Screensaviour Syndrome

You say you think positive,

that you look on the bright side

of every nuclear bomb, like

“well, at least there’s fireworks”,

spreading out your sun-kissed arms

like a thief in surrender

armed to the teeth with

legal loopholes.

It’s all to fool me into thinking

you have nothing to hide,

as if my eyes were motion sensors

and my brain

programmed on Scratch.

But I am not a terminal

for you to draw current from.

I am not a negative pole

for you to slide down,


And if I had free electrons,

I would charge you

hourly for using them;

they are not yours

to stuff your empty spaces with

so you can pretend you have something to lose

and project a martyr

onto your blank screen.


Because I was a club secretary

it scares me to think

how so many people

became lines on a list

to me.

How a nebulous cloud

of hot gushing love

and blustering rage

could have been steamrolled

onto paper.

It scares me to think of

the number of times

I crossed out a name

and forgot.

How a birthday

can become a statistic,

leave no net change

in population.

I glide my smudged finger

over black-and-white headlines

and watch through the window,







Do the people working

the other end of the rifle

print the same way too?


I want forever

to drink in the sky

and plant new flowers

and think all alone

adrift on the sea.

I want forever

for things we abandoned

and shan’t find again,

not on this timeline,

no matter the plea.

I want forever

so the now may count less,

so the flowers won’t have

to scrape the horizons

and mimic a tree.

I want forever

with the pink in your cheeks and

the folds of your palms,

to sink in the eyes

that never saw me.



You came into my mind space and

you swallowed up the sun,

before dining on the planets,

digesting them,

one by one.

You knocked upon my sternum,

demanding access to my heart.

My pacemaker screamed no

but then,

you tore the walls apart.

I don’t know how you skinned

me of my cold and hard exterior,

as if it were but leather against

laser light,


Country of a Cruel Soul

And welcome to the kneeling land, where sugar is a psalm

The truth will tear a wound in us, but curry is our balm

We all are for the freedoms here, there’s no need to be shy

We all are monotheists here, we’ll be free when we die.


Here you can speak, if fain to meet a ruler with your palm

Here you will peak, adrift the only sea for you with calm

We all are for the freedoms here, there’s no need to be shy.


And come this way – the distance mere – if you want to create

This other way for engineers, then doctors – don’t be late

We all are monotheists here, we’ll be free when we die.


Ignore those that would chastise you for jesting of a bomb

For tragedy should be naught but a season-long sitcom

We all are for the freedoms here, there’s no need to be shy.


And seek not any virtue, not in friendship or a mate

Indulge in borrowed blues, the traits that come in a great spate

We all are monotheists here, we’ll be free when we die.


The social ill of soulish nil will grow like festered mange

For minds that never change themselves are those that can be changed

But we are for the freedoms here, there’s no need to be shy

We all are monotheists here, we’ll be freed when we die.

Unsound, Untried, Untested

I’m not sure who convinced me

To rendezvous with enemies

As if that were natural

Or even sound of thought.


Uncertain what possessed me

To follow so obediently

As if that were natural

I do wish I had fought.


I wish someone had taught me

That mind and heart were free

As if it were natural

But gone is now my shot.


Exposing tender flesh will lend us more than we can pay

Enamoured though the eyes may be – the soul, we cannot say.

The Preface: Preview of an Unfinished Work

People are difficult to appreciate. Words, less so. So much hidden potential remains hidden inside flesh. Sincerity cloaks itself with a PR smile. Anger like a constipated volcano broils beneath brows furrowed just so. With words, on the other hand, these concepts are undressed, unearthed, made into almost-heartfelt confessions like skin turned inside out. Put enough of a person into words and what you have would be a god. Put enough of the words into sentences and you will have yourself a religion. Then comes the paragraphs, then the pages. Somewhere at the end of that chain is Truth: the maximum possible honesty about all there is and all there will be. But that Truth will not be a person. That is why people are difficult to appreciate.



A Poem About Friday

If eyes are windows to the soul, then yours are full of bullets

stacked high in your cranium and rolling from your tear ducts

crying for the reflection that dies after you leave the restroom.


If your language meets your heart, then your heart must be a bullseye

but the sort they sell at toy stores; polished, new and arrow-free

because your weapons are all cactus spines –they only point outwards.


If two could ever make a company, while you and I breathe the same air

then you ought to find a mirror with some straps for easy wear

all because you seem to like me best when I’m not there.