A weary wanderer gazes
At the scape that marks,
In permanence, the divisions
Of the land, sky, and sea.

The ship tips in sways
While the bow lobs
In varied feats.

Waters swirl and surge,
While the ship jerks
In unsteady tempoed rocks.

He listens to them slop
And swish against the hull.
Placing his right hand
On metals protesting in oscillation,
Turns and tosses
A floatation device.


Posts That Told

She lingers in unwritten reveries,
In melancholic keys of nostalgia,
Stored in glassy skies
Of tapering biotic aromas
Of hidden wickery treats.

In defiance, she’d ignore
Guide posts on trialed
Threads of treading feats
And seditious nets
Of accidental passings
In regretful inquiries;
Inconspicuous dazes
Of suspended beams
Lost in transfigurations
Of undecipherable glows.

She could only remember
A single sign that read:
“They will always need.”

Avoiding Realities

In hueless coiling shades of morality
Our love is defamed to colorless ideologies
In flux because of a dualistic comorbidity.

Classifying our hands clasped in amity
As existential debacles of debaucheries
In hueless coiling shades of morality

Prismatic bleeds seeping in dream’s reality
Of our love’s gently gripping dexterities
In flux because of a dualistic comorbidity.

The love I held, for you, written in austerity
Unshakable truths to displace the currencies
In hueless coiling shades of morality.

Plastic cups joined in clandestinity,
Filled up with disillusioned remedies
In flux because of a dualistic comorbidity.

We could have admitted it was nothing more than amorality
But, we, I, kept trying to justify it as the chase of infinities
In endless hueless coiling shades of morality
In flux because of a dualistic comorbidity



In retrospect, I should be grateful, for
Being given the chance to witness
Scribbled extensions of undeciphered labor
Where figures posed in lines of incantations
Were carved as illusory caves of historical
Hysterics on breathable skin parchments,
For I’d have never learned to transpose
The technical aspects of applying those
Specific pressures on zinc plated panels.

I should be grateful, that the time I spent
Searching for healing lines weren’t wasted

Then why is it that I feel like crying
When I think of how I’ve lost images of his faces
When I still have these lines that fill up these pages
Even while silent whispers of finally met passion’s keep calling my name?




Then the susurrus of familiar experiences soothe
In how it didn’t seem so vastly different in its birth
In each of those misstroked hatchings.

But it was.


In stalled exhaling vents
Of stagnant airs ment
To shred transparent sheets,
The host stuffed of fleets
Of encumbered flaking ink
Seeks parchment to sink
The same release it once
Sailed in currents of parses.
Which end will a steward
Choose to push towards,
Which armour? Dipped in gold polished,
Patinaed bronze rusting, or cold
Dusted metals collected for smelting,
Reforged in translucent discarded molting’s.
Fluttering molds of castings casted away
From irregular seams. An array
Of clouds drift slowly in redundancies.
Stifled inhalations of repugnancies
Halt the motions of exploration
Of facing disfigured formations
In installments
In lineaments
Of practice.

I Shouldn’t Have Read

Seriously, how,
Was she able to spew words
So, beautifully, next
To each other to describe
The feeling of each

At every turn
There she stood
Radiating in her cosmic glory.
Billows of nebulaic clouds
Shrouds her mysteriously;
Touching almost, if not, every aching rumination,
Mixing flavored words to such delectable perfection.

I shouldn’t have read her writing



Long after the force of recall
It lays embedded in the banks
Of the subconscious.

The mother has withered away
But her eggs
Spawn infant remnants
Of her DNA.
Occasionally found in excrements
After consumption.

Too small to notice
But upon closer observation
You see
Them squirm
In the crevices
Of shit.

I wish
I never

But I would not have
Grown to love
As much as I do
If I had never met her.