Thank you for the kiss — a momentary distraction.
You bought a glow to my cheeks,
brushing my lips with yours — they felt so soft.
You stood a giant amongst the crowd, your words spoke out loud.
Your smile shone like a beacon and radiated for miles.
Spoke with such a soothing voice; you consoled my chastened heart.
Amongst the dinge of the nightclub, you bought forth a haven of tranquilly.
Sat next to you, fleeting glances into your crystal blue eyes, I momentarily drift into the subconscious: to fall into a mountain spring in the middle of winter,
They cannot contemplate that he is a liar because to do so would cast the mirror upon themselves. He represented the world as perceived – a world defined by the doctrine of survival of the fittest at whatever cost and the belief in their superior selves.
They told me that this would be the third world war, ‘She’, they compared to Hitler. They, who have decimated our industries: the revisionist history. Those that will not accept that they own kind or themselves can inflict harm on themselves. And, so they swallowed the lies to protect their self-esteem. Social deprivation trauma…
The blackberry sorbet without the sugar is so tart -
unpalatable to the tongue:
it cuts and bleeds and leaves a wound that will not heal.
Complicity in the lies and duplicity: a balm is needed — an emollient to erase the sharp edges.
Brands appropriation and salvation: heartaches and pain transmogrified into marketable commodities,
We inhabit haunted — vaulted — landscapes. A collective communion -
they feign that they comprehend our fears, that they care about our despairs and anxieties: our struggles: crafted into glossy ads. …
You believed the tree to be dead:
Bark striped, coloured yellow, it stood out a beacon amongst the grey stems: leafless and smooth.
You: to prove you were a man decided to cut it down;
Cutlass in hands, you struck at the bark, but alas, the deeper you cut, the harder and denser the fibres became, even to the point of turning into a diamond glaze.
The cutlass stroke reverberated through your hands.
The skin became raw.
Now you started to think ‘what have you done but alas there was no turning back.
The trial had begun, the journey ‘from…
Some may view my opinions as being anti-British. I want to say it is not. My views represent years of pain and trying to feel I belong. I am tired and exhausted. I have given up trying to belong. I am glad to be alive and to have the opportunity of experiencing life. I am opposed to extreme nationalism because it inevitably leads to the exclusion of less advantaged groups.
Maybe, I am suffering from that degenerative ageing process nostalgia. Nostalgia, one can argue, is at the root of nationalism, the desire to return to a reality that never really…
How can you not worship this?
In the absence of scientific knowledge, they stood in awe.
For this, they created a thousand religions.
A thousand candles burning, crackling, the sparks fly, strike and melts your frozen heart.
Amazed at the spectacle so grand,
they fan the winds of imagination into being.
The eyes behold the expanse, flotsam of light shining so bright on this cold wintry night.
It’s New Year’s Eve. At this sight, lift your arms and take flight — submit to the majesty of it all. With the jewels that crown the head, we are all kings. In…
There are some like me — who write about barn owls flying on cold wintry nights. Whence, they take flight on fluttering wings — whirling the sounds — flying over fields covered in layers of mist — leaving slipstreams in their wake — ghostly figures — that emerge out of dreams.
Some people write about green grass and sunlit brooks — memories of days of youth. Old men and women — the subjects of their fascination — reciting stories that captivate their imagination — tales set on cold grey days and wonderful golden summer’s eves. The rolling mills set next…
Interested in people, nature, science and technology, and history. MSc in Research Methods (Birkbeck), MA Industrial Design (UAL)