Attempts at stringing together words as art.
It is too late to think of books and words and plans and stories and histories and his story.
It is too late to drink the bliss of a couple of green stubs of stilled pain.
And it is much too early to get a head start on morning traffic.
The city is fast asleep
Would that I was there too.
Inbox.
Breaking promises
Unread Merriments
Filling Spaces
Remove me from this thread.
Attempted Flirtations
Aborted Applications
Lost Supplications
We’re meeting this weekend.
Electronic Ticket Receipt
Five Star Fanagolo
Oh look, pretty shoes
Book me on this flight please.
Summery Sunday Afternoon in Amsterdam
Boats laden with love and laughter
Quickly pass
Tourists wearing cameras like neck chains
Dragging big bags through crowded walkways
Looking for some place to call their own
In the city
In themselves.
I wonder, Sweetheart,
If you knew,
That here where you
Flutter your eyelashes at swish red Ferraris
And then trade in your wallet for a fake dee and gee,
while the bhangra sommer vies with the qiraat
in an absolute harmony of chaos
A revolt once happened.
Like,
people died and stuff
you know.
And even if you knew
I wonder if you’d pause
In your fluttering and flashing
Just for a moment
To wonder why then –
and why now.