The heart duet – to Abigail



How is a heart supposed to love,
held captive in a bony cage
for a crime it didn’t


I knew that when I met you
I had become a fugitive.
My heart only ran that fast
from the cops


What does it mean?


And my heart
Has not felt such a pain yet.
There is no word that exists
in this timeline
which is able to describe
my pain.
Perhaps somewhere far off,
in a distant future
they have found a definition for it

Confession to my typewriter #5


I think I am slowly beginning to understand this feeling, this anxiety from within. It feels as if my heart is itching, an itch that cannot be relieved or cured until I sit down in front of you. 

You are drawn to me, and I to you, but what is it exactly that you want from me? Do you expect great things of me? Sitting before you is the only way to cure the itch before I go mad and can no longer take it, to fight the urge of staying away

Emotional currency


It is said
that actions speak louder
than words
and at times
words speak louder than actions.
What if the words “I love you”
or “I miss you” were erased,
disappearing like sand grains
carried into the wind
never to be caught again.
It is said that talk
is cheap,
but words
still have
emotional currency
that can’t be traded
on stock markets



Everything has become so quick,
so easy,
done by the single push
of a button.
Which makes me question
what we actually do for ourselves
on this machine riddled earth
besides breathe,
shit, piss
and die
and make good fertilizer
where good trees will grow
on bad souls.
Everything has become instant
in our war against time –
instant coffee,
instant death,
brought about by a single push
of a button

Diminishing colour and soul


They try to kill my soul,
but sometimes I’ve got to be hard,
like diamonds dug up
in Sierra Leone.
Dissociative identity disorder sufferers,
not sure which side
of the colour spectrum
we belong to.
Offspring between white and black,
too much melanin in my skin
to be the master race,
but dark enough to carry
slave genes

The fight against time


It’s Saturday again, the living are celebrating the lives of the dead

“Can I have this one?” I ask

“Nah, that holes warm for a cold one” said the undertaker

Strange how the clocks keep moving and we keep dying. We offer a minute of silence for souls of the departed, yet the clocks keep ticking disrespectfully. We try to own it, govern it by planning our schedules, assuming that we are it’s masters. Time laughs, knowing that it never belonged to us. Looking back on life, time was a premature ejaculation that came too fast