“Is it all just a psychotic dream? What is life?”

“Is it all just a psychotic dream? What is life?”

“you're the fly on the wall hearing all, seeing allears of a wall hearing all the secretsperhaps you're the vines creeping over the old abandoned mansion wallsdusty, soulless and deadbringing a certain curious life to rubbleand I think you're the jewel-eyed geckosneaking around the warm summer wallsbetween jasmine and olive branchessticky pad toes, clinging to the wallspeeking in at lonely summer spicy love-makingthrough silk curtains from the bright orientbreathing in incense and tasting decadenceclimbing the sharply barbed wallsthe smooth cemented white-washed wallsbecause walls breathe too”

“The ocean cradles the bloodied moon in its aquatic arms like a mother holds her crying babe.”

“A radiant full moon of silver hangs in the black sky, between the veils of misty clouds.”

“I could be the ceaseless mist that fogs your colourless eyes when you're lost in your universes.”

“She loves filming and taking photographs. I can imagine her making beautiful films in France or India or somewhere with a gorgeously colourful culture. She somehow reminds me of my favourite place in the world, she and Paris I can romanticize and immortalize in ceaseless poetry for the rest of my life.”

“Is it all just a psychotic dream? What is life?”

“I could be that tenebrous enigma that floods out your words with sighs and frustration.”

“All suffer and none should have to. But why not? If suffering makes life seem more real or more abstract, both circumstances are infinitely more bearable than the disturbing reality of mundane work-to-live-then-die-bored life.”

“The locals died and shrivelled with the autumnal leaves as their plastic, seasonal smiles faded with the last of the holidaymakers.”

“I could be the drumbeat in your chest like madness before a storm swirling restlessly.”