My Poetry

The Rite

Her face aglow,
she performs her rite
gracefully, like the snow
in the silver lunar light;
deathly hair, startling eyes,
soul-enhancing
white night purity, necromancing-
nude porcelain skin,
beauty within
whispers of sin.
knowledge sought after
flirting with disaster
secrets held in astral shells
uttered in diffuse spells
the occult- her only master.

 

Wayward Girl

You step out of the darkness
into the light,
then into the darkness again
carrying sapphire light within you-
your inner compass, your greatest strength
Carefree, out of the corner of your eye
you see shadows shy away from your
disarming nature;
you are an unlikely saviour
awakened in serendipity-
you give them freedom to either
spend their existence haunting
or let your light guide them and peel
the darkness without pain
Unencumbered by shadows,
you embrace them whilst
your mind renews itself,
white magic, healing witch, infinite soul
You walk towards locked doors
and pass through them effortlessly
the key is your charming,
revitalisating smirk,
wayward girl,
your obstinate nature makes sure
your dreams live on
and turn into phantoms haunting
new, greater dreams.

 

Face to face

Face to face:
eyes locked,
staring into each other;
seeing your reflection
in the dark lake of her iris.
Hand on hand,
praying together-
not like those bible verses preach-
no, praying to the abyss,
hoping it won’t swallow you whole;
understanding at first the irony
and then the futility
of your act.
The abyss has black, wet lips,
kissing you to compensate
for chewing pieces of your soul
and spitting them out
because they were bittersweet.
Now they are soaked, slippery,
no longer sticking either in or to the puzzle,
which is why you don’t make sense
except in the silver,
face to face,
where your soul is pure, whole,
and wholly unleashed.

 

 

November

The vanishing words,
the vanishing images,
the shedding
of selves like autumn leaves;
of withered lives on wrinkled paper,
dust off the treasure chest
in the desert, next to a snake
regenerating its skin
polished,
your porcelain appearance melting into
the undefined
does the new verse annihilate
or build you?
perhaps it is the fading portrait
either that, or the smile in between
either that, or the infinite encounters
with the ineffable

You write, you cross out
another identity and over to
another vision.

 

Wither

I gather tokens of death
in appearance fragile-
with thorns hidden
underneath.

A hand reaches out…
Blood lingers
on thin skin.

Petals burn,
Smoke intoxicates:
you breathe it in.

Funeral words carved
in marble skin-
paralysed,
you listen blindly
as they inhale life.

 

Awaiting

Butterflies spiralled in silver –
petals sleeping on the floor
Eternally moved, I quiver-
Tenderly pressed against the door.

 

Evocation

There was nothing left except
her orange blossom scent
in the air,
her skin cells
on the conspiring blanket,
the energy he was feeding off
and her seraphic aspirations,
elegantly penned
in a forlorn diary
before her concept
of the world expanded into
postmodern depths and
her self-concept became
a liberating fluidity
of thoughts and impulses.
She’d been through a lot of
symbolic suicides before
deciding to resort to
serial homicide.
She loved herself, yet
with every touch
there was a numbness-
perhaps in her multiple deaths
she was seeking
life,
perhaps in her metaphorical murders
she was seeking an escape from
pseudo-life.

 

Catatonic state

I feel your ashes
like quicksand
I’m sucked into
so I’m standing still
trying to enjoy the view.

 

Unfiltered

Clinical,
surreal emptiness.
Chocolate-scented wood.
Smell of new and
non-alcoholic intoxication.
Life as art for art’s sake.

Neon light flickers as you blink
infected by dizziness.

No longer tone-deaf to the harmonies
of your own soul,
you don’t shrink for someone else to grow.

An invisible corpse in the plastic bag
winks at you from the corner-
madness, it grows
in sanity.

Lifeless but intense:
you don’t pray for another,
you prey for yourself.

 

Of the senses

Nostalgia persists
soft as velvet,
sad as lace,
sweet and intoxicating
as your scent sliding down my spine.

 

The fragrant city

Through the alleys,
scents of old seasons
scatter in the urban rain.
Guided by our roots,
the long-withered dreams of being
seem to be reborn from pain.

 

Extensions

Extensions of me
are ramifying under
your skin.
Does it hurt when
I unravel your bloody
nightmares?

 

Echoes

A silhouette merging with the unknown-
all that is left is your breath in the cold air
as you exhale in slow motion
I speak in shadows
you respond with spectres of light,
haunting every word-
making sense of it all;
I choose to live in the now,
but if you whisper in my ear
I will take decades to figure out
why you chose to disappear
that day
when I ran down the hallway-
gargoyles staring from above-
for a second I thought I could hear
another set of footsteps
under a different weight
even after I accepted your longing
for the other world.
The statues were grotesque,
threatening, demon-like in thunder and lightning,
and still, I hoped that hallway would never end
just so I could hear the sounds again and again
and convince myself they weren’t merely
echoes of my footsteps into the unknown.

 

Bloody act

Two bodies wrapped in an embrace
in a tomb of glitter and frost-
the blood lingers while they kiss,
then it pours gently down the legs
of the cradle surrounded by mist.

The lake of tears reflects the moon of sorrow-
trembling, fluid, unpredictable;
their red eyes locked, unblinking,
while eternity replaces the morrow.

 

A smile among ruins

All dead things are
resurrected by
the phantom smile-
you conjure it
when the world collapses:
that lovely,
foreign yet familiar
equivocal smile
your mind translates into
life and pure hope
stays engraved in your memory;
through mirroring,
you borrow it
and unknowingly pass it on
to someone else-
that is the sweet beauty
of connection.

Alternative ending:
that is the bittersweet beauty
of apparent connection.

 

Purgatory

I feel
I love
and then I hate
my fire and my demons,
just before I see your celestial smile,
you icy devil
bringing me back to life,
to an illusion of life
which I knowingly accept as truth.
My complicity – dispersed in time
until it is forgotten
The world – no longer in black and white
it burns
I am only ashes.

 

Afterlife

I taste the blood of dehydrated lips,
admire the inadequately plucked eyebrows
above vapid black circles surrounded by
red on translucent white.
Dark hair, itchy like rope
against my neck,
frozen hands trembling,
features particularly thin:
I forgot how to live,
yet I laugh at my own sin.

 

Puppet show

Manipulator,
those frightened girls-
your marionettes are so sweet;
I point at the strings
inserted in their brains
but they won’t look up,
they’re in a trance.
Doesn’t it get lonely
up there? Nevertheless,
your show was
a guilty pleasure
I appreciate you
as an artist and
I would despise you
as a human being
if I didn’t understand
what guided you-
unfortunately, I do, so
I’m just going to pretend
that you don’t exist
so I don’t have to see
echoes of you
inside me.
I would rather keep to those
who bring out the best in me.

 

Your faith

I never confessed this but
your faith helped keep me
anchored in myself
whenever the currents started
hitting from all sides.
I just wanted to thank you
for still existing in my mind.

 

Vis-à-vis

Quiet and frozen:
A reflection approaches
within the glass
I seek meaning
in a meaningless palace
of empty eyes and half-hearted smiles.
Statues of philosophers vis-à-vis-
From expresionless to sad,
their face changes mood:
they empathise.

Neither pain
nor pleasure felt-
My mindless mind projects
conflicting eyes
filling a void of thought and

I succumb.

 

Identity

Fragrant relics of the heart
crown you as the faerie queen over
the land of forgotten whims
with a rose delicately smothered in your hands
and pearls hanging from your pale thin neck
A down-to-earth Snow White is what I see in you
when all that matters is how you see yourself.

 

Elevation

When the past smells like dust,
its enchantment is upon you no more –
The future glows in sight
on the island of apples
where you dwell feasting upon eternity
and upon everything born out of a lavish ground.
everything – corporeal and incorporeal gathers up
and you find yourself among nymphs, dryads, witches,
heroes, mad men of both virtues and vices,
unearthly fruits and singing crystals,
air and waters sprinkled with glitter,
and a crystalline laughter travelling with the wind.

 

Memories of snowdrops

The burning snowdrop-scented incense
smells like childhood dreams
It smells like us
in a cornfield
or in our garden
laughing and uncaring
just before I went on the hill
with my kite
laughing,
uncaring.

 

Pulse

You lay on the river shore
Half awake and spellbound
by the water flowing
rhythmically,
echoing the flow of blood,
mirroring the flow of time.
Illusions bewitch
your mind and body
into acting strangely-
The past creeps up and there you are:
Standing still in the infinite white space
of children unborn.

 

You and I

I miss the scent
of your whispering skin
at night
when you tell me
you love
how I can be both
you and
myself
in my head.

 

As below, so above

This place is a crypt and, while you’re all waiting
to go on a long journey,
you admire the countless tiles
bearing the scars of the bodies in front of them-
their motionless, diffuse shadows
never making you wonder what they hide
for, as you see their faces, you can tell
you’re all made of the same substance
and that’s all that seems to matter down there,
on the Underground platform.
No mystery in your flesh and bones,
no light at the end of the tunnel,
no heaven to dream of inside the collective tomb,
you are in this together.

 

Polarising

You were polarising
in so many ways,
your vibe confused the hell out of me
and the ambivalence made me
uncomfortable;
I met you at a time when
I didn’t know the best things in life
are somewhat polarising,
they tend to be transformative,
with their stimulating powers
I liked transparency, I still do,
but you had authenticity,
your polarising effect was
not a play, not intentional and
definitely not ill-intentioned
it was pure and unfiltered and yet,
despite your genuine madness,
a friendship couldn’t survive
Now it’s far too late,
And, albeit more mature than back then and
still sticking to openly blissful patterns,
I’m also tinged with jadedness
in the human relations sector

 

Addiction

My shadow on your wall, crumbling
as you wake up from the shivers
entering you like poison-
slowly, from your mouth
passing through your stomach and
limbs in silence,
then back to the skull
By the moon, my black hair
is cast behind you,
Your illness now caught in my spider web.

 

Discrepancy

As you weed them out,
slowly, the space between
you and the other you-
both mental concepts-
will become smaller
and smaller
until they merge into one
at which point you will look
around, filled with life,
no longer tainted, you will
open your eyes and see
the discrepancy is abolished
but so is everyone else.

 

DM, 2014-2019. Not in chronological order.

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