Pray, breeze me away— — Glorious tides of Time— speed me along your tempestuous ride above the fathoms that my mind cannot reach to disallow, above the reasoning sighs and unreasonable doubts, above the fatuous mist of youth convalesced into a forlorn empire in which I alone may hide; past the successful populace with its achievers…

Transcendental grief — Why does turmoil always feeds the refrain that’ll stab the vein of creative enterprise? Why can’t one write about love — only pain luring its post-adolescent decay now gone? Why must one grieve when there is nothing left to bury, though loss still festers predominant? Why must plenitude be dismissed…

Lovers on a pedestal — I burnt your hand with residues of nicotine; you clogged my brain with climates of melancholy— therefore, I can safely say that you need a eulogy from me. You hide but maybe you don’t and only I believe this fence of yours to be fabricated, though merely by my own…

A restorative liminal space — All the words that embroidered my verse with mechanical solutions— soothing convulsions that fed kindly the thrilling spell of elocution— have evaporated. You studied them all hence never will forget, but betrayals turn our love to a defect— these foreign smiles were but the test that our faith had promised…

A poem of grief and fury — My wail is a turn from inside, a serendipitous coup d’état that vanquishes the limits of purgatory fancies. When my fears wish to ride the waves of putrid incandescence, they only swerve its might towards sense demolition. Only once I thought that if I jump, I’ll get caught— and when the…

As illness ravages your creation — Forgive me, Mother— I’m just this great sandcastle with intricate compartments build magnificent, that the salty lips of the sea devours in peaceful ambulations undisturbed in its flow, not even noticing as it eats me whole, leaving only wet sand, quiet and tower-less, on which I build anew once I’m rooted again with…

Dreaming in celluloid — What a dream I had of you kissing me upon the precipice of somnolence’s seized instant, and when I see you now on these screens you visit— once an intermission, shifted to a central presence— I recall the limpid lavishness of the script in which I lived then, in tender quiet…

A carnival craving — We are pure sound, not perpetuated on the walls, upon pastures, open and defaulted to manifestos, in the countryside of yore, which we grew upon and shat our souls. We are the smoke of our territories’ conduct and the simulacrum screen of all the velvet queens whom we adore without measure or…