Story of his Muse

Ranting, and rumbling, seemed better suited for the tumbling

Grunting, in which his stumbling manner would aid his wailing.

And then writing seemed the way to stop the smarting anger that,

pushed Back in struggling, from the raping that their bumbling debauchery

Left his waking. Lost in the numbing, he succumbed to crumbling and took to mumbling to settle debts with his whining. Until he chanced on pen and ink

To commence his fighting, against their shoving; to leave scars in bleeding,

Mouths in moaning, and eyes in deep tearing.

Now, he wields power to settle the arguing,

Uses maiden paper till it is whoring

his stabbing to the preying bodies hawking for a living.




The Mural

Some days I look for a room with a view

Away from eyes that would look.

Some nights I take her up to my room

So I see the view

From the bed she’s wonderful

From there we see everything









“I’ve seen your footprints and where they stop.
I walked them, I lived them,
I am an oracle on the view
I chase your timeline in a flashing zoom
There is no -ess-cape”


I know where you’re going; I know where you’re from.

I’ve seen your memories;

I have taken peeks behind your curtains,

And trekked through the coolness of your secrets,

In my boldness I have lived them,

And I have seen things.

I have seen your past,

When you craved flings of fearlessness.

Your lifeless mess was peerless,

You were stewing in friendlessness.

That was you; that is us.

But you were never breathless

Never toiling,

Never doing like now,

You were motionless and emotionless.

Now you’ve taken a turn,

So I look on to dark times.

Where you’re chasing rhymes to fit the nerd’s age,

Where you’re cool once you know the wordless.

But when you were young your numbing was muse;

I saw the humming pull your lips,

It cut your words and stopped your speech.

So now you hide in speaking verses,

Now you need action from this restlessness.

You crave action when you’re a heartless mess,

Pitching tents in your wilderness,

In binds that keep you sleepless;

While playing house with your loneliness.

But I’ve seen your fears; they are godless,

So who can judge you, faithless?

Who can judge, you’re rule-less.





Let’s live by an oath of life,

by the sea.

With the never ending sounds,

and sand.

That fills the heart,

and weaves back.

With salt and brine

that sways minds.

Lets stand at the bay,

Stand on endless lines of lies and half truth.

With footprints,

salty on loose lips,

Our feet caked in time.

The sun will wander on our pretence;

Watch us follow each line,

Sigh as we mimic steps

Pout as we change sides.

Till every step is ours,

Till not an inch isn’t our;



Existential Crises

Who is she?

Who is that nude siren staring back?

Hips taut and nipples stark,

Lips soft and heart tough,

Mind set to take her right.

Who am I?

Why is a shy maiden staring back?

Lips rough and heart short

Hips sly with hidden spots

Aching and ready, willing but lost.

And that little voice that haunts me speaks;

She’s freedom and you’re decay.

She’s evil and you are the way.

It slither’s commands to make me stay;



Just turn away.

And just like that, I am easy to sway.

With words that sooth my fear and trembling,

It reaffirms my ethics for each day;

Desire is just a hooker’s play.

So fear the siren and her filthy ways.

Live in honour on the maiden’s way.

For God,

For Country,

For our holy days.

As I walk away

To the house with voices,

From the home of dreams

Where there is silence,

I only barely wonder;

Who was she?

Who was that nude siren staring back?

Hips taut and nipples stark,

With soft lips and a tough heart,

And eyes so alive they shone so bright.

Why is she not me?

Why am I not her?




DELUSION; the ugly child

They Notice,

While searching for pity in his heart,

The image of an ugly child.

A once vibrant son

Whose eager eyes went up,

And came down with salty tears.

A child who saw lines

That took him apart

And left him pieces

Of a delusion.

They notice a CHILD

Whose faith has left him.

Whose life

Is a distorted visual.

Whose heart

is worn out,

And shattered

Whose mind lives with contorted image

of a frag bearing mirror.

His face is ugly,


So he is bound by faith.

To a reality he fears,

With a hate for his deities,

And love for his demons.

He could embrace this superficial ode,

But since he lacks the cunning

He stares in blind desperation

at his never changing fractured visage.

They notice the child,

Who tries to look fine,

Who seeks to justify his zig-zag image.

They notice the child

Who stands in the shadows

To avoid his own image-







Our drawings are wild,

Our writings are wicked,

Our first pages vary ,

But the endings look flat.

The rhymes are splendid

The chimes are restless.

 Isochronicity speaks loudness,

But the endings sound flat.

Your mound is tender,

Your folds speak texture,

Your rocking is tender,

But your ending is flat.

You smell like cider,

And you taste like nature.

But the truth,

Tastes bitter.

Looks blinding.

Smells putrid.

Feels like fire.

Sounds like thunder.

So tangent,

So close,

That I wither and run hither,

From All My Senses.