The Box

At first he thought,
Somewhat presumptuously,
That the box contained
All of his words.

He had been silent
So many months
That he assumed that
His thoughts had been dragged
From his lips
And placed into the box.

For what end, nefarious or otherwise,
Well in truth he hadn’t considered.

He longed for the box to be opened
And had tried all the keys he could find.
He had opened hidden boxes before.
Many mysteries had been uncovered.
But this one was stronger,
More resolute.

Finally she came.
The key bearer.
She who would open the box
With it’s intricate carvings and inlay
And release his words
For him to use.

She was so beautiful.
She brandished a small, bronze,
Heart-shaped key.
It had to be her.
It had to be…

The key slipped in the lock.
It turned noiselessly.
She lifted the lid.

He peered in.

The box contained nothing.

But not just nothing;
Less than nothing.
A void-less, soulless, sleepless nothing.

And too late he realised
That the box was not a box of words,
His or anyone else’s.
It was a box of silence.
Complete silence.

The lid closed
With the slightest of clicks.
Footsteps faded away
On roughly hewn cobblestones.
The ages gathered.
The box remained silent.


This small wooden boat,
A dark stained rosewood,
Rides this wave of doom,
Of rising guilt.

We are perched precariously aboard.
Every time I reach out to touch you
It is out of fear. But the bruises I leave
Are dark with infatuation.
It seeps into your skin
Leaving its discoloration
for a week or so.

But once again my feet are predictably growing cold.
Water seeps into the boat and we are sinking.
You are sobbing thick disconsolate tears.
I try my best. I take a hold of the oars and pull.
The wood comes away in my hands.

Finally though, after many years,
You take them in yours,
lean down and close your eyes.
I do the same and the world
is suddenly dark.
Quietly we survive.


Life is a concrete sex embrace
wild with stars.

A blind secret,
dark as holes in the sky.
Stiff. Yesterday’s decayed women.

Free from joy and desire;
Almost always love rots men’s hearts
as only it can.
It is the colour of the young.

Pierce me. Bleed me. Moist with your kiss.
Warm. Cold. Think. Kill. Die.

But dazzle my peace,

wild grief

Your wild grief scares me.

It flows from you like
so many liquids
and pours hard and fast.
I intrude on it,
like stepping in milk that isn’t mine and
treading it into your carpet.
Back and forth i trudge.

Like a great beast
in the final throws of death.
That great gold spear that
pierces your lungs and
up it comes.
All that bile and froth that was hidden.
You are no longer who you were.

And I, unable to reach out with my hands
and take your shoulders and calm you
with all that mass of hair
so tangled and forlorn,
slink away to nurse my own.

It is quiet and faint and
will always dwell
deep in my heart.

On waking up, having been sleeping with myself.

Nine children in the bed
when I woke,
in various stages of rest and unrest,
growth and hormonal experimentation.
(You’d think nature would have
perfected it by now. But she’s only a mother

Each of these nine children,
soon to be young men,
some too soon,
faces dulled and blurred,
ambiguous and angry.
Despite that I knew
that everyone of them
was me. I alighted
with a quiet gasp and slipped away
leaving myself behind
nine of mine,
they slept
and slept
and slept.

Note: This is an exercise I found on this guy’s blog. It’s called Three Word Wednesday. He chooses 3 words and you write something containing them.
These three were Ambiguous, Nine and Slept. It’s meant to be on Wednesdays I know but I’m a do-your-own-thing, rebelious kinda guy :]