“Local Warming (A Minor Tragedy)”

A rather strange take on what I’ve been feeling lately, filtered through the actions of a single day. I’m in a fairly interesting place – no matter how deeply and often I choose to exaggerate the current state of affairs regarding my… interests.


“Local Warming (A Minor Tragedy)”

I greet each hazy early morn’,
As I stand my righteous ground,
Yet I seethe out of my form
Every time she comes around.

Growling, frowning as I might,
Treading over vacant skulls,
I can’t allow myself to fight
This fever uncontrolable.

And once I lose myself among
Mundane faces, mortal toils,
Humming her sweet silent song,
She makes my coursing venom boil.

Shaking, I’ve learnt to make do
(In fact, I cannot stand at all);
And fright’ningly, I’m starting to
Use words like… “adorable” –

This is, frankly, horrible!


“Secluded Surge”

This is the product of my own anger and frustration. It is the manifestation of that harrowing experience where one suffers at the action of an oblivious other; where one cannot voice any displease towards such a situation for fear of breaking especially fragile social bonds.

You have been warned.

“Secluded Surge”

A world and all its sky-born wonder
Sets into the wild horizon,
Dipping ever-deeper under
Tendrils twisted dark arisen;

And all the breathing singing skies
Lose their shallow fleeting tune,
Yet the grasping deep denies
Even secret songs of doom.

All the screaming and the wailing,
Muffled under dripping shroud;
All the dreaming and the failing,
Powering the silence loud.

Thus, a world erradicated
Before even taking root,
Left breathless and suffocated
In a soundless flood uncouth.

Not unlike this dawning dark
Is the path that I have chosen;
And suffering a single spark,
I writhe and drown… in my own poison.


“Eye of the Storm”

I’ve been meaning to write lately, but my head’s been crowded with a few other projects I’m actively thinking about and trying to materialise. I wrote this because I felt like I’ve been neglecting my own thoughts in the past few weeks. So I took a break from responsibilities in order to vent over here for a while.

Do enjoy!

“Eye of the Storm”

Like a soothing summer breath,
I inhaled her searing smile,
Etching deep within my chest,
Through my darkening exile;

And the sacred crimson rivers
She allowed once more to flow;
The frailty of a faded shiver
Begged me to never let go.

Thus, the savage scarlet sea
Simmering under my shell
Phased out of a fantasy –
I stood strong… and then I fell.

Through my dormant fingertips,
Velvet seeped oneirically
And I began writing this,
So none could take her from me.

What I feel… she’ll never know…
And I know she’ll never feel
The warmth she utters in her glow
Through those piercing eyes unreal.

And I wish that she would see
Herself mirrored in my word;
And I wish she would see me…
In the way that I see her…

“Architect and Executioner”

I wrote this as a result of a very cathartic experience from last night. It’s so littered with coded language that most could barely call this coherent.

Enjoy! …or try to.

“Architect and Executioner”

‘Twas a boiling summer eve’,
No breeze to sway and to deceive
The faithless plains of the mundane,
The seething songs of the insane,
Paltry toils of small insects –
Waking dreams of architects.

In the corner of the room,
The bride stood silent in her tomb.
Though silent she may have been,
Her beauty did not go unseen;
In a daze did she reflect
The image of the Architect;
And took he forth his lover mute,
That suave and curvaceous lute,
To a place of sacred gazes,
Thirstful eyes and smiling faces,
Where she would be glorified,
Greeted as an honoured bride;
And choirs of cherubs and seraphs
Glowed like embers in a hearth;
Hearts beat closer, warmer, faster
To the web-spin of the Master.

‘Mongst the clamour of the halls
Crowded by the tow’ring walls,
One soul swelled forth with the tide
Following the sacred bride,
He rose above the hazy smoke;
And strange things he dared invoke:
He told tales of wolves and swines,
Lands of chaos, seas of wine;
And he spoke of loving home,
Of severed heads and cracking bone,
The haunting sixty cursed years,
He spoke of love, he spoke of fears.

The Architect did scoff and snicker
At the ramblings of the vicar:
“Art thee but a prisoner
Bathing in the listeners?
Art thee ‘nother Lucifer,
Or just Executioner?”

So the man before the storm
Shifted into liquid form;
And dark waters did reflect
The image of the Architect;
And without moving his lips,
As a strange verbal eclipse,
The image spoke familiar tune,
Drowning the entire room:
“Architect without a name,
Shouldn’t I ask you the same?”



A somber tide of pleasurably constructive apparent apathy. This is what I would call “literary justice”. For some reason. I don’t know what it means…



Murder, murder” – cries a grieving ghost,
Drifting seamlessly out of its host;
And though it pains to bid it farewell,
Eyes speak tales that I could never tell –

I saw bones sink in the filth and muck,
I saw scarlet on the river rock,
Weaving, waving, heaving ‘neath my boat –
I saw the cursed knife, I saw it slit my throat.

Murder, murder” – spelling in my name,
As if they were both one and the same;
The crows know it, they dare call me their friend,
As if they could make me kneel again.

Though my ghost’s drifitng away from me,
I hear the past calling incessantly;
And as it calls, eternal’ shall I listen,
Eternal’ shall I write murderers in my prison.

“Dance Macabre”

Sudden influx of ideas. Expect a few more with the same vibe coming up soon.

Take a look.

“Dance Macabre”

The dance macabre’s drawing near;
Hear the crimson song,
And we shall dance again, my dear,
But we won’t dance for long.

Like puppets on a creaking stage,
Singing sinful suffering
With each and every darkened page,
Like puppets on a single string.

Wreathe my one most ardent thought
In a haze of carnal lust,
Sway and swing and please, do not
Cut the string – unless you must.

Should curtains ever descend
Over this our velvet dais,
It would never be the end,
But the onset of our plays.

The dance macabre’s drawing near;
Let us see if you remember
All graceful missteps, my dear,
And we shall dance forever.

“Tales of Swines, Songs of the Wolf”

My intention with this piece was to take inspiration from the well-known fairy-tale “The Three Little Pigs” of the English folklore and apply my typical twist on it. Hopefully, this won’t ruin anyone’s childhood. For four days I have toiled to create this and I’m quite contempt with how it turned up. It goes without saying that your feedback on this would be greatly appreciated!


“Tales of Swines, Songs of the Wolf”


‘Mongst the shambles of a manor,
‘Bove the forest’s raging clamour,
On the dais of an old hill,
Wails of yore grow louder still.

There was once a family,
Living careless, happily;
Family of sow and swine
With bellies full of whim and wine
And merry younglings, piglets three,
Growing by the old oak tree,
Cradled by the summer’s bud,
Always playing in the mud.

One day did the piglets three
Wander off ambitiously
In the midnight’s twisted cowl,
Following a distant howl.
As they walked the brambled path,
Saw they naught short of bloodbath –
Broken flesh and severed heads,
Eyes peeled wide, yet cold and dead,
Bones that cracked like rotten twigs,
Bile and guts and other things,
Piles of skins and hanging limbs –
Things that once were other pigs.
And the howling never ceased
In the woods of the deceased,
So they turned in ghastly screams
With hearts bursting at the seams
And fled they horror maddening,
Yet howls grew closer thundering,
Breathing bloody in their ear,
Closer, louder, always near,
Always chasing, almost touching,
Always howling, always watching.
Thus, their harrowing pursuit
Came to pass and did bear fruit,
For they saw their childhood tree
Beckoning the fragile three
Under its now twisted arms,
Left bare by the winter’s harms
And they quickened up their paces
With wide grins across their faces,
But at the gateway of Hell
The youngest one stumbled and fell.
Cain was the young one’s name,
Youngest one and the most tame
And as he dropped with a thud
In the fetid blackened mud,
The mourning howls did desist
As if they could never exist.
Broken by the fiendish chase,
The brothers found their childhood place,
The estate atop the hill
‘Bove the wood’s motherly trill
And inside hastily they rushed
And welcome were by daunting hush.
As they walked the bloodsoaked hall,
Reluctantly they dared recall
Of the broken severed heads,
Eyes peeled wide, yet cold and dead,
Bones that cracked like rotten twigs,
Bile and guts and other things,
Piles of skins and hanging limbs –
Things that once were other pigs.
In the silent vile display,
Like a gruesome childsplay,
Like salt upon an open sore,
The howling began once more.


Nine years passed since yesterday
In uncommon disarray,
Yet the manor on the hill,
Devoid of any joy or thrill,
Still remained that day’s thesaurus
As a crown above the forest.
Childhood friend, the tower oaken,
Had been guillotined and broken
And his arms made burning coals
To keep warm the three lost souls.
Cured of any wanderlust,
They grew plump and gathered dust –
Three in number, three a swine,
With bellies full of whim and wine.

In that manor did they dwell
And there did they feast and swell.
‘Til one supper did they gather
To gorge and drink and dine together;
As they laughed and clinked their glass,
The floor beneath the hogs collapsed.
Rising up, each one did say
That each should go and live his way.


The eldest of the merry three,
The proudest, head of family,
Chose to take the mountain path
Far above the manor’s hearth
And build a house of gleaming gold,
To shelter him from the biting cold
And spend the rest of his long days
Drinking his own life away.

Yet, one cruel winter’s night
Storm struck at the golden hight.
The rain poured down against the plates
Of the elder’s plated gates
And thunder broke with raging roar
To the raining drums of war;
And above calamity,
The winds shrieked tunes of tragedy,
Ravaging the golden roof
Of the swine’s palace uncouth,
Clamouring familiar vowels,
Turning gently… into howls.
In the night’s secluded silence,
In a gurgled grim defiance,
The howling bloodcaked winds concealed
The echoes of a desperate squeal.


The second and the middle child
Made his way south, through the wilds,
To settle near the sapphire sea,
To drink and revel endlessly,
To build a glorious house of marble,
So the world would gawk and marvel
At his wicked den of sin
Where he’d hoard heaps of women –
Sultry maidens, servants, whores –
To worship the lascivious boar.

Yet, one cruel midnight summer
Wraith-like clouds rose from the water
And above the sapphire seas
To usher in the salty breeze;
And growing, breaking from afar
In the dusk’s crimson bizarre
The blessing of a summer rain
Turned to hateful hurricane;
And descending upon the house
Of the swine of many spouse’,
Inching closer, almost near,
Roaring thunder made it clear
That no marble can withstand
Those hellish winds above the land.
Brick by brick and stone by stone
The citadel was brought down low
And the sapphire sea turned scarlet
With the blood of whore and harlot.
Winds grew sharp and screamed for hours,
Cutting at the land devoured,
Clamouring familiar vowels,
Turning gently… into howls.
In the night’s secluded silence,
In a gurgled grim defiance,
The howling bloodcaked winds concealed
The echoes of a desperate squeal.


The youngest brother of the three,
Fond of his late family,
Unlike his kin that chose to scatter,
Remained tending to the manor
To rebuild and to reforge
All the life those howls did gorge –
The howls of a distant yore,
Bleeding wounds of a dark before,
The carnage his young eyes did witness
When the woods suffered the sickness
Of that twisted godless night –
Memories that growl and bite.

All is quiet on the hill
And the silence deafens still.
The forest mother mourns no more
The childhood tree, the oak adored;
And a wooden brambled path
Leads to the estate of wrath
Where Cain, the youngest, dwells alone
On top of his dear father’s throne.
Yet, under the moonlight’s mist
Lay horrors from the black abyss –
Bloodsoaked halls, both fresh and stale,
Faces twitching, bleak and pale,
Mangled broken severed heads,
Eyes peeled wide, yet cold and dead,
Bones that crack like rotten twigs,
Bile and guts and other things,
Piles of skins and hanging limbs,
Things that once were other pigs;
And if one dares look again,
Those things begin… to look like men.

In deafening silence serene,
The Wolf lurks anxiously unseen –
Cain’s laughter haunts mount and shore –
The howling begins once more…