Your rhymes echo through the darkness
the verse glows in all its beauty
bringing a hint of light to the blackness
imagining what it would be
to hear your grovelling baritone
on a cold Montréal night
now I listen to your voice flow
an artist truly in all his might.
Immense respect I have for you
Clapton, Dylan and Shakespeare too
Your revolutionised the audible art
warming humanity’s dead cold heart.
I write to you here in hope
with a right dose of sadness and a bigger one of gratitude
no trepidation to be seen.
You have walked miles round this town
many more, much further than any convention held you to go
I could see doubts swimming multifaceted
behind those glittering eyes
and I understood, I understand
I respect the respect you gave
and I hope that respect came across (I cherish it)
as you gazed at the heavens
this palindrome night
thoughts light-years away.
I’ll keep writing till my pens run out
till the napkins in the café are all written upon
till my quill runs dry
till the octopi flee
until all ink has been spilled:
all the ink I’ve got and then a little bit more.
The fountain of emotion slows
now a torrent, not a hurricane.
It’s shouldering expectation
burdened by absent hope.
It too, thought,
from a pale mucky marsh
it’d become resplendent—
jets of love and care
shooting off towards the stars
blowing the Trevi out of the water.
Alas, mucky marsh it remains
gloopy staleness dripping
obscured by the past
clouded by the future.
Yet a glimmer of hope remains:
a single water-lily
among the soggy weeds.
The lukewarm water
rubbed into my cheeks
time and time again
rushes away
washes away your smile
washes away your smell
bleaches your memory
as it tumbles away
into the drain.
There’s a felling I’ve been born with
winning the lottery as an only child
my stomach, an empty bottomless pit
a long, infinite cardboard tube
I’m endlessly falling down
that’s a feeling that’s with me
trying to claw its way out
like a flying moth, towards a light
but this light keeps drifting further away
and I’m this moth, stuck
in a world in which I don’t deserve to belong.
Tonight, you were close
so close to touch—
and to touch back,
you hesitated.
Your perfume lingers
your smile coldens
what was once technicolour
is now truly grey.
But, I gave you respect
and you gave yours
even though we can’t be happy
thoughts out of reach
like children in a museum.
Here we are
You and me
Tiptoeing through this world
Tiptoeing through this conversation
Tiptoeing through this relationship
Tiptoeing through life;
We mustn’t disturb
don’t ruffle feathers
shift no fallen leaves.
Why, oh why
do we act so
why can’t we just
stand in a puddle
and accept it?
Just you and me
enjoying the water
seeping through our shoes
savouring our squelching socks
This is why, oh why
I have come with you.
When outside it all seems black and white
or a rather dull shade of grey,
everything’s a depressing sight
your eyes look whichever way.
In times like these, it is music that brings colour
all you need to do is sit still and listen
it really is a kind of emotional juggler
as the orchestra glows in unison.
Yes, it glows—a radiating hue
deep crimson to soothing navy blue
its crescendos pulse in the dark
and, in a way, so does AC/DC’s Back in Black.
Dear Lady,
Before last week we have not met
vague knowledge of each other’s existence
last week: it was all like a movie set
of two worlds in confluence.
Your shapes of before were not clear
mine were of plenty vibrant colours
I knew not what to fear
but those surreptitious emotional jewellers.
Last week, your colours matched mine
our words echoing in unison
was this some sort of crude sign
or an echo of my ambition?
Now, I wonder if you
with your golden hair and sapphire eyes
had felt these emotions too
instead, were these simply colourful lies?
I know only time will tell
I need patience, not this wicked spell!