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.

Saturday, April 30, 2016

Let's Pretend

let's pretend we all know what we're doing:
forget the umbrella, in England it does not rain.
the Holocaust was not even remotely real, wait..
technology doesn't murder the cells in the brain?

the war in Syria is synonymous to making love.
the world is flat, and Aristotle was wrong.
global warming is a myth, it's factually impossible.
of course there's no pollution in China Hong Kong.

racism is a virtue, and white is better than black.
everybody's a saint and there's no such thing as porn.
no one smokes weed, science isn't a business,
Mary didn't have sex, and that's how Jesus was born.

let's pretend we're not all crazy one way or another:
fat is ugly, and zero is a beautiful, perfect size.
the sun still revolves around the earth, and
growing old means growing wise.

Wednesday, March 30, 2016

The Homeless Man Around The Corner

Right outside Chalk Farm Station, a few metres away from the Salvation Army, he sits and lives, half drunk, half awake, whispering loudly to the heels of overpaid pedestrians, "spare some change please?" He asks knowing full well that they could. He begs knowing that most of them won't. He sits and lives, covered in semen-stained blankets, once white, now a shade of light grey, the same tinge of colour he wakes up under every morning of the year.

But he never looks up. I have never really seen the colour of his eyes, but if I did, they would probably be grey too; a direct reflection of the buildings in this city. He never looks up, doesn't do eye contact, like that little kid inside each one of us who accidentally broke his mother's porcelain vase when she wasn't looking. There's one difference though: this isn't accidental. Or is it? How does someone end up like this, in a corner, with dirty hands, downing litres of booze, licking and rolling marijuana joints, begging for money just so he can buy more booze and more joints? Is this the kind of unsettling desperation that he was forced to stoop down to? Probably, but what does that say about the rest of us? How do we sleep at night, tucked in bed, on overpriced memory foam mattresses (or whatever bullshit companies sell these days), knowing there is a homeless man right around the corner, shivering in the cruel cold, with only the pavement floor to support this back?

He lives right outside Chalk Farm Station, a few metres away from the Salvation Army. Ironically, he has never been saved nor protected from harm. I doubt he ever will. He lives right around the corner, and I see him everyday. Sometimes, I buy him a sandwich and a meal deal just so I can see him smile, but he doesn't. Then again, why should he?

Friday, February 26, 2016

No Front Door

If I pause for just one second
go back to carrying you in my heart
running carelessly towards the shore
indie music in the car, the sun is setting
and there's a house at the end of the day
a house with no front door
it's not perfect but it's not this
it's not a rope around the neck
choking the soul
it's not a calamity of sorts
disastrously designed
to expire a heart
sworn to immortality
it's a happy place
found and returned
found and abandoned
where dreams were made
and oh here comes the irony
I could have stayed.