Queen's Lane Coffeehouse

 

And as walled chestnut pure,
Restricted imagery only secure,
Where the broken ones trade
Teacups and hearts glass made.

Steamed air from brew machine
Or precise miracles of caffeine,
Breathe counter born contribution
In hearsay or polite conversation.

Yet, of the shop in street corner
Soul lies not in beans however,
Rather ladies with skirts unfold
And sires who fondly behold.

Lovers, whose wishful eyes lock,
Let crescendo of wordless talk,
And loners, desolations surpass,
Gaze from behind the wineglass.

What’s sorrier than any woe?
For those who come and they go,
Comes who(ever), times cleave,
Because people always leave.

Writer's block

Opportunities galore
In a blank piece of paper,
But tall tales are short
Impressed on skyline.

Ironic to take it ironic
Turnabout is fair play,
Book of passing dreams
Stargazes a retrofuture.

Of shepherd, of nymph,
And other mismatches
In flip side couplings
Fancy befriended me.

As water pals up earth
Smear us with clay,
In plastic of plastic art
Opportunities galore.

Moon-worship

Incandescent aloft
Eyes past chimneys,
Atlantis in starry sea,
Watchful of valley.

O heavenly eremite,
Hard to sail ground
Share secrets but,
Why the otherwise?

Ghost of the tree?
Is but unreal lover,
Her tearful lashes
Are so for beloved.

Orchard scarecrow?
Eats not, neither sings,
Dispels, to whom
Dewy hay is manna.

Clueless I see you
Mirrored in the well,
As reflected rays
Flick back at me.

Caught Offside

He: Looking at you right now, it’s only fair to bet that the player you once were is elsewhere.

Me: Ever since I mastered controlling things around me, football fell victim to my own rigour.

He: Controlling a football is only possible on the field, not from the sills of your airy castle.

Me: A margin of preference is what left to decide the discourse of action and words, eventually.

He: You talk of preference but my halcyon heart knows better than to buy your words.

Boyish Messianic Complaints

Mother,
Do not touch my stuff
Do not move it
And do not tidy up.
As my possessions,
Touch imperfect,
Are bubbles to your touch.

Found is your touch.
Let’s make the ripper
Lost in the known.

For the very own sake of it

Clearly this is not my lineament. The ad-lib ideas and spontaneous kinks are far from something appropriate to be “blogged about”. Thence arrive to the finale where I offer my blood in exchange for foreignness to my own practices, in cases such, Blogging. What’s with blogging anyway? I’m certain to be comparatively better at snogging and hogging instead.

Stained history permits me to spoil even more desires, even more wells; so it ought to be safe to unleash this shrimp of a claim that within myself, as presumed, I find naught of any treat to anyone. I, therefore, rightly reckon to stick to Plan A, best players for best positions, and consecrate my humbleness to poetic mirage only, yes? *wink*

Poetry, I can ace any day but prose… drat.