Becoming Firdausi.


In my search of heaven and hell
I found naught.
But there is you,
And I,
And a realm of pleasure
We can find it there.



Blue lilies on a frosted lake
The crack of dawn
A pierced finger, oozing blood
Cold gravel,
wet feet upon dewy grass
Condensation all around;
heavy light all

I wish the moon was still chasing my car.

Déjà vu

But never break

2017-03-31 11.24.20 2-1

I’ll keep drawing, writing, reading.
Clawing after distractions and ravaging for words through the permanent recess of this mind.

Bring me something, somewhere.

And yet I do, again, and again.

I do not want to write about love.
Everyone does. I ought to be different. 
There are other things,
Death, ambition, poverty…
The dance of dust motes in the sunlight
I could write about my dreams,
morbid as they are;
Of medieval spectacles of electrocuting the poor 
(yes, I really did dream that)
My unconscious mind is a terrible place.
I am heading nowhere,
writing, rambling;
Where can I seek recluse, pray tell
away from these thoughts, these troubles,
your engagement.
My waking life is no better.


Today I saw,
before my eyes, love so feeble
so weak.
Oh dear God, curse me
if you will,
plague me with the pain of
passion, madness
and desire.
Till my last, I will walk
with shards of glass ripping into my soles,
and feel the tear of this
organ, in every step,
than to not know the ecstatic delirium of
consuming love.