Falling away into insanity’s abyss, as macabre fireworks bloom

I credit Wong Renhao with the title of this poem.

As the flowers bloom,
so goes the flame,
with its effervescence,
the bubbly, the blossom,
it expands to fill the glittering
Shadows of the heart.

The insanity of loneliness,
as she sat in the zephyr,
her chocolate locks,
that drizzled like melt’d cream,
the taste of the spices that
drove me to long,
for one last touch.

As the fireworks fade,
the disgust sets in,
the cloud of smoke fades to reveal,
a night sky devoid of previous beauty,
the disgust,
a beauteous cavity, emptied by the love.

In the end, does it matter at all?
Does it matter to you now?
Or to me then?
For the lack of true fireworks,
I have to content myself with the blue skies
above your head, the same sky that is above mine.

We belong together,
and I hold all that is
just between you and I.

The spirits I hold in my heart,
threatening to be unleashed,
A vodka of Fear,
A 7&7 of Jealousy,
A Cosmo of Lust…

Let me fall again into your gravity,
let me sink into your wretched depths,
let me gaze at the wonders of the firey plumes,
let me dance, for the naked dances of the childish,
let me regale the wonders of your song

How wonderful life is,
now you’re in the world.
I believe that,
I still do,
I must believe that,
For we are all bound by our singular nature.

This poem ends not,
for it its never ending,
insanity’s infinity.
I will never finish this poem,
for as long as I know to love.


Saint Valentine

Saint Valentine must be a pimp,
with fish swimming in his platforms,
with big-ass sunglasses,
with syncopated rhythms,
stolen from pink cards

Saint Valentine must be an angel,
Drifting through azure and sangria,
bestowing unbeknown wonders on those who believe,
believe in the unforgettable,
and dream of their deep city dreams.

Saint Valentine must be a sadist,
taunting us, those without,
those who just want to live this day like any other
enjoying the jealous looks thrown,
thrown like a towel into the ring.

Saint Valentine must want love to prevail,
he created this day for you and me,
for him and her, him and his, they and them,
to forget that would be disappointingly human,
and yet I am forced to by exigencies of the service,
to sit this one out, even when,

Saint Valentine’s all of these things,
to all of us,
its up to us to believe,
in this Clausian charecter,
that a rose deliever’d by a burst of light,
through the ether that is Fibre-Optic,
that a cheap card, dinner and 2 kisses,
1 lip/1 cheek,
or just the simple Happy V-Day *Just like in ’45*
still works.

It works. It just does.


There’s something in the air,
some change’ed quality,
the darkness that pervaded my soul,
now enters into that space,
where the purity of light,
of time, of destiny,
where is the meaning?

Why does she do what she does,
artfully avoiding,
skillfully turning,
gracefully skimming,
I can only deign to guess.

Is it fear?
Is it me?
Is it you?
Is it them?
Is it too much?
Is it too soon?
Is it complicated?
Is it effortless?

Somehow, for someone,
so used to insincerity,
so used to concealment,
so cynical,
so uninterested.
I’ve got my interest back.
I fear the 5 year old,
will reassert himself,
taking away what little
I have.

Somehow, I must say,
that in the end,
these are just words.

The Boy

The Boy who is in love,
He stands above all,
with his voice raised high,
his banner adrift,
With the reds and blues and whites, blending
joy to the world, I am fulfilled,
Even when running to the high,
The voice never wavers,
never falters,
always dripping with the red passion
with or without his other,
Because they are

There is a lightness in his tenor,
An added lustre to his bass,
his mind filled with songs of summer breezes,
winter strolls along the Neva.
iPods could be written and sung about this love,
but no, there is no need,
for it is already written,
the soundtrack of their Love, Actually.

The Boy who is not in love,
He stands tall,
with his righteous spirit,
I don’t need anyone else,
I can stand on my own.
Who needs a crutch?

He is dedicated to the proliferation of the melancholies,
those bittersweet symphonies,
those everlasting arias,
Who says he’s alone!
The songs that are sung not by the choirs,
for their masses only serve to make him.

No, these are sung
With the soprano, solo.
She stands there, calling to him,
Her eternal voice,
reaching ever higher,
to me! To Me! Decants she!
He savours every note,
Like a Lafite,
Every bubble of her,
A Clicquot.

The Boy who is in love,
is a friend of the Boy without.
They share their trials.
Without offering his great emptyness,
to be filled with.
Their tribulations are solved,
with an overwhelming efficiency,
the one in love willing to see,
to lend his love-broadened eyes,
We need not wish them luck,
for they are lucky to have each other,
their brotherhood complete in its duality.

The Boy who is madly in love,
Hears and sees neither.

Casino Royale

The cool breeze as you step
into the room.
Your eyes, with a glance takes it in,
the knowledge that the room knows
Knows you are here.

The old whales, they stoop over their chips,
the young and fab, want to bed you.
And yes, she arrives.

She who is yours simply because you’re you.
You’re the inevitable embrace,
and grace,
bodies intertwined.

The demonstration of your powers, your license.
Your own decisions, the life, death, the love.
Its all there. Take it with the responsibility?
No, take it with a martini, shaken.

Deck of cards. Aces
A stare from the Sharp.
You know as always, the fate of the free world
in your hands. And yes, everything ends.

Orbis Non Sufficit. You need to be Bond, just for once, for
the once in a while.

A Lack Of Faith

By the time you were Six,
Your mother told you,
those few stories…

What about the knowledge you held,
to be true? All your youthful learnings.
All those dusty books with self-confident learned words,
What happened when modernity
stepped into your life?

You found your faith unable to cope
With the fear.
That this century has provided.
And yet you know His name.

His name which echoes in different languages
Everyone knows Him.

What about I?
My mother told me no stories!
What little I learned, I gleaned from Grandmama.
With her rituals and how she taught me.

She would tell me that I would be protected by Guan Yin.
When I prayed for good results, for safe passage.
And I’ve got that. I’ve got all that.
Did I really believe in Her?
A part of me would shout out yes.
But only to be drowned again by the learned men, the white suits, the pocket protectors.

How does one lose his faith.
If he never had one in the first place.
Did I ever have faith?
Faith in science? – Bullcrud.
That’s a load of crap. Its everchanging state, its points and counterpoints, its constant need to evolve and better itself.
How can one have faith in that? That which inspires so little faith, that even its own scientists try to disprove themselves.

But to believe… To truly believe. I can’t do that!
I just can’t! I need proof.
Not want. Not desire.
I have nothing to feel faith for/towards/onto.
How I wish I could taste them all,
Just a sample then… A taste of faith. Without the whole need to devote
Mind Body Soul.