a selection of words …

sonho

Where once we were a confusion of language and culture, isolated by the sea, I woke up one day in your dream and fell in love with your poetry.

My pygmalion

I saw her in a dream once,
In a city we both didn’t belong to.

She was a foreign language,
Beautiful to listen to,
But a mystery.

Time knocked on the door,
Like death’s shadow.

I didn’t want to wake up,
One more dance, one more kiss.

But she was already gone,
A memory of something unreal,
My pygmalion.

untitled

We journey blind through the black sea,
Like the forgotten leaves of autumn.
Not wishing, not hoping, not thinking,
Just drifting, like an itinerant zephyr.
The unsustainable silence splinters,
With the thunderous roar of some memory,
And the horizon breaks on her heart.
Every morning is like a new star born,
A quiet rainbow of the soul coming to life.
Here lies love, once just a dream.

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Your star,
Twinkles in my eyes,
And I get goosebumps,
Every time I am with you.

What’s in a star?
A thousand suns?
A thousand lifetimes?
I see your cosmos.

amo-te

Her kiss
My temple
City of Lisbon
Moonlight by the sacred sea.
She bathed in the cool fountain
My misfortune to be lost in the sand.
Touched by her naked feet
I love you, she sang.
An accident
The collision of earth and moon
Consequence of being.
Life and death
Duality
Her happiness and my sadness.

untitled

You,
Portuguese mud,
Moroccan dirt.

Me,
English filth,
Indian scum.

Uprooted,
Displaced,
Shipwrecked on one another’s heart.

It was paradise,
If only for a moment.

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We are like rusty, tired old trains tattooed with ineligible graffiti abandoned by their god and left to die hopelessly. One day we'll never see the sun again.

The silent night keeps the secrets of the stars and the moon hidden from an absent mind idly wasting time pottering in an empty corridor of incomprehensible desolation. The occasional roar of the wind wakes me up. It's time to sleep and dream.

Millions of stars tumble into me, as soft as the air. I think of nothing but their graceful magic disappearing into me.

I smoke a cigarette, like my granddad did, outside, in the cool air, still, interrupted by the occasional fly, thumps of civilisation nearby, the odd chatter, sirens blaring, cars coasting somewhere. I try to make hoops like my school friends did all those years ago. I don't even smoke. It's something to do. Each draw tiny suicides. How to conclude a night like this? With a cold beer. This is as much as I know in this moment. This is all I can understand.

Our lives gather the detritus of alleyways behind houses.

There's nothing romantic about life. A train burning through the picturesque countryside in haste is absent of timeless stories. it's merely a vacant vessel full of vacant souls repeating itself endlessly, never tiring of the same routine in resolute belief that it is heading somewhere important. It will never free itself of the rail.

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Want you, always,
Though isn't that impossible? Nothing lasts, they say,
Life is death.
But, true love, you,
My sweetheart,
Refuses to be bound,
By nature.
Forever is as real,
As a Sunday morning.

Seasons

You rattle my soul,
Out of its mournful reverie,
With your lipstick medicine.
You are summer to my heart,
Spring to my grey autumn,
A sweet interlude to my winter loneliness.

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Green apples fall,
from ancient wisdom,
and land on death,
like ash.

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Anchored,
On the deep sea’s bed,
My heart.
A wreck.
Unsalvageable.
Alive with the descendants of my ancestors.

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The echoes of my past,
Bounce within the hallways of my heart,
Whispering in the late night
- Like a dream -
Scripture that is lost to history.

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Old lovers linger in
the shadow of our
subconscious,
as if in limbo,
waiting to be remembered,
immortalised in the surreal.