Posted: April 4, 2018 in Uncategorized

So here is the problem,
I need it to be dreamy:
Light falling from heaven:
Here is the way son
You are my mouthpiece;
But I’m a man who believes
In nothing, my ears and heart
Shutoff from the ministrations
Of The Holy Spirit.
This is my in between,
Grappling with this meaningless
Singularity I uphold.
Is it desperation that
Has brought me to the wind
Exalted by published poets,
Same desperation that
Causes me to romanticize
Death and Grief
As a prophetic baptism?
I’m knocking here
I’m knocking there:
This body can be used
But first you must reach
For my soul deep
In the grave of dead ideas.


First Fruit

Posted: May 12, 2017 in Uncategorized

​What can 25 do for me?

Actually what can I do for 25?

I’m kneeling surrounded by

The entire family with mother’s

Hand upon my head.

This is how we celebrate,

How we love

But my perception

Is tainted:

Mother’s words feel

Fitting for a deliverance

And the way father

Leaps and vibrates,

He truly needs the

Holy Ghost Fire

Down on my behalf.

My perception is tainted

Like I said:

Their love reeks

Of worry and disappointment,

The intensity of my

Sisters’ Amen tells

Of a sense of unlikelihood

But damn if he ain’t a

Miracle working God.

I hear lies when they

Speak of pride.

I watch all of them

With their eyes closed

And they’re almost convincing.

when hunger sinks in

Posted: May 7, 2017 in Uncategorized

​The ugly reality of debt and deception

And mooching off without shame,

The damning of consequences that

Leaves you with heavy questions

To answer when the dream is over:

This dream, a journey that promises

So much but delivers on nothing and

This is how you’re roped to keep going.

An illusion to fill the vacuum.

My debauchery is what I have to talk

About to give the impression of an

Exciting life ’cause I mean, while you

Were at work I hurt my lip flaming sponge 

Throughout the entire day and ate no

Food at all because I’m so badass. 

I felt quite empty the next day 

In more ways than one.

We drove back home in silence

With tired but flashlight eyes,

After spending the night at a

Stranger’s house, burdened by the

Individual consequences of our

Thoughtlessness and there’s the 

Feeling that while the wildness

Enriches and perhaps thickens our

Friendship with adventure and crazy

Stories, it’s also strained by the

Lies we have to tell to the people

We care about: perhaps we project

Unfairly upon each other but what

Else is there for us to do?

We’ve got this, I promise.

My room is yours

Posted: April 29, 2017 in Uncategorized

It’d be nice to be done
With the act, won’t it?
It’d be nice for the true
Extent of your emotions
To be in the open, rather
Than this repression you
Cling to while also trying
To sneak more out of these
Close friends you yearn for;
These friends who don’t
Understand why they hold
You in their arms when
You lie next to each other
And there’s no one to see.
Perhaps you are right and it
Is this confusion that causes
The rift, the cruel forget,
The mission to flaunt and
Prove to themselves and
You their fondness for girls,
They purge themselves of
You with your exciting stories
And individuality that corrupted
Them with thoughts and
Emotions that surprised them:

Locked out in the middle of
The night, head on cushioned
Ground, listening to heavy breathing
And the clashing of two bodies,
You felt your heart break and
The fiery mix of love and pain.

Doesn’t work out any better
When certain desires are acted upon
‘Cause ridden with guilt and shame,
They project upon you, running
From you in a bid to run from
Themselves though stopping
By maybe once or several times to
Feel your wonder hands and mouth.
Won’t it be nice to recline in complete
Honesty with another without the
Possibility of a nasty aftertaste?
I don’t know if Grindr is the answer
But it’s much healthier that you’re
Messing with boys that don’t
Burden you with their own wars
Like you aren’t drained from
Fighting yours and still learning
How to wake up without
The kicking and screaming.

Hot and Cold Eyes

Posted: April 26, 2017 in Uncategorized

Another year is over and this time
I’m not deluding myself with
A sense of newness but I have
Found a deeper appreciation for
The healing power of time and
I was going to write about it:

I was going to write about how
Far I’ve come since February
When I shed silent tears in a tub,
How I’ve lost those urges
I used to fight and lose to,
How rest found its way back to me
And this made me believe that no
Matter how agonising the misfortune
I’d live through it

But I appear to be writing something
Else now after running into you
In the witching hours of the 1st
With pretty and terrifying
Explosions around us that
Went silent as the crowd faded
But only for a second

For my legs never really paused
As I shook your hand from quite
A distance and wished you
And your friends well.
Did my eyes reveal as much
As your eyes seemed to do,
Or perhaps it was just my imagination?

Those big eyes in the sparkly
Night continue to haunt me.
Were you expecting a hug, I wonder,
Was that hope I got a glimpse of
Or was it melancholic nostalgia?

The unrest seeps back in
Along with the urge to put
Myself on the line again,
To surrender hoping that it
Inspires you to do the same

But there’s a far stronger
Hesitation to feed you
My pride so your eyes
Can grow cold again.

We’ve been here many
Times before haven’t we?

Is it often you find yourself
Running to another
To meet in an embrace that
Draws the everlasting
Into one moment?

I was met with the lukewarmness
Of my life watching Sandra Bullocks
Run to Hugh Grant in Two Weeks Notice.
He just stood though, which I did
Not find very surprising.
When the men run in the movies,
It looks to me like they are worried
About how unmasculine this might
Be for their movement lacks the
Desperation glaring at the other side.

Do you think this
Happened with me
Or with you?

Most likely it’s just in my case
But it seems like growth and
Awareness are the death of magic

For all that came to mind was that
Saturday afternoon, four years ago,
Sighting your hand from afar,
Signaling and mine doing the same.
We’d just described the colour
Of our clothes on the phone.

Our first meet ever,
After a whole year of
Consistent messages and
Voice notes, unveiling,
Mostly through banter,
Several parts of ourselves.

I remember your hand
Holding up your baggy shorts
As you did that swagger run.

I doubt my run had any swagger.

I can’t remember if people
Were on the street but
I remember us finally meeting.
The organic embrace.
You, more than a few inches taller;
Me, legs in the air, spinning around.

I will always smile when I remember
This even if I’m never fortunate again
To experience anything relatable.

Stage Fright

Posted: March 31, 2017 in Uncategorized

Life indeed is a stage and I’ve got the fright to prove it.

I’ve rehearsed this shit several times but I choke.

I allow myself get taken in by the eyes staring

And I can’t seem to remember anything, even who I am,

‘Cause I do know who I am

But fucking stage fright.

Even when I find my way through this stutter and I’m able to mutter something that could pass as music, I then begin to worry about my vocal range and all the parts with the high notes and somehow I always find my way back to silence. I never remember to vocalise through and past the cracks like Sia does, till they become part of the story, a struggle lived through, scars I forget I have.

Life is a stage but I don’t dance. I feel awkward imitating these trendy moves on television and the internet and so my body stays still, mourning the loss of rhythm I can still feel in my joints. There have been moments the music called so strongly, my body found the fluidity it so desires but eventually it’d lose this worrying about what moves are too alien for this sex.

Life is a stage so I understand the bravado he wears as tight as his skin before he leaves his house even when he’s just going down the road to get cigarettes. It doesn’t matter how often he quarrels with his face in front of the mirror, what matters is that they always reconcile and even when they don’t, he doesn’t let their dirty laundry hang for everyone to see. He doesn’t envelope himself in tortuous questions like I do. He takes a chance on himself. His old man has left the stage for good and so has the ease of singing backup but he’s never been one to allow himself become a silhouette in the background. He tucks his pain in just as neatly as his shirt. Nothing hangs loose on him and even when something does, life is a stage and the show must go on.