Rains threaten to descend   at odd hours. There's more spark to white lights   across drowning skies. Sometimes they blink and bleed  ...

It takes an hour and a half to reach the little kid. The one who adulted into a comic sense of escape. Picking up little battles under...

In some twenty minutes to another year there comes a bicycle ringing, panting, between true intent and some real terror of losing a day's...

Conversations live within him. Juiced upon tongues, picking his brain at the seventeenth hour of the day. Such twilights are slow. Slower...

There is something that is to be found in November nights like these. My senses receive more. Dark, dried, heavy footsteps peeping at few...

Rooms travel with months; darker ones to the east and the slower ones to the north. Liquid times. Liquidated times. So, the move. One...

Few hours, like these, end with slow doubts. Louder cracks. Damn the frozen art of acting sure. Listen in. Of that impatience. There's...

There are days that feel like years without a night's sleep, rolling along drying burying themselves within heavy tunes and mighty words,...

I have wounded myself through my windings. Across little spaces, into little lives. Strangling the hills in search of love, I have...

Reading is an art of the mindful, she had put. It was about words this time, not about the fruit. She darted on the words that she knew, ...

Coup de force by fire of some fists, looking below a pair of stingy lips into trials thrown at old, bending knees; newer minds donning...

Tonight it is about a clock and a few loose talks. It is about breaking sleep. Acid trying to rinse, brush, paddle over drugged nerves....

Circles bleed. Closing without the centre. Coming of age. Mocking like the tip of an uneasy sum. Too heavy for the pen. Empty. Like most...

Heights do not matter when you bare into water and stories; both dripping drop by drop, a word by word in passing. Like, today, when you...

The window has been a secret haunt for life this dark winter. Like it takes me into space of webs and nests, dry pipes and palm fronds,...

Fear grips where spaces melt into overdone forms and talks revolve around prickly bears like excess oil spilt on regular canvas. The...

Exhaustion Or Urge, some strange narration and a terror of birth-pains. Remembering a wild coupling within a mid-spring afternoon that...

Lights get darker at mornings in my eyes. Greying curtains and my turning of the screw into afternoons that rain with it, this dreaming...

I had read a lot of poetry tonight. Searching for truce… This moment. The next moment to come. Every moment. Not the vain kind but one...

To sleep in time I talk in real that real in the dream holding me to time on uneven keel; things were never enough but not with this. Not...