If you’re a poet (in the traditional sense), you’ll probably look at the stars with a hint of melancholy and pen an ode to an imagined lover looking at them in a different city. You’ll write about how you share a mystical connection with her that transcends the boundaries of space, but sadly not time. […]Read more "Acid Rain and Obsidian"
There are times when the thought of living fills me with exuberance. I think of poetry, art, and music, and an insatiable hunger to create seizes me. But then, there are times when the thought of existence distresses me and fills me with the dread of a pagan on Judgement day. And though I look […]Read more "On ashen pools and fire"
There’s a threadbare patchwork carpet in this motel room reeking of stale cigarettes where I spend my days. I stare at its once lurid colours now aged and coated with dust. I’m naked and lying on crumpled sheets next to a girl I picked up at a greasy spoon. The patchwork fascinates me in so […]Read more "The patchwork man"
Maturity is the death of naïvety and the birth of a listless or tortured soul. You start seeing everything either through a lens of apathy or turmoil, and the once distorted world strangely becomes clearer. You then see bedlam and destruction for what it is, and you either give up or suffer some more. You […]Read more "The dinkum oil"