This is me
making tea;
with leaves, black
and green,
making it mintea.

This is me
making tea;
brewing by colour
filters,
bulb yellow, white tube,
mixed view two-by-two.

This is me
making tea;
tasting by sight,
testing by smell,
swirling, stirring, pouring, purring.

This is me
drinking tea;
damning the world,
happy.

This is the silence of countless words
lounging in their corners;
narcissistic,
stage-frought.
One more chance away from still
saying nothing.

This is the emptiness of a million dreams
haunting empty imaginations;
unconvincing,
unbelieving.
Tricksters who fail to delude
even themselves.

This is the loneliness of a dozen friendships
huddling against the comfort;
nostalgic,
unrealised.
Browsers, flippiing through a book with
too many faces.

We chose,
and here we stand.

But what if we had
turned,
and turned again?
Would we have solved the labyrinth,
or would we simply have
turned
out the same?

Friday fripperies

Say quiet,
say quite,
say quite quiet,
say quite quietly,
say them all quietly.

Write quiet,
write quite,
write quietly,
and then write them quietly.

Say write,
write say.
Say write quietly,
quietly, and quietly
write say quiet.
Say quietly write quiet,
write quietly say quiet.
Say write quietly say write,
Write say quietly write say quiet.

Write right,
say right, rightly.
Say quite right,
write rightly quiet.
Say write right.

...say what?
Quite.

You say,
be not you,
but I cannot;
for all that I
could feel,
or think,
or write,
or do,
or be,

has.

Including
these words,
and this thought.

It's hard to be different
when you were never
original.

I look at you,
as you look at me,
and in your lazy gaze,
I can almost see what I saw
when I loved to look into you.

I look at you,
and you stare back,
without any explanation
for why you no longer spare me
those thrilling glances that made me want you
to never let me out of your sight.

I look at you,
and wonder if I ever really saw you,
and whether I knew it would come to this;
that I would return again and again
to devour these pictures,
while creating a blindspot
to cover the one who you now hold
captive in your eyes.

I look at you,
to try and understand why
I am lost to you.

Some day,
we will peer back
at the reflected stranger,
and wonder when we stopped looking
like the pictures in our head.

And we will find ourselves
waiting by a moving stair,
patiently hoping for a little lull
in which to take our turn
and move on to nowhere.

Some day,
we will try and understand
the things that are changing the world,
but after nodding in quiet bewilderment, slink away
to put on the songs we have always loved.

And we will make up our minds
to rise up again and match our best,
but the body we will be lugging around
will sink back for a little more rest.

Some day,
we will sit down,
just for a while,
to rest our feet as the world flows hastily by,
and when we look up,
a year will have gone by.

And we will find ourselves
pottering away,
with all the time to live our lives,
but little life left to live them in.

Some day,
we will be of an age
to know ourselves to be aged.

All because
of whys
and buts
and isupposes.

because
of theysaids
and whyshouldnts
and ididnts.

because
of howdares
and whocares
and ohwhythefucknots.

because
of pleases
and pauses
and petty little causes.

because
all the yeses
are still a no,
and
because
of becauses.

These fingers ache
with all the things
they keep getting asked to do throughout the day,
without merciful respite,
whether impressing upon these keys
or turning pages in eager joy
or stabbing at buttons
that bring up continual productions
full of food or travel -
which only bring about a sense of unfulfillment (that word just got invented) -
or preening posturers pretending to be better than all.
These fingers ache,
even though so many thoughts have not yet
been let loose,
and moan at the thought of all that
they will be asked to do.

These eyes ache,
after being forced to stare
at screens and pages of varying sizes
under poor light,
till they snap open
and after dizzying scattering,
try to turn inwards
and fix with their toughest gaze
the thought-maker that helped
time to merrily flit past,
but they can't of course,
and can do naught but
keep looking on till
they're switched off again
by that tease.

Because this mind aches,
with having to calculate
and tabulate
and assimilate the random bits of pointless gossip
that were being nibbled on
in between select morsels of the worldly world,
and following the lives and thoughts
of so many others
and keeping track of who said what and where
and of what one said to whom too,
and coming up with remarks
pithy and witty
because how else will people believe
that one has a personality worth knowing,
yes?

This body aches,
with having to listen to the complaints
of all these different voices,
and specially that little group
of lax muscles
that's rallying together around the ninth vertebra,
and who refuse to disperse
or negotiate
except with the sounds of slumber.

Closure is demanded,
because
it's been
A Long Day.

of thin blood
and faint screams,
and horrible sights behind the screens.

of deluded fevers
festering amongst sores,
and frantic pleas at nerveless doors.

of alkaline emanations
and last-minute secrets,
and tears spattered on silent engines.

inside these sickly walls
these hosts house
too many
rusting bodies and mildewing souls.

Not because of pain
or love
or superior disdain,
or manic anxiety
or passing despair.

Not because we seek the answers,
or have found one,
but because we know there are too many,
and there are none.

Not for the acclaim and derision,
but to let loose the visions
that batter these walls,
threatening with innocent malice
to tear them down.

Not because we love our craft,
but because we have no other,
and because these words
support, yet destroy.

Not because of anything,
but because of everything,
and because we simply must.
This is why we write,
this is why we hurt.

when words devour
each other,
and thoughts stumble and merge.
when worlds collide
and dreams explode.
when we are not we anymore,
and these words are somebody else's.