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Synesthetic Dreams : The wanderings of the heart through my poetry and photography

Preface This book is a humble attempt at sharing some of the poetry i've written over the past decade or so. Like many artists, I find myself both shackled as well as liberated by language. Language is but a tool we use to communicate with each other, to express ourselves and to hear the expressions of others. It is the filter through which we interpret the reality around us, and as such, different languages imply the existence of multiple realities for all of us. The plain truth is however, that reality is the same for all 7 billion plus of us, for we are all the same person and of the same conscience. It remains my deepest idealistic desire that one day humankind can come to this realisation, that our differences may be nurtured as complementary, mutuallyexclusive competences for the gain of all. I hope that the role of the individual in our global society grows, that people find their freedoms- liberties that have been denied to many of us by the elitist world within which we live, a world in which religion , the educational system and pro-upper class politics enslave the better majority that make up the working class and the poor. My poetry and photography are an attempt to capture these wispy hopes, and to share the moments of inexplicable beauty that I am exposed to on many occasions, a beauty which I wish everyone could see and be a part of.


About me My name is Allan Mutuku Kortbæk and I am 24 years old. I am half Danish, half Kenyan and have lived around and about for most of my life. I grew up in Kenya, the son of a now retired Kenyan Colonel and a Danish mother. I spent the first decade of my life on a farm on the edge of the once vast Mau forest, a resplendent oasis of natural beauty that inspires me to this day. My family and I then moved to house in the plains around Lake Elementaita, by the foothills of The Aberdares and for different reasons entirely, I found a tremendous amount of unspoiled natural beauty to be inspired by. I attended an English private school, where my mother works as a teacher to this day. Out of all my many homes “Greensteds” was probably the place I felt most at home-amongst students and teachers from all over the world. I graduated from Greensteds in 2005 then moved to a small town at the Danish border with Germany where I studied Economics for 2 short years before my adventurism led me to the mountain town of Leon, Northern Spain where I lived for a year before coming back to Sønderborg for another year. I left Sønderborg for Copenhagen in 2009 arriving with an empty pocket and a heart full of hopes. My last year in Sønderborg saw me quit my Economics degree as I grew disenchanted with the Capitalist world and my artistic nature could no longer bear the weight of the dissatisfaction in my heart despite the fact that I was a top student in the discipline.


I also felt more lonely and more out of place as an individual of mixed parentage in Sønderborg during my last year there than i'd ever felt anywhere else in my life. The international friends that i'd had in my first two years of living there were almost all gone upon my return from Spain, scattered around the globe like grains of sand in the wind. I found myself in a sleeping conservative town where being a “foreigner” was looked down upon generally. Being half Danish, I felt hurt and rejected by my own people. In my years in Copenhagen I have come to love this country and my people, much as I love Kenya and Spain and most countries in the world really. Copenhagen has given me the creative space I needed to condense my ideas and to do the things in life that make me happy- painting, playing music, writing, meeting people and gazing up at the passing clouds. I currently study Communication and Performance Design at the university of Roskilde, an institution that is very dear to me and whose morals have helped nurture my artistic nature. I write music reviews for the Copenhagen Post in my free time and generally I try to capture all that I can from life's passing moments- whether through writing, photography, playing music or simply smiling at the passing sun. I don't know where life will lead me over the next few years, but i'm open to all manner of avenues and exits on the colorful superhighway of synesthetic dreams that my life has become. I hope you enjoy my book. Feel Free to check out some of my other work at the following locations www.mutukz.blogspot.com : My daily updated blog containing my poetry, art, philosophy and photography www.thepapayamag.com: Roskilde University's online magazine, which I edit for. Inspiration : Bob Dylan, Edith Piaf, Aryton Senna, George Jung, Carl Jung, Timothy Leary, Ken Kessey, Allen Ginsberg, William Ernest Henley, Dan Turell, Albert Hoffman, Jack Kerouac and Aldous Huxley.


Categories Life “If music be the fruit of life, play on. Give me excess of it, that, surfeiting, The appetite may sicken, and so die” (William Shakespeare)

People My friends, my family, my dearly beloved. C'est fou c' que j' peux t'aimer, C'e que j' epeux aimer, des fois... Si jamais tu partais, C'est sur que j''''''´en mourrais... C'est fou c' que j' peux t'aimer, C' ést que j'e peux t'aimer... d'´amour (Edith Piaf)

Conformity I have no sense of nationalism, only a cosmic consciousness of belonging to the human family. ~Rosika Schwimmer

Travels Anyone who wants to know the human psyche will learn next to nothing from experimental psychology. He would be better advised to abandon exact science, put away his scholar's gown, bid farewell to his study, and wander with human heart throught the world. There in the horrors of prisons, lunatic asylums and hospitals, in drab suburban pubs, in brothels and gambling-hells, in the salons of the elegant, the Stock Exchanges, socialist meetings, churches, revivalist gatherings and ecstatic sects, through love and hate, through the experience of passion in every form in his own body, he would reap richer stores of knowledge than text-books a foot thick could give him, and he will know how to doctor the sick with a real knowledge of the human soul. -- Carl Jung


For my mum, Karen Mutuku, my sister Patricia, aunt Inger and my Godmother, June.


I Don't Know You

Even though I have never met you, I Love you, every last inch of you. I love all 7 billion parts of you. Visceral life, comme il faut. Stuck in the flicker of a moment in the colour of sound Love, your rippled reflection


Life Oh Life Life is transitory and mercurial from where i'm stood. It's hard to take it all in at once, the laughs, the cries, the drama, the passion the disdain...from ear to ear grins to heavy heartedness. That's the beauty of it all though. Diversity. This is for the sole pink rose for miles around, a dreamy chorus of beauty in the cold decadence of my garden and for the most beautiful sunrise I've seen this year. For my friends and for the petty details in the sensory bombardment of life that make it worth living.


Spring in me It's days like today that encapsulate life in its full radiance, minimalistic and astute, spasdmodically amiss. I'm a million miles away, above the clouds, beyond the stratosphere, at the heart of the smiling sun. I wish I could stay here, evanesced and sheltered for all eternity. I'm amazed, stunned Shuttled away in all infinity Where Only the stars dance In this maze of Eden I see no dreams Just people, tears and laughs I'm charmed by the green hue of it all It soothes me as it prances skywards I'm baffled by the perfect eloquence Shuttled, stunned, amazed In all infinity where only love roams


Inundated I’m inundated with love for this mise en scène The trickles, so clear, so simple so clean. The heavens have burst the banks of affection And unleashed their content with sullen dejection There’s a stream beneath my expectant feet Soft, slippery…smooth as sleet My heart flutters in tune with the falling drops Tamed, charmed and seduced by their delicate hops There’s a symphony in motion, whispered and delicate An overture, morose and sedate Amidst bleak and unperturbed winds I slide Shocked, inspired and mystified by the tide I’m inundated with love for this mise en scène The decadence, the loneliness… the clarity of the unseen The blackened skies churn with a venomous disposition And here I stand, inundated with love for this juxtaposition.


Crestfallen A repugnant aroma wafts cantankerously through the almost sacrosanct purlieus Tis the smell of my own flesh and sweat that are killing me. Materialism rears its ugly head doing her bit to stain the milieu. And so I sit and stare inevitability in the face with the eyes that see Meekness, in all her mildness has long since jumped ship Dexterity, arcana, will and whim now all lack quip These stanzas form no shape, no certainty no mien Yet the words splutter fort as if hurled from hands unseen


What Would It Mean ? What would it mean if one could hear the flutter of a butterfly’s wings on a dreamy day ? The whispers of warm winds into tranquil bays What would it mean if one could paint the wealth of a generous heart ? Or the thoughts of a beast struck with a poisoned dart What would it mean if one could hear the screams of a tree chopped down ? The strains and dissatisfactions of a polluted town What would it mean if one could paint the passion of a dying saint ? The tranquillity of peace ever so faint What would it mean if one could see these things ? Empathize with their instances as human beings So broad the gate, so faint the canvas


Spasmodically Amiss Spasmodically Amiss, tis bliss that contaminates my ears, The Doldrums are far and gone, The ship’s now chartered by dapper verve and witty zest Musical monotones we beseech, steadfast in the face of savagery and mockery A spinal column tingles fleetingly to the manic riffs of anthems of stature, A soul sings to unseen ears; an overture of peerless proportion At this very instant, sound is the only constant, the sole soul solace And I wish with every last atom of life within me that I could linger in this abyss for all eternity.


Lamplit Orange Burnt orange in winter And the smell of smoking embers The kiss of a cool mountain breeze And the sound of a rose petal falling through the air Or the purr of a cat content on velvet feet The dance of a moonlit shadow in the wind Or the simple stroke of a brush upon the canvas of life

These are few of life's endearing things.


Pitch Cream Out of the night that inspires me, caramel from the humble beginnings from pitch to ditch A great many tidings come to mind, simple, stately and innate, a cure for the perennial itch The world outside is frightfully shallow, a mere convalescence of a bygone existence The trees have folded their pride, held intact on the sole premise of the prospect of transcendence Out of the day that constructs me, beige from the genesis of rustic existence A torrent of emotions surface to the canvas of thought, sordid, structured and irate The moon beyond is delightfully impassioned, a startling incandescence of vivid yet timid contrasts The leaves have bent their stately status, wrenched from their roots by the decadent beauty of the cold


Oil Paint in Water The night before Christmas We're descending towards the earth and the sky is a wonderfully enlightening shade of misty crimson that seems to dance on into all eternity. IF I could choose a moment to be stuck in for all of time, it would probably be this one, high above the curious white patchwork of clouds a few hundred feet below me looking at the glistening aluminum wings of the plane on the first day after the winter solstice. I don't care about what lies beneath the clouds but still it interests me as I sit here feeling the force of the plane descending, that beautiful feeling of free fall that is so wholeheartedly unfamiliar yet so indescribably elating. It seems as if we're flying into the pink / crimson horizon, as if in a flash we'll be on the other side of a new and utterly different world of warmth and colour. And even as the crimson fades and its beauty is relegated to static vibrations that linger ever so daintily, I still love this place, and these fleeting colours before me, and I wish that everyone around me could feel what I feel, for all eternity


Merci I'm warped in a world of unbridled optimism, past the shades of grey and the decadent shadows of the cold. Life here is warm, resplendent, even wondrous. I wish with every last inch of me, every fleeting nerve end, every tingle hair end that I could linger in this wistful abyss for all eternity and beyond. I'm alive, awake, astute. My friends and my loved ones are beside me, their hearts pulsating energetically in tandem with the staccato rhythm of my own. Life at its most candescent. I was hooked by the sensation.


Between The Sun And The Neon Light A poem written in the haze and maze of urban craze. To the sights, shapes and sounds that form my reality comes my benediction.

Take me to the pitch of night Yonder where skies part and bluebirds take flight. Wake me from these staccato dreams Shuddering, plundered, ripped from their seams For in this bliss of Eden lie no truths, just sweetness and light Through the looking glass I peered Upon a portal, dim, dwindled and veneered The revolution be not mine if dance I may not Waylaid, wanted, villified by the pitch of Camelot


Dans Mon Jardin

The falling petals of spring’s candescence brush gently upon her skin Radiant like the swerve of a swan on still waters Subtle to the touch, their bloom is the subject of sheer bewilderment, Their benediction to the warmth beyond, a well-hidden jest, Oh how flirtatiously they do twist and dance with the whistling wind The falling rays of noon’s subtlety kiss her flush cheeks gently and sedate Poignant like the twisted tips of jaded winter twigs Serene in being, their fleeting movements evoke a stare, a stun, a wonder The purlieus is drenched in peace, draped in quietude Steadfast against the blue beyond, the encroaching constant of the pitch


IDITIT Pass- Present- Future I could hug this sullen silence Dazzling and morose like the early morning’s sunrise I’m full of peace, blushing like the red savannah earth in the moonlight

I could embrace this tranquil silence Distant and faded like the dusty twilight yonder I’m inundated by feeling, flushing like rose petals on the clearest of days I could kiss this beautiful silence Divine and stately like the starry night sky I’m overwhelmed with love, burning like cedar embers in the black night Man has been lent to life, not given


A Laudation To Music Spartanly nonchalant I stand, entombed within the cryptic catacombs of Sound Music piques the unvarnished ardour of my soul, ubiquitously abound A tango tangent I beseech, one to which I’m inescapably bound To House music I disburse my benediction, your panache renders me spellbound Music: the currency by which my blood percolates, The finance of my joie de vivre, to which my heart vibrates To the radiant rays of your illimitable sunsets my gaze fixates House heaven, I stand servile at your gates


Outbound on The Wings of Love Outbound on the wings of love Inbound, my heart, my reality, my absurdity Quaint, saintly stately simple like a dove Complex, intricate, distinctly disparate like causality Outbound on the wings of love Inbound, my soul, my destiny, my tranquillity Faint, daintily decadent, drab like concrete Intertwined, delicately spun. SoignĂŠ like carnation petals Outbound on the wings of love Inbound, my passion, my adoration, my incongruity Impatient, acrimoniously impassioned, plain as chess Imbued, finely stitched. Soft and serene like the falling snow.


For tonight we live For tonight we have seen and dreamed and danced, with more intensity than in all of my wandering days in this bewildering maze of life. I love every minute of it, every second, every passing particle that is part of the ballad of sensory bombardment that pelters my conscience. The air is heavy with the thick scent of campfire smoke, of wet wood that's told its story to the voracious dark. There's a hanging intermittence over it all, it's as if it never happened. Tonight's story will live on, in pictures, in colour, in tapestry, in words, in dance, in the lofty grandeur of a memory set in stone, cast in the continuity of the winds, today, tomorrow, forever and yesterday.


Straddling The Petal Parade Straddling the petal parade Tempestuous and charged, a timely charade Pried from the inside out Penned in stone within and without Shimmering, the windy serenade Tempered and confined, a script made Particular like the petals of a rose Peeved by the moment, meek and morose Straddling the petal parade Temperamental and coalesced, a timely charade.


When The Moment Parts. When the moment is gone and faded with the passing wind, mourn not for it, for I am with you still and I will forever linger upon your shoulder as long as the sun shines upon this beautiful world. Fear nothing, stop at nothing, take nothing less than the most beautiful flower of fate in your dainty hands. Life passes people by as they find themselves scheming the grandest plots and stringing the wittiest tales of self betterment, my friend, be wise and dance with the shadows of the moment you live in presently. Do not fret nor fumble about the ways of the future for they will avail themselves to you as surely as the day avails itself to the dark and wandering night.


The Spring in Our Steps

Pleasantly bemused by the witticism of the morning efflorescence before me, by the blushing bloom of the spring noon. My heart is of a tranquil disposition, lit by the radiant rays of the encroaching glare, like tinder to a match. Bold are the colours and the shadows that structure the crespuscular tinge of dawn; red, crimson, symptomatic, blushing before the dreamy eyes of the sleeping moon. To warmth is the benediction and to the waiting wonders above and beyond. To the caverns of mystique my gaze fixates, lured, charmed, quelled... stupefied. High on the ecstasy of life, The Spring in our Steps I :


The Wintry Morning Mist Out from the depths of the still night Damp, wispy, a haze in a maze of sight The minute is ablaze with a hushed sincerity Lurking, wittily-so, in subtle notoriety The equation lies delicately posed Implicitly poised, a tribute to the night before in an ode Wispy, damp A maze in a haze of light Lies the night, profound and spellbinding to the sight Out from the crispy plumes of the bygone plight Uncertain, senescent. Pearl shaded in a sea of damp grey The stillness is uneasy, disturbed and perturbed by the amber ray The juncture in ascendancy, A staccato chatter through the melting ice Cling is all the plumes can, unfurled, unbuttoned. Purloined by the warmth And so wanders the wintry morning mist, riveted from her roots by the wings of fate A stranger departed, bequeathed.Vanquished and vindicated from the shadow of the night


The Departed Chariots of passion call to you from the heavens, To you, dim and dead in your coffin, clean and shaven Under a summer breeze, bathed in a warm savannah sun you sleep In a mahogany coffin so deep And into the fiery sky you soar, free as the stars that clutter the sky Way beyond the whispers of the wind, o so very high A tale of tales you leave behind, A written imprint that drenches the stained eyes of your kind Under a veil of blackness, a beautiful maidens eyes glisten And within her, the ears of one unborn listen Curiously and unwittingly to the sound of inevitability, to the blunt chants of death Yet to her, awaits a plenteousness of opportunity, to her whose name shall be Beth Under crimson ambience into a white light you commit And upon heavens golden gates you shall knock


Reversed Dimensions

Superlative sequences of splendour, truth, distortion, candour. The words of Edie and the pitch of Eden, the weight of conformity, heavily laden. Shimmering solistice, celestical sensation, subtle be the shades of grey and blue in your dazzling eyes.


Across the expanse Across this expanse out of my window I stare To the fleeting clouds who will my message bear Over the sea and Sahara sands, to the fields of Eden Past snow-topped mountains and misty seasons Across this expanse out of my window I glare To the vivid blues and greens that remind me of you I arch my head towards the wind to listen to your whisper And into it send my own message of love, wrapped in silver


A Process in The Weather of The Heart The elusiveness of feeling, true feeling. One finds it one day or another, and it's magnanimous, stately and beyond description. In the snap of a second turning and writing its history to the world, the moment is gone, lost, vanished as quick as it came, save for in the heart, for there history never dies, never fades. In the heart, it's a process, a process in the weather of the heart.

From the fumbled state of this festive twist, comes the dawn, bright, breezy and bold, a wandering nomad in the mist. The air is thick with ash and fog from the bygone night, a lingering pattern of wispy plumes and dreamy shades. She's in a void, past the trapdoors of perception, beneath the ether, she is the ether, the pale, rain-wrecked grey of the day before. She's knotted into the neatly woven fabric of the night, beneath the flowing seams of the subconscious afore. Her eyes hold the stars of the fading night, the dreams of her forefathers and their kin before them, She is the rain and the drop, the bass, the alto, the nervous, the stable , the yang, the ying, the paint strokes, the fluttering shudder that shaded them. She's the pale, the pitch, the string, the stitch. She's my whole world and i'm but a flicker in the dancing shadows of her moonlit life.


Farewell Phantom Stranger Farewell phantom stranger I wish you well on your saunter Yonder where the valleys grow fainter And the plumes of the twilight glitter. Fare thee well dreamy drifter Be one with your restless flutter At peace with the midnight shutter Beyond this place of rain and chatter Adieu fabled danger I bid you benedictions on your canter Towards the setting sun and the ether Love be your staff, harmony your stature.


Her Eyes Her eyes gleam of silver and gold, Of all things precious, of all things untold. Her sinuosity meanders to form consistent curvature her voice an unspeakably audacious overture. Her long black hair, moves to dazzle one’s mind Yes indeed she be one of a kind. She be not literature, nay not ancient poetry nor fine French wine, She alludes to far a greater sum, to something unspeakably divine So into the treasure trove of a fine set of eyes I looked, Driven on by some distant calling, aye mine heart was hooked And saw I divinity all too divine, symmetry all too coherent Complexity nay simplicity expressed with emphatic intent. Tis magic, nay tis the finest craftsmanship of the Lord above that creates such. The perfection of masterful ingenuity, down to the very last touch. To those whose eyes she meets, come melted hearts, Like choice morsels is the feeling, descending to the inmost parts. And so like hurried waters surges the urge, too epic to purge, Tis but a shrewd dream to have such an item to love to hold Yet the memory of her finesse shall dwell In me till i be old.


The Girl From The North Counrty In the midst a sullen mist I gazed into your speechless face The trepid tidings of times vanished without so much as a trace I saw in your blue eyes vestiges of valour long since departed Vexations of fate, truths that left me disheartened. Into the dawns drizzle I stared, awestruck by its silence The serene subtlety of speed defying the odds of dependable science I saw upon your blood red lips inevitability carved in stone Vindications of trait, potentials I wished I could own In the spartan confines of a mirror I gazed at the pale form staring back The circular crescendo of calamity served on a platinum platter I saw in the nonchalance of your mien, futility and her slammed doors Vociferous notions of hope, frozen waters neath my ship’s oars


The Princess on My Window Sill The sky was pink and crisp, dimly lit by the rising sun, a charged overture that chased the lingering darkness away My eyes were heavy with sleep, my heart heavier still. You sat there, calm and serene, a princess on my window sill. The sun rose, swiftly and sedate over the pink horizon Laurent Voulzy crackled softly through the speakers My thoughts wandered, I was weary in the morning light You sat there still, humming softly to the disappearing night The clouds blushed in love-red tones against the crimson sky An anthemic symphony of colour that sounded the time of day My heart was knotted, taxed to understand such generous fortune You sat there still, expertly carved out of the firm essence of a moment Daylight came and the night was but a bygone wanderer Dawn had done her deed, the dance was complete, the final act concluded My teary eyes stared fate straight, alas this romance would one day reel And still there you sat, fragile and meek, a princess on my window sill


If I Had Just One Wish Had I a wish, just one wish, I’d wish for her to live forever To blossom like the brightest rose blossoms on the clearest of summer days And flourish like the daffodils strewn across a paddock in the peak of spring To coruscate with vividness as the freshly fallen leaves of autumn Had I a wish, just one wish, I’d wish I’d wish to see her live forever To bloom like the boldest desert orchid blooms under a sweltering sky And flush like dune evening primroses scattered in staccato fashion To charm with verve as the fleeting, fading snow flakes of winter


For the promise of tepid nights For the promise of a tepid night The smile on your face upon your delight For the clasp of your hand in mine For the witticism of a split moment stolen from time For the flickers of your blue eyes The rose blush on your cheeks as you sigh For the bond of your happiness to mine For the silence of an isolated insurgence, riddled with rhyme.


I was born when she kissed me. I died when she left me. I lived a few weeks while she loved me. Last night I felt the simplicity of your sacred touch The troublesome teasing of an us that never amalgamated to much In my dreams I held you, in my dreams we soared above all To reality’s dreadful dose I awoke, slamming into it as if it were a wall Last night my soul skipped to the symphony of your sullen voice The jovial jests of the sins of time, of the ignominy of choice In a far away place we kissed, your lips soft and silky as the petals of the reddest rose To a shrewder tiding I arose, one of a stature all too morose Last night my heart chanted mellifluously to the tonality of your aura Times articulate abuse of the faults and frauds of a bygone era On dreamy chariots we raced, the wind our compass, the horizon our tangent To dreary depths I fell, to the shameful regrets of a fool all too impudent Last night my eyes fixated unabated at the mysticism of your gorgeous gaze The utopian taunts of wishes embalmed in a most incarcerating haze On a ghost vessel I skippered, your fine form stood akin, my first mate, my soul mate To David Jones voraciousness we succumbed helpless albeit irate Last night we were one, bound ubiquitously by loves lustful laments The fabricated portends of a non existent surge of foolhardy intents On escapist errands we gambolled, through picturesque paddocks and parched pasture To deserted dreams I veered, clamorously clattering to the horridness of such juncture.


The Silver Sun A crimson dawn I saw, a burgundy foal, desperate and forlorn Life’s in your loins, Life’s over and bygone. Bewildered and bedazzled mine eyes stared forth, Riveted from the helms of their sockets they might as well have hung. A silver sun rose audaciously to embalm the scene in a sarcophagus of sin. Fleeting clouds of miasmic red and scathing orange tinted the continuum Glooms gnashing jaws ripped the suave soigné cotton of my dreams to shreds I felt in every last nerve ending, the plundered plight of time, the sickly sin of man, the ingratiating injustice of ignorance. Aboard a mahogany hull I stood, a wispy sea breeze kissing the freckles on my cheek, To untold horizons we chartered, no end in sight, no origin to found our fears on Through musky, murky seas we limped, sickened with every passing silence. Deadpan as driftwood to the clamorous cynicisms of dignity and vicariousness. The silver sun writhed in her self solicited discoloured agony, The golden skies glazed with fiery ferocity and swerved sophistication Still we stood in an ecstasy of awe and fear, tourists in the course of our lives Still we kept our conscience’s savage shrills and shrieks at bay To untold horizons we chartered, no end in sight, no origin to found our fears on. For we were but naïve nomads straddling the unkempt paddocks of our self made fates And to such errands we cantered like white ponies with wispy tails on dressage Deeper, deeper and deeper into the voracious oblivion of a cavernous and untold destiny.


Cher Paris

Paris! Paris outragé! Paris brisé! Paris martyrisé! Mais Paris libéré March 14th 2011, 00:32 Dear Paris I could tell you that you make me feel on top of the world and that life has never been better, yet even so my friend, I would tell you but a fraction of what my thoughts are, convey to your discerning ears a mere shudder of the quake that trembles within me. The spring colours sing softly to my thoughts; the dainty kiss of the departing winter, the gentle thud of spring landing. You have received me well, as you always do and we have wined, dined, defined and redefined as indeed we always do. I find you in pleasant health, bursting at the seams with energy and sophistication. Yet your sultry and cynical nature doth manifest themselves every now and again, but not for long enough for me to forget the love we share. As grass green and gentle to the scorching southern sun, I need you by day and I love you by night, I dance in the heat of our romance and shudder in your absence. I am home again amongst the shadows that lay claim to me. They embrace me with plush sincerity, content to see me in their own special way as indeed I am to see them. Invariably, my heart is heavy and aloof, for Paris grand and gorgeous I miss you so. Till the next time we meet cherie, this is adieu. Merci beaucoup Paris, I am yours forever.


Gibraltar Querido Under the shade of the Gibraltan rock I hear the sounds of gulls content and gleeful Poetically astute, angelically gifted This is what life in pearl feels like From stalactite caves to amiable apes, laughs, grins, sighs, jeers and sneers From marina colours to golden dawns whitewashed facades and Iberian dreams Gibraltar, you've made an admirer out of me To Ceuta and Morocco I gazed from your lengths And beyond into the distant horizon discreet Your warm winds propel my day Your bold rock anchors my stay.


The Cavalier Antics of The Brute I write this, imprisoned by the very virtue of being human, contained by such a virtue, scathed, loved, adored but always imprisoned by this simple manner of virtue. The world around me is alive and awake, dreaming in its wandering winter waylays, These tearful shows of sorrow, these hopeful mourns of peace The pacifist serenity of the shade has long since wandered Replaced instead by congenial feuds, impertinent woes and vile usherings Peace, stratified, symmetrical symphonies, the loot that fills your welcome ears Tears, joy, anguish, lyricism, the hosts that partake such poignant a feast Brave, beaten, bridled by the beaming beckoning beauty of sunrise By the diligent precedence of the cold, the cavalier antics of the brute.


Elevate Me to My Individuality, Rob Me of My Conformity I never did see the lie that the others saw, Through fiery earth and pouring rain, the spring’s thaw I did wish to envisage this poignant transgression Subtle in its vengeance, rabid in its regression I never did bear witness the sinfulness of conformity Alone and maladroit, devoid of the slightest dignity I did hope to embrace this delicate passion Subdued in her wit, mighty in her right I never did pay homage to the wilfulness of indignity Acrid and putrid, a horse tail hair short of insanity I never did home to smooch this imbued pilgrimage Eroded, exhausted and enshrined in the wispy plumage of this adage


Through Squinted vision Through squinted vision I stared At a crimson cornucopia of the battered and the bygone The fickle, the fervent, the feverish, all gaped back at me A hostile union of hate, of grim skies and dreary death I longed oh I ached for bliss I sought sound, traversing the depths of her myriads Through labyrinthine frontiers, through the murkiest seas The windswept prairies and sand-stained deserts The acrid lagunas from virgin tangents, the acidic mists of time All blockaded my sojourn, spurn together in an armada of golden string Still to the warped horizons I stared, through squinted vision I stared


The Witching Hour Restlessness haemorrhages heftily at my kleptomania It’s a sinner’s cud I chew, ruminating as I am, on insomnia The world outside me sleeps, draped in a white winter blackness The world beneath me lies placid, morbid in its sullen sadness Twists of fate and drops of hate glisten in the silvery moonlight The shadows mock my wide eyed glare, hiding sense from sight A cry shatters the silence, a shriek only my ears can hear A vessel runs aground; causality’s casual cadence in crescendo somewhere near And so I stare, goon eyed and glaring, playing tag with the daring Into a mist that engulfs my sanity, stabbing at my plexus with its swirl Gnashing at my nerves, pampering my discord, twisting with its every curl The witching hour is upon me now, and I’m held captive to its antagonism Irate and innate she hammers vociferously away, deaf to dissent, deaf to cynicism And so to fate I commit my plight, to the hope of a time when all is all right Tis but hope so faint, so quaint, so lame, so cold on this vicious night.


Toujours I’m evanesced in a world encased in silver streaks meek and mild In a nouveau utopia, rugged on the edges, brazen on the inside The northern lights coruscate vividly in the dreamy night sky And a butterfly’s withering wing beats drum to the rhythm of my estranged soul The last rays of the sun have kissed the plateau before my eyes As she soldiers forth on a destiny unbound by measures There’s a shrieking stillness in the air around me, a world governed by borders and rules A matrix of trapped souls, petrified of freedom, bound by the senescent passing of the plagues of time In lockstep tandem we strut, bound in a visceral group conscience A conscience that favours the favoured and suppresses the suppressed Munificence has little discourse in this imbroglio, in this odious odyssey baptised life And change is lashed at by hordes of stormy petrels bent on blood solicitation The time for a contretemps is nigh, and vanishing sleekly over the crepuscular horizon Our nescience and abnegations can continue no longer Our stalwart stolid state towards our fellow man cannot be allowed to run amok as it has And so to the sky I look, towards the distant flicker of faraway stars; hope is our beacon, mankind our vexation.


All Hail Hail the foreign ways of the distant sunrises The Moral fabric and tantric ethic that's become our demise Confidently still we slouch sheepishly on unfoundedness Victims of the stern stares of disapproval upon this confoundedness


Upon Paths Unknown Out of the pitch obscurity beneath my vexed feet Lies the world, innate and unchanged Unitary sin, unitary good, sleepless and melancholic like the winter night I question whatever deity there may be as to the humble tidings of this benevolence Six billion years away in times insofar unchanged and they are fixated Wolves whisper softly to each other in the soft morning mist Tis but the foundation of the surreal, structured symphony that intoxicates us Unitary time in functional space, the four square borders of reality turned inside out In a whirlwind of surreptitious gales, I string me a harmony neath my brazen fingers A one man circus, a solo charade, stripped blank and pale by the joy around me Inevitability pinches the jaded fabric of turtle skin that drapes the core within And from afar comes the spontaneous staccato chatter of love most divine.


With Baited Breath I Wait The decadence of the shapes and shadows around me. Stark, shrieking shards of wit and disdain, deranged and withdrawn. The sullen dejections of the wind, the intimacy of causality. Deranged, delinquent ornaments of time, desperate and forlorn The cacophony of the chambers and chariots before me Sharp, sudden silhouettes of truth and lie woven intimately The implicit imperfections of the elements, the suspense of glee Devout, resolute instruments of space, withered yet stately The stillness of the sun and the stars above me Sage, shackled shadows of the then and now stately and sedate The somber spirit of the time, the luxury of a more independent me Dissolute, insoluble infractions of relativity loyal to the shelter of trait.


The Solace Tango It’s a queer jig I dance, not quite a trot, nay not yet a gallop A jig unseen, a ballad most morose, some might say it were codswallop The fervent walls stare back at me, mocking my flirtations with the floor Whim’s the word, aye sir we’ll party till the Achilles goes sore Nature flings her protests at my jig, at my jig odd and queer Fickle fingers point out the poignant, crafty grins squirm and sneer Yet my tango continues, oblivious to mock and jeer And my feet twist to the rhythm, compelled to endear.


The Star-Starved Night Intertwined between feuds of sapping fatigue The day has passed with all its intrigue And the tar-lit, star-starved night has ventured out with its perils and its cold the tales of the unforseen and of the aged, the old Autumns blue blush has all but vanished A once efflorescent cacophony, now muffled, hushed.


The Gust in The Shadows The ripples on the water shimmer with a riveting blue brilliance Misaligned and maligned from their symmetrical sojourns The dolphins of the sea, shriek in outright agony Discombobulated, devastated…dreary of the desolation ahead The crystalline sparkles of the coruscating sands dim their brilliance Dampened, darkened…destroyed by the vicissitudes of greed Plumes of pitch invade the purlieus, and the silence shrieks A deafening roar falling on deaf ears Gents in high quarters tell tales of illusions to conceal their deed And to this end, the ocean’s porous pores continue to bleed. Homo vitae commodatus non donatus es (Man has been lent to life, not given)


Beyond The Impassioned Stillness Beyond the impassioned stillness of the crystalline night Wandering, wavering, woolly. Vindicated from this sight Lies but the mystique of the veritable. Tainted in enigmatic silence Shrouded in a polychotomy of the real. Pained in incandescence Beyond the sullen symptomatic surreal, the juncture of the obscene Vilified, vaulted, verdant. Syndicated from the serene Lies but the beauty of the known. Engulfed In displaced serenity Imbued by the dainty elegance of the inane. Moulded in heterogeneity Beyond the junction of the mundane serendipity of the whole Endeared, endangered, exposed. Implicated in the conjured soul Lies but the sanity of the enacted. Trapped in implacable cadence Clothed in the syntax of the established. Beyond the set silence.


Plan(et) B For the wind that lies still, in waiting The misty evening promise compensating The dim hue of the amplified light Far out, hazed and out of sight

For the sun that's gone and departed The fallen stranger, benevolent and bold-hearted The cold glare of the arriving plight Vanished, vacant vapid and contrite


Perennially Nomadic This fleeting movement has become a part of me. A perennial longing for the elsewhere, a constant criticism of the present. Assimilated inasmuch as dissatisfaction vents its venturing spleen, scattered in the plausible reality of the present. Alone with the vices, not even nature can reach me here, not in this mass matrix of technology and conformity. Elemental disposition, disinterested souls and poised appearances, the misleading syndicate of mankind’s humility towards himself. Acceptance is key, rejection a displacement, neutrality an affable luxury at the dispense of an entire generation inseparable by age, gender and ecology, unified In the righteous individuality of role playing and regularity. Where have all the young supernovas gone? Stone ages passing. Where have all the petals gone? Archaic ages ago. Vindicate me, to the Northern lights, to the Southern soul, samba and passion. Vindicate me to strength. Evanesced. Vindicate me.


Synesthetic Dreams  

The wanderings of The Heart Through Poetry and Photography

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