Message Sent To Friends That I Wish To Keep.

After careful consideration

of your performance

as a friend

in 2010,

I have decided to extend

your contract

for another year.

Try not to

fuck it up.

[please note: this was a generic message sent through online discussion boards and is a notorious quote regarded in the general public, it just so happened to have an abundant poetical base]

Beach colours

Stale light green.

Champagne white.

Translucent purple.

Isolated patch of rain.

Flat water plain

Iridescent blue.

Yet still I thought of you.

Indifference

These moonlit seas

glint in vain.

In my stubborn sight.

For I am oblivious.

Of the strain of feeling.

With thoughts deep-rooted

in my heart.

Like dark mangroves

subduing moonlight.

Branches

inundated at high tide

gasping

a low and ceaseless sigh.

This full moon

is a white ghost

and terribly upset.

Dragging the sea after it

like dark crime

to the sharp edges of night.

All melody of this nocturne sea

is not for me.

These crashing waters compose

the piano monotone.

Fading

to deaf ears.

Somewhere two lovers walking up

the long beach,

together

may justify the moon.

But as for me

like dark mangroves.

I do not hear

these crashing waters.

And I am blind

to the glinting

of these moonlit seas.

Facebook No More

Gazing at the Facebook blue.

Time and time again; through and through.

Like searching an empty fridge.

With no contents, continually abridge.

Fumed, spiritous mists inhabit this place.

Yesterday's pizza, a status update.

An absence of milk shall procure

the obscure event invitation to join the human race.

While Facebook is no door

of social development.

It is a face in its own right:

Blue as a lap dancer and gaudily hazed.

You walk out of the stripper joint dazed.

It is a book in its own right:

Dragging you back after it like a dark crime.

Shoot the sheriff and the deputy will chase you double time.

Facebook is no door.

Facebook no more.

I stare at the sea of trepidation, in a ship of imagination.

Facebook is no door; Facebook no more.

Examine the fridge's inhabitation, cold, empty fixation.

Facebook is no door; Facebook no more.

2 O'Clock In The Morning.

At 2 o clock in the morning

there is a deeper silence than silence

I listen to the black.

Far away a dog barks.

A tree rustles quietly.

No birds.

The piano music I am listening to is soothing.

Not nearly as calm as the night.

So I turn it off and listen to the stillness.

Of streets and buildings asleep.

What a view to behold:

the city underneath

the grey overcast skies.

Unfathomable and quiet.

Asleep, but awakening

like my love for you.

Jungle Rain

Your love,
like dark clouds.
Pungently moist,
contemplating feeding the
jungle of my heart.

Keep raining, keep raining, I say
so you can become
mindlessly occupied,
like some wandering monkey,
hopping from tree to tree.

Keep raining, keep raining, I say
become lost in the entanglement
of vines,
for you
will never hear the sound
of threatening lumber jacks.

Rain, rain,
clouds more vast.
Rain, rain,
luscious green waves.
Rain, rain,
lost, entangled heart.

Adolescent Angst

Existentialism might seem a bit inappropriate at this stage,

particularly when I have kids hanging from the ceiling fans.

Awkwardly rotating round,

like in a slow motion movie where they romantically run forward towards each other,

But in this classroom context,

only to crush into the train that is my wrath.

My assertive skills are waring thin.

Make the choice:

Be a passenger

or a dead man walking the tracks.

The constant ta-tinking over dead bodies.

You choose not to do the work

Ta-tink

You choose to fail to follow instructions

Ta-tink

Ta-tink

You talk, talk, talk.

Ta-tink

Ta-tink

Ta-tink

My siren has warned you many times:

Enough rocks on the track--

shallow arguments to hinder the passenger's progress.

No more warnings--

we need to move forward to our destination.

Ta-tink

Ta-tink

And the transmission of my train will announce merely

one thing:

"I am fucking over it".

Full steam ahead.

Ta-tink

Ta-tink

Ta-tink

Rain

T l r l b r o t a

h i o i i a n r c

i t o v r i f e r

s t f e d n t r e o

l s s h o s s

r e b s e g s

a o a s o s s

i p r n i u e w t

n i c d n n m c a h

t h g d p r y e

f t e s t o

a e s a w y a n

l r t n h k i

l - r d e b g

s p a n u h

a t w c t

t i h k

t n a e

e g t t

r

s n n

a o

o t i

n u s

r e

e

s

In A Different Location

Sleeping early and waking before dawn

What of captivating dreams?

Dreamily you are there,

Yet deep within my subconscious

I know

it is unearthly.

Encapsulated

in a dream,

Grasping air and

ejaculating early.

I wake

in a strange mood.

I think not of

what i have lost.

But the abundance

for all that is to be.

Ethereal Kindness. Conniving Cruelty.

I saw the kindness hidden in your ethereal eyes.

Have you not seen

a mood like sunlight

clouded with wary thoughts that circumvent

among the impulse and the words that commence

and then retracts?

Have you wondered why?

Kindness is in prison till it finds

release in words or deeds.

We hold the keys

to free our apprehensions and mistrust;

notwithstanding that most remain content with selfish ease.

Though sometimes a thought occurs that reminds

the careless heart that keys decay in rust.

I saw the cruelty hidden in your conniving eyes.

Have you not seen

a street much like post-Warsaw ghetto

like a vivid Hollywood movie

as ill-represented and as rough as the lines that depict

savage as the masses?

Have you wondered why?

Cruelty is in an open field.

Corpse-ridden.

Gunned down.

Most remain content with selfish ease.

Such sorrow in the life of man,

such ever-present need,

all the world can offer will never suffice.

I write this poem from my heart:

kindness in art,

cruelty in sham.

The line is drawn,

I see we’re world’s apart.

My introspection is done.

The page is printed.

Trees

Rolling

multi- col oured and velveteen

landscapes depict the stage of trees. A majesty to behold.

A splash of gold. A sweep of emerald. Some scarlet patches. Poise

violet tucked in between. As continuous as the colours in the rainbow.

This composes the seasonal landscape. A theatre of peace and calm, sca

ttered aimlessly as cattle. Herding across the fields, beside the lake, be

neath the fluffy clouds. Creatures of nature climb up and nestle on its branches. W

ell hidden from everyone. Miles away. Trees swaying, whispering, rustling, quiv

ering. Surpassing the ages in sprightly dance. Surviving the wind, rain, thundersto

rm. Like soldiers in formation-so proud and handsome. Like arms reaching out embrac

ing the air. For centuries yielding us an abundance of fire, food and joy.

Older than we, memorial tree, mysterious and idolized, callously utilized, b

eg our pardon, ancient trees, for our petty offense. But why must they

be cut down? For trunks, branches and the leaves were cut and spl

it and chopped and defiled into these chips of wood. And now

there are trees no more. Come back to us trees, to

the desolate places, rekindling a world

so soured and seared.

Of ages plunder. B

ring back the wo

nder, the joyful

trees, the gran

deur of trees.

And the whisp

ering forests in

which we were

reared. Trees to

renew and to re

vitalize and clean

se. Cities crowded,

atmosphere deflowe

red. Branches upraised

to admire and to beautify.

Elegant and strong, comp

osing the wind for a song. Bring

back the trees and the world shall not fail.

The Photograph

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Indifference

These moonlit seas

glint in vain.

With my stubborn sight,

I am oblivious.

Around me are mangroves,

that offer a low and ceaseless sigh.

Beyond is the sea,

cold and fathomless, as me.

Moreover I am alone.

The majesty of this night is not for me.

Somewhere two lovers walking up the long beach,

may justify the stars.

But as for me,

like mangroves,

I am deaf to

these crashing waters.

And I am blind

to the glinting

of these moonlit seas.

A Small Child Starving On A Poster

Leave me here to die.

For I have only just

been born.

My problem will not be

lonely old age.

Nor need you

start a war

to get me shot.

You will dispel me

at an early age.

By removing all your load

from off my heart.

We will not meet.

Therefore we will avoid

the painful problems

felt

when people part.

Epiphany On The Beach.

I will not merge gently into the sea.

I will write words in rhythmic order.

Write about me and everything.

An odd feeling of introspective power.

That soothe like chocolate to one's ears.

And I will write in fear... but of what?

The cold, robotic, unemotional people.

Who take the tides of life like a cork,

bobbing on a ripple.

But I ride on top of the waves,

ram-shackled by the rocks.

And stalled by the small,

mean pebbles of events.