“April is the cruellest month, breeding\ Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing\ Memory and desire, stirring\ Dull roots with spring rain” (TS Eliot, The Waste Land, line 1 et seq.).

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rainy streets

rainy streets —
endless tires
run the
endless roads,
cannot be still,
as if cars
are like prayer,
and must be
done ceaselessly
somewhere.

smiling faces,
hidden agendas,
fatuous men
in elegant suits
working the crowd
with compliments,
like waiters
serving wine.
radiant lights,
shimmering glass,
and women
in sparkling gowns,
disperse views
around the room’s
elevations and angles.
your wry smile
was like dark crystal,
both shadow & light —
affecting, yet
deeply sombre —
both attractive
and repulsive.
loneliness is purer
than feeling conflicted.

where is home?
you all only
think of yourselves;
therefore, this
is not home.

biking home

aquatic nights
streetlights like embers
burning reflecting flashes,
washed over
with distorted waves of light,
shades of shadow eyes
under umbrellas
and trenchcoats
filing ‘way
in the darkness
like momentary showers
off tree leaves
in the wind
upon my face
upon my windows
defending
the sanctity of home,
actually quiet intensity,
nothing is so safe.