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infinite never after

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untouchable unknowable a realm that endures only when unreachable a portal that caves in at the scent of mankind a beauty only felt when veiled from searing eyes buried scriptures disintegrate when but kissed by a pale moon ray will-o’-wisps — those coy children coddled in the cradle of decay a face of a Diptych only exists as the antipode of its twin forever facing what it cannot bear once they fold to touch — palm to palm art is concealed, slips into dream if polar bears and penguins were ever to wed then the magnetic field would surely fracture centre turned outside -in north and south would become  neither when two gales collide who is the first to dissipate? clashing and propelling each other skyward igniting thunderstorms and hail could one mystery lay bare another without being exposed to the ether? could a mystery persist once revealed? is a skein simply string once untangled?   could a heart continue throbbing once laid into foreign palms? could mist stay as vapour on...
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Song Lyrics to “Incense for a Ghost”

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Her skin, it shimmers like a moonlit river In the cold midnight air, hear the echoes of her timbre  Feel her goosebumps rise, but you’ll never touch her ’Cause what is a shadow but a mirror of its lover? Her eyes are slits carved through her fortress Amidst the mist, glimpse her wolven glimmer Only the full moon knows her, not the crescent or the gibbous ’Cause what is a lover but a wandering spectre? Love, love can’t be extracted by force It’s snuffed out by pried-open palms Love, love can’t be won with wrested arms It’s a flame that only brings warmth freely If this heart was a muscle— (oh wait, it is) Then it must be overgrown from this endless labour Climbing up the hill to offer incense to my goddess Only to be crushed each dusk under the weight of the boulder But love, love can’t be extracted by force It’s snuffed out by pried-open palms Love, love can’t be won with wrested arms It’s a flame that only brings warmth freely So I would set you free, but a feral can’t be tethere...
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The Revolt of the Synapses

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a buried atavism a guttural howl, a preverbal babble— limbs thrashing without command a depleted engine hurtling its vessel at irrevocable velocity a bottle of neglected lightning imploding wires chafing against wires, inextricably entangled— past the last switch homunculi treading in grey matter, wrenching neuron joysticks from their observation tower axons and dendrites in Cold War, soldiers defaulting, storming to apoptosis myelin stripped— frayed circuits exposed, prisoners of war starving in cells, seeping fumes of dissociation an invisible governor’s thumb bearing down, pressing— a pit spiralling downward, outpacing rising synaptic firing endless motion, eternal stasis
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The River of Eras

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Surely, there lies an immanent core anchored somewhere in this chasm? It swells through roiling hills and vales; a ravine veils the riverbed’s repose. But Eros conspires with the Fates, hurling me headlong through rapids— lovers surge in turbulent throes, and somehow, blindsided by a precipice— I plunge,     limbs flailing,         into the throat of Styx. What’s the point of being prized a rare pearl amidst the silt, then pulverised on a whim—devalued: sham nacre, stripped of lustre? If love is a river, let it be known: I am ravaged by your torrents. Intensity is the counterfeit of love; an undertow that never quenches. So bathe me in gentle streams: Everglades. And if my love takes eras to cascade, at least she’ll run clear, winnowed through cypress knees— a quiet bedrock, unyielding.
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