I took a ride on a train

Sat there, I couldn't help but feel disconnected to those around me. There's only so little communication one can expect in this city, between yourself and those who are strangers to you, but on that train- it became uncanny. All the more so because, though I felt my esteem dwindling, I was as much a part of the mechanism of escapism from societal kinship as any other. Another person within the two rows, ceaselessly searching for something on our phones, or tablets. Wired in, to music or movies or some other strange form of story telling that contrives to expel our own oration. Silence. We sit in silence, with things in our hands, trying to project a personality by our apparel or else our apparent lack of care. Do not make eye contact. Do not sigh. Stifle your thoughts, your laughter, your breath.
   The future looks bleak to me, the day the inanimate devices in our hands hold more concern of ours than the warm organism that lives to our left and right. What is their story? Why are they with us, on a journey that propels us both, underground, at such incredible speeds. For what reason do they sit so silently, and do they understand how morose the environment becomes when the one is just a one; a digit, rendered unthinking by their lack of true person-hood.
   Put down the device in your hand, please, and claim back your real life.

A few leaves from the last of another book

The past week or so I've written a few things, that brought me to the end of another journal full of, what are now, simply, memories. I've made the decision to make this my last book of poetry, so that I can concentrate on my ambitious novel, and my other final project- a collection of short stories.
If I see to it, there is a final book of poetry, of which I am a third through completion (a collection of which the blood has been let from the Romanticist vein) and so, perhaps as they emerge they'll be posited here.
If I'm never heard of again, I hope you were made to feel something.

A Flower

From the flower of love,

that blooms in the hearts

of two bodies-

as two halves of a rose

are destined to unfurl

when kept,

or taken,

apart-

there came the dance

that pollinates

and, mingling,

intoxicates the air.

A seed is dropped,

a child is born.

No,

not born.

The tragedy befalls

that Death;

whom in being himself deceased

is made blind,

should fancy to take

for his own

a child,

or two,

as a cherry should

blossom and bloom

to be plucked

before it is ripe

by the hungry bird.

But death,

my sister,

is impotent.

It is never so final

as we thought.

Energy, you see,

does not disappear-

it merely transforms,

and the spirit

that made such a tiny heart

beat

came to belong

in the body

of a plant.

There were orchids

for the loss of your child.

Fragile, they grew

and frail they died.

But there still remains

the cressula-

which, though I’m never there

to keep,

survives

to grow wild with vigour

and energies unconfirmed,

and further,

uncontained.

I shall cherish that plant

that came from your heart

at the cost

of your losing a life.

                                                                             *

It feels like dying

inside,

when out the window

I see the sun shine

and tempestuous wind

hurl leaves like

proclamations of love

and life.

Oh, to be out again

and travelling;

free from trepidation

and responsibilities-

an animal in the wild

pouncing and laying at leisure.

How I wish

to ride this youth of mine

into the burning horizon!

                                                                             *

I feel a burning

in the back of my throat

and my stomach;

a burning,

and a churning

and as I spit,

swallow,

vomit,

I feel the lining

of my stomach

cut and ebb away

so that

the more I drink

the more I bring up again.

And with every mouthful

comes the dry retching

and then the sudden

heave

of sands across

a dune of pain

and up it sprouts

then out again-

my blood pours forth,

my heart shudders,

and I die a little

for my own satisfaction

in sobering up

and soldiering on.

With consciousness

comes catastrophe-

the stupor of drugs

brings ignorance

but the hard

pilgrimage to sobriety,

truth and beauty

leaves one

confounded, entirely

and then

torn asunder

                                                                                   *     

Everything blurred.

I take a look

at myself

and wonder

“Is this what

Hell looks like?”