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.