spring clearing

polish our kitchen


they gleam with






clean up the mess up

from the floor

made by the cat



clean the air between


clean my dirty hands

in the presence

of your purifying look



i’ll clean the mirror

for you

and as I wipe that

reflecting surface

i’ll wipe your tears

and ropes

of hope



break my mug in the


pick the bits up

only between early morning

and the town outside the

silent windowpanes starts

its engine



bit by bit

we clean the kitchen

bit by bit

breathe in sliding

socks over marble

and sinks with running


finally the plants

have something

to drink



spring clearing

your soul,

all those dirty bits

like beer cans

left behind by tainted


don’t let them

stay for too long


or the mirror

will get  too




not that i mind

coming over

every morning

to feed the



Dragon’s breath//inspiration




passion feels

like a dragon’s exhale

on your skin


when it hits

in parallel lines

below your brows

you light up like a match

and burn





and that’s when the mystical


hands take control

neurons breaking

synapses connecting



electrical inspiration

whether it be

with a pen

or brush

or C majors

you tailor

your own little



with your essence

a fountain fuelled

by the immeasurable

past future,

space time

the giant climb

before you



this newborn


born into


born out of your


born along

the arborescent


ridges of your fingertips

and time



look closer and

you’ll mirror


of yourself



mystical speaking

she spoke of realms that exceeded the world and overflowed your mind, sprinkling evanescent glitter on the top of your head with the tips of her fingers. Open your mouth, she’ll place a pill behind your tongue; and it spreads like acid as she speaks of these unknown worlds, mouth shaping sound after sound oh so majestically. now you’re in a state of bliss questioning whether space even exists or does it only appear between each blink of her incandescent blue lashes. she speaks in elision and you also wonder if she’s got human blood flowing in her veins or does she come from mercury or some other elegant planet? one moment or another you’d expect her to turn taciturn, lean over, slice your tongue in half, pocket the pill and replace it with sugar.

you want her to teach you how to see sunlight under leaves or count how many arteries a tree has compared to a wave because you feel like she controls it all, controls how strongly the wind blows or how many clouds there will be today and what shapes they will form. but you know she’s most enchanting under an eclipse’s moonlight or early dawn, barefoot on your terrace. jaw slightly slack, eyelids too, and of course, speaking. you’ll make her soft fur accent into a pillow and fall asleep, dreaming of all those faraway realms she says one day she’ll visit.

writer’s block

Words may seem like the silliest of little things, stubborn and childish. At times, I find myself dragging them out by their baby fat arms, maybe even bribing them with fresh obsidian ink. Trust me, their heels stay grounded on the floor of your palate, shoes squeaking with friction as you pull and pull. When it gets worse, they simply cross their arms, huff out vehement resentment, then with their oddly shaped bodies, trot under your tongue. Now you’re really in trouble, because you can’t reach for them there. But you know they’ll come out eventually, they’ve got to eat somehow. You’ve given up, you’re sinking into the leather armchair, thinking, maybe you should just resort to making armchairs instead of writing. Practical, and there’s no hide and seek with them. And as you slowly fall asleep, with your jaw open, the words crawl out, one behind the other, and place themselves onto the paper, with infinite patience. With an ornate smile, they let themselves down, their spine going clack..clack..clack like the sound of a retractable pen being clicked.

wrong train thoughts

Overhead clouds and the girl sitting opposite me seems slightly unamused with it all. With how her reality is painted or with how the foldable table juts out into her thigh unlike a beautiful thorn but more like a polished rounded nuzzle of a plane. To her, I think, the world is made out of aluminium and tectonic plates, never close enough to clash. Grey and incandescent blue striped of a hoodie might just be her comfort zone- more than the trees sprouting out of the ground (maybe a bit too violently for her taste). She seems like a person that would would have coffee without sugar because extending her hand across the table would be more of a nuisance. She doesn’t seem very excited about her end destination, or maybe her mind’s too haywire to allow herself to figure out which emotion to splay out (so she settles with none). On a second thought, she’s ruminating. There’s hurt, and fear of broken piano keys, scared of hitting a C minor. Maybe she’s left a love behind. Definitely not on the wrong train.