolate,
Or silk satin sheets.
A fresh strawberry,
simple lavender sticks,


can it be bound somewhere
between a sonnet of sixty words,
Or an epic of six million?
Or three single words, or maybe nothing at all.

Maybe its just me, or maybe its
You and your gorgeous behaviour,
Does every love story have an end?
Or does every end have a love story?

I love the way I look at you
I love the way I love you.
Its lust, that I am in love with,
Or maybe I lust for love.

Ah, this feeling of misery,
Or ecstacy.
Else maybe it’s just a plain
Case of idiosyncrasy.

Closet, space

Come into my parlour, said the spider to the fly.
The spider was my closet, the fly was I.
Layers of memories, stashed into space
A ménage de trois of times,
When I was stashed across space.
A sweatshirt of a grad school never visited,
A crumpled love note,
A long forgotten lust list
All dull and bland
Seven cutters with their blades missing,
The unsettling plastic rust.
A paper bag, from a time long gone,
Residual memories,, seems like an eon.
A biscuit box from Harrods,
With stones from the sea.
Letters from someone,
Name and address withheld.
A dozen pencil stubs, worn out and dark
Translated into words, over crumpled love notes.
The lone vodka bottle, empty and drained,
Murky memories of times ,hazy and strained.
The baby book, with pictures of circa past,
When the world was black and white,
Or spotted and sepia.
A pin from Paris,
Another from Rome,
And a broken crystal that
Hung around at home.
Spectacles, that I use,
When I don’t want to see,
A watch box, that doesn’t tell the time,
Stuck in space,
like superglue slime.
A coke bottle with coke,
Where coke isn’t coke.
Colour pencils all wrong,
Where green is blue
And red is brown.
A checklist that doesn’t matter,
With points that make no sense,
A mixed tape,
With old love songs gone blank,
A rubber tarantula,
And a plastic snake.
Two sets of playing cards,
Without the king of hearts.
My architectural instruments,
Tattered and astray.
A dozen old diaries,
With entries until May.
Nothing more for me here,
All distant memories, these.
i close the door shut,
To my mind, and I am free,
With a broken promise to mom,
To clean thee.