top of page

reflections on the past, the present, and the primordial

I spend my time waiting for things to happen. I am obstinate, and I paint walls red with fear of change. I eagerly yearn for rapture, yet I am inseparable from my crib. I harness lust for life from pages written by the dead, doing them the courtesy of forgetting all by morning. I commit to a new vehicle of fulfilment with every blink of stinging eyes, with no regard for the sanctity of a blood oath. If the screen goes black, I spit on my reflection after I admire it. I am horrified by the look in my own eyes. Not long ago they were made of death, the pupils nought but pinpricks in a conglomerate sea of awareness-abdication. Now they are promise, and zest, and youth, and confession. I believe there are parts of me that are truly changing. I am waking up inside myself.

You burned into me unsalvageable desire. My flesh is scorched, arteries and veins ravaged (they hang in the space between what was and could’ve been), presenting me with my own sin – I must look it in

He is passion, etched desire, Unacquainted with a sun or moon Familiar with the pale fire That is often gone too soon A day without my love in arms Is waiting for the sun’s expansion That’s taking pro

i. If you’d ask me to recount my night I'd proclaim limb-raveging ecstasy, moon worship and indignant blood-letting. The kind of business that has to hide from itself because Lucifer and Dionysus belo

bottom of page