TheBareSheet

a girl may shed tears for those parted by the sea; accumulation. a lady can sob in veins of wine, sweeten and settle his sorrow. a woman will weep when a home leaks, leaks of a future ne'er to be.

i used to hate my dependancy on words. until there was a time, when I learnt: no, words do not flow in my second set of veins. no, words lie not in the marrow of my bones. no, i’m tired of charades because (second) guessing is no match for my conscious existence. and i do not latch to the past that i will forgive; i do not cling to the present that i know i shall cherish for so long. pray tell, when has expression become our obsession for possession? and when did i come to beg for a naked waking from solitude? but simply since what returns from oblivion returns, and gentle passings are incomplete if not remembered, words bloom

polaris! the pulsing atlas, river roots and catalyst- I oft romanticise your parade on the ravines of my palm. yet heed, when the silent sands birth a storm, stoppered by a transparent hour. it is he, guilty of every other lie, blinding of every other home, murderer to those whose life could not be stolen twice. raising a falsified throne! but souls, bare or not can fall in undiluted dreams; so did I attend the spell of an angel’s voice “journey to where you belong-" polaris guide me! I shall bestow her three anthems: a paradox, caesura and the moon graced with all our confessions. by my faith, by my youth, and by my meagr

a musician dreams of an asphodel. in his octave mind he comes to question the absence of the third chord. in his search for her silhouette he no longer notices the morning bird’s song was flat on the treble. he then calls abuse on the static inspiration when traipsing to the checkered interludes; falling in between, feet unstill. he catches her comet tail when fluent staccatos betray to offbeat stuttering. his irregular symphonies were indentured as her chorus. (now nothing but her name was music to his ear, a three syllable kiss: temptation, daughter of death)

id like you to think of me as your silence, be it your ten-fold paper crimes or the unsubtle breathing that unburies the dead. filling, with visions of deepest mourning or tomorrow’s splendour, for all i care, i will neither be where you tread or where you lay, but when you close your eyes. so allow me to be responsible for this absence that you will neither trust or fear, this single unbroken line that returns and returns to this page of spotted crimson until you wonder if its meant just to be parallel.

wistful thinking for an overcast day, choke the rose for my breakfast tea, aerate the brass for some rust on a virgin door; could I not leave, a flustered fingerprint? white washed walls upon bleached silence; fists of dust rest upon ornamental curtains; a whiskey bottle pauses the ballerina’s clockwise rendition. a return address was overdue, leave the residential reality- bridged only to an upstairs room- reeking of the conscripts, massacred and mutilated.

i’ve seen statued saints with bronze for their eyes, dry pools and long lashes, an angel’s disguise. prayers of centuries for drowning cries, winged words for winged prophets, who know winged lies. the sea saw welcome to a future sealed, kinslayers forget, they were meant to yield. fathers fluster when sons on altars kneeled. atoned tongues still spit sins as weapons wield. they cling to the dearer life after life against the wine dark tide that dyes their sorrow. shepherding pearls to the bare shores in strife, drowning in the weight of the empty woe. if a crucified corpse can be our God, how can somber-smiled madmen be s

(i wouldn’t mind) to be partners in crime; we’re civil disobedient, i’ll be your retrospect and you’ll just have to think ahead in our atmospheric entry. (cheer’leading’ your dreams) (i wouldn’t mind) romancing over your conspiracies; since i’d rather to be one who occupies your silence, the same way you’d see your reflection in my eyes. i only wonder if my palms matches yours. (and i only worry if tender words be too soft) (i wouldn’t mind) subsiding into the cocktail together; because the imperfect sobriety will cushion our fall, forgive our drunk neglect on the worldly respons

would we be partners in crime? avenge those who tread water for living? untame the somber widows? or would we just reside within the rhetorical absolution? (we're no vigilante) would we romance over each other's anonymous conspiracies? weaving for gold and betting on growing odds? hoping for some coherent proximity in the shadow of sanity? or would we be an inconspicuous exit in the search for fallacies? (we're you and me. we are.) would we subside into the cocktail together? visit during the frequent sentience? sleep on those religious crises? or would we be the same, but not quite? (I weep with questions, do you feel me?)

mama, daddy, there's something i have to there's something i want to there's something i should... no, sit down and let me try again. there are wasps in my head and they're stinging, singing about the ways I've messed up and you should know, before i go on, that i didn't mean to, i didn't mean to! i just didn't know how to make it stop once it started. there are accidental crimes and conscious sins and i have unwashed hands; likewise this confession has no end. i have to, i want to, i should adopt your ignorant bliss. polish my image, framed on the wall until it leaves my skull, my un-oiled joints, and a fragment of my tooth, just so i ca