Flâneur

Remember the broody flâneur,
He sits at the corner table,
twirling a pencil worn out by non-use,
Never finishing his fourth coffee,
Almost a little bored,
Waiting for the world to say something.

Remember the feline flâneur,
He skulks about as if skulking were a habit,
The hint of a hollow smile
lurking in his mud-brown eyes.
Watch him as he shuffles in his seat
to hide the edges of a story spilling from his table.

Remember the wispy flâneur,
As he puts out his cigarette.
He laughs for the grief of Orpheus,
And he weeps for the joy of rain.
He paints despite the death of colour,
And he writes despite himself.

Remember the haughty flâneur,
As he leaves behind a trail of wretched mystery.
His half-finished poems vanish after him,
His paintings never see the light of day,
And all that is left of him
Are the cold dregs of his vanity
In a tired coffee cup.

Under the skin

Somewhere in the forest

of my memory

I've dug a little thorn that battles.

The redder it gets, 

the harder I scratch my skin.

Perhaps it's an old letter

I stuffed back into the mailbox

without reading,

Or maybe it's a lie I told

myself, impossibly smug.

The pages I did not turn,

the faces I chose to look away from,
the old coat of habit I refused to take off,

or the unwelcome dance of the wise owl,

I ignored in my arrogance.

Paper boats of furious hunger
Sink in midnight disbelief.
Sometimes love is silent, little one.
And past the anger, understand -
To not be alone is not love's favourite child.

The bed I sleep in is burning,

And I have been running for too long.

The ragged silence between the walls

spills old stories of false comfort,
But comfort I cannot share.

I am not ashamed to ask,

But afraid of the answer, I pause.

The endless questions, like cold hope,

simmer in the blood.

I laugh, and the echo keeps silent.

I must find my thorn,

And I must live with it.

Brief be my tryst with doubt,

Briefer still, my faith.

But she - she stays, my madness.

And for her, I will go all the way.

The Nightwatchman

He walks
a lonely path,
tapping
his ritual stick.
A forlorn commotion
betraying the silence inside.

A sleepy dog
hastens her exit from the alley.
The snoring apartments
exclude him
from their sepulcher
of sleep.

Eagle-eyed guardian
of the macabre,
Spectator
to the shifting magic
of midnight dwellers,
He partakes
in their peculiar time travel,
As he continues
on his unwelcome beat.

A little above his head
A restless child in bed
taps her foot
in rhythm
with the swelling-fading
echo of his stick.

Shadows

I have cast myself out without oars,
Swallow me, O tempest.
Time has tied a knot in my throat,
And you hold the strings in your mouth.

Watching the sun tuck himself into the horizon,
I often wonder in the dipping light,
Where do our shadows
go to sleep at night?

Imagine if we cracked the night sky open
And a million shadows
came spilling out, naked -
Each hunting for their mortal twin.

Or perhaps the moon can tell us.
Look at her and
tell me you don't think
she hides the secrets of a million lovers.
She is our most faithful accomplice.

No wonder each morning
When light seeps into my bed
I feel heavier.
My shadow now carries with it
Last night's memories with you.

Xanadu

I hesitate to follow a ritual,

To touch my bare feet to the stone.

The cold seeps in through the air, 

And wetness from the skies allure.

Abandoning promised paths for wilderness,

Lights fade out into the consolation of the night.

To listen to the footfall of anxious thoughts,

Their arms wrapped around the stubborn barks of trees.

Fear walks upon this dark hour shadowed by lovers, 

And she spreads her legs for the fury of doubt.

Together they attempt a dance of seduction,

Each eating into the other, forever coupled like murder. 

To wrestle the power of their mighty poison,

To spread instead, the dark ink of faith

On the thinning sheet of patience,

One turns to certain mortals and their immortal verse.

What must have Klimt felt once he looked upon his entwined lovers 

wrapped in their yellow bliss for eternity,

and realized that every kiss henceforth would be but a pale imitation, 

a foggy dream that disappoints, 

ever cursed by his own Frankisstein. 

Such is the truth of the ever-thirsty artist,

The inked desire at once becomes a fatal Xanadu, 

And life always occurs elsewhere, on the other shore.

Art beckons her voice,

And life falls short of the echo.

Nocturnes

And again the habit of old showers
Draws one here to the grave,
Also the touch of sprinkling leaves.
A faint tune resounds down the walk of memory,
As the river gurgles
Of a circular dream, still wet from last night.

Away they float towards a common cause,
On a sheet of icy water laden with the promise of time,
With a mirror of musing clouds for company,
Sharing their first kiss and their last dance.
In murky yellows and rushing reds they spin on,
Carrying with them a trembling word from me.

Elated skies open up in further joy.
Waxing gibbous, that ancient nocturnal lover,
Raises her face, ever betrothed to her beloved earth.
If only I could witness their capricious journey,
Or fade, away, into the drowning ocean,
And sleep, sleep, my weary head upon your thirsty shores.

The grand orchestra of Nature plays on,
And I wonder how one can speak of love.
One oft finds the word too vast, too feeble,
Like a beaded thread under a mountain.
To even have lived amidst this music,
Is to have loved and died in one eternal moment.

Back home,
Chopin's nocturnes are played as if in final farewell.
And the abiding thunder in my mind
Pursues as if in a trance, its tender melody.
If one could choose a perfect moment to walk out of life,
This night would be the flower I'd pick.

Promises

Dignity is uncertain. Belief, even more so.
Hope lies floating on the sidewalk,
Whilst you ink another confession
Across the restless walls of your mind.

You are trapped inside and out,
Complicit in a habit you wish would die.
The threat of dawn is a distant knock,
This deep night is hardly diminished by streetlamps.

Faint voices from fading mirrors
Alludes to a new clarity through tears.
The hush that follows a passing car,
Has come a long way from home.

Stare, stare for too long at any word you wrote,
And it doesn't feel yours anymore.
Only a vague incomprehension remains,
And the anguish of a ticking clock.