Thursday, August 31, 2017

Now What?

I sit here looking at everything; nothing. I heard you were looking for something. Was it your soul, your inspiration, your heart? What is it? Tell me. I lost mine a few years ago, in between Gower Street and Grafton Way, perpendicular to a body covered in white sheets. I lost mine outside where we used to live, close to Chalk Farm, when a police officer's description of murder by domestic violence resembled a song lip-synced by Taylor Swift. I lost mine every single time I passed a homeless congregation sleeping outside Dreams (The Bed Specialist). I lost it when I finally understood the tragic irony.

Go ahead, do tell. What did you lose? Was it your sanity? I lost mine too, nay misplaced. If I bothered looking, I'll probably find it hidden amidst the lies: this is rather interesting; yes, yes, but of course! Now, the truth is, what I'm really thinking is: butterflies and leprechauns, what does it all mean? Oh wait a second, I smell gasoline! And before I realise what's going on, I'm on fire, I'm burning, and there's no way out. I made this bed (unlike the homeless man on Tottenham Court Road). I made it, I lied in it, and while I did, I lost who I was. Poof. Gone. Like Harry Houdini's elephant. That's alright, I'm sure he'll turn up eventually.

So the question now is: how do I get it all back? Do I put posters up on trees? If I do, what should they say? "Lost Soul: Please Return To Owner."? It's a long shot, too many months have passed, but I have to give it a go.

I have to.

Wednesday, May 24, 2017


I'll never get used to waking up next to you,
clothes on the carpet; your jeans, a faded blue.
Your smile, piercing through the still of the night,
and I'm sitting here, trying my best not to write.

But then it all comes back, triggering déjà vu;
the minute I met you, the moment I knew.
Your arms wrapped around me as if I'm home;
no longer on a stroll, a wander. I used to roam.

I put my hand on your chest so I can feel it;
that humble heart glowing in the dark (sunlit).
It doesn't speak but I can hear it talking,
or maybe it's just me, maybe I'm sleepwalking.

Softly we chat, serenaded by the projected stars.
For three years, we have been making memories: ours.
I close my eyes, and you don't think I see it, but I do.
You and me together for another ninety; they flew!

Friday, February 10, 2017

New Home

It took us five months - one, two, three, four, five;
two wild bees buzzing without their sugar hi-gh/ve.
Us two and the boxes and suitcases gathering dust;
we hear you, we get it, settling down is not a must.

What is, is riding a jeepney in Manila and its mundane,
on the thirty seventh floor after a fourteen hour plane.
What is, is you and me on our own private sandy beach,
driving through El Nido on a motorbike, a helmet each.

You and I, we tend to live like there's no tomorrow,
like the minutes and the hours are not for borrow.
Peter and Wendy in fictional, magical Neverland,
sucked into a vortex, up to the knees in quicksand.

You and I, we don't live like everybody else and that's alright by me;
life does not come with rules - we are, we are, we are free.
I love you, in the end that's all that matters.
Grab my hand, let's go home together.

Wednesday, November 2, 2016

I Knew Before You Left

I knew before you left that I would need you,
the boyish smile that can save a world from war,
a tree from deforestation, a species from extinction,
a heart from forgetting to breathe. Mine.
Yours beats through a shirt from afar.
Dear Pirate, are you using a compass
or the North Star?

I knew before you left that I would crave you,
the marmite lips that I never wrote about,
on a road trip in between the mountains,
and the bushes on the forest floor. Mine.
Yours elevated in midair, to catch a bear.
Dear Pirate, are you still here,
and if not, where?

I knew before you left that I would miss you,
the sirens in the background calling our names,
and you, with me, ignoring the hustle of city life,
because we're here, right now, it's time. Ours.
Yours and mine, perpetually lost in each other.
Dear Pirate, I know you're gone,
but there is a lot left here to discover.

Wednesday, July 6, 2016

The Kite

I look at that kite in Hampstead Heath,
the green green grass beneath, and I wa/onder.
Is it flying on a tether colouring souls
in this bad weather? Where would it rather be
if it could soar high and be free? "Tomorrow",
she tells me, "I'll cut myself loose, whatever
happens, there's no excuse. Up on a mountain,
down by the lake, sipping coladas
and a milk shake. I'll meet a wanderer,
he'll take me away. I'll be his muse,
and he'll call me Mae. Together, we'll sail
down to the south, getting lost
through word of mouth. Yes, yes, yes,
that's what I'll do, I'll start over
in a new land, Australia, even Thailand.
I'll do it tomorrow, someday,
maybe on Monday or on Thursday."

"I'll do it, I'll do it, I know I will!",
she shouted, disappearing behind
the hill.