la dea dai capelli rossi

I see the skin of this woman. Bare before my morning eyes. Pale as the light that rests on blanco walls. Softness is her essence. Her red hair; the fragrance of entire summers. She stands as a statue with the windows open, absorbing the fluidity of the city views. Colours between shadows. Exclusive noise, airing through modern transmissions of music. Small baubles of light, their microscopic rays shining through the creme room. Comets of fire endowed by ginger aromas. The heat of candlelight. Increasing temperatures. Firm beatings of the heart. My lips, on the border of her inner thighs – each pore on the surface of her skin is coronated as a regal feature. A regal woman with the affirmation of aristocracy. Subtleness which only the divine can assemble.  Now she lays wondrous on the silk bedding. Reddened lips, like two slices of plums softly basking in the summer light. Midnight has overtaken our hearts and now we lay as two lovers, not knowing that the end is near. At times how I long for its return. To touch your lips – for just one more night. 

Give Me War

Have you ever looked,

at a woman,

so cordial in her essence?

You feel as though,

your presence,

could hinder her sunlit portrait.


A vision,

continues to play;

where you inevitably taint this pristine brush.


A brush,

that has never truly been held,

in an artists soft,

and passionate grip.


A brush,

that has yet to absorb,

every coloured emotion,

under the dynastic sun.


A brush,

that has never loved,

until the principles of sanity,

have been brought under question.


And I have finally come to realise,

why intimacy is a burden,

upon my soul.


The first steps,

towards an intimate bond,

are the most arduous,

I will ever have to take.


Give me war.

Give me hardship.

Give me pain.

But do not give me the power,

to decide her fate.


I know,

that her perfected perceptions,

of love,

may eventually break.


For I have tainted,

too many pristine brushes,

in my wake.

So I remain an artist,

without a brush to paint.

One Night In Rome

the absconding light

in the weariness of morning

evades the guard of the blinds

as the brightness forms

the scent of cigarettes lingering

from the night before

where lovers opened their hearts

and more

now he awakens

all alone

the first thought in his mind

the one he let go

with war there comes peace

with her I am not sure

for she is an ocean

that has no shore

i oversaw a painting

one night in Rome

that spoke of angels

in humanly form

now I cannot confess

or expose

that she is the one

whom turns stone hearts

into fibres of gold

she has only ever appeared

in my dreams

the one time

years ago

before our lives intertwined

a faceless figure

rose from the thorns

proclaimed that true love

will come once

for that I am not sure

in this ethereal moment

a message was announced

that even love

cannot break down

the most stubborn of man

Crystal Lovers

Spring, the intermediary between summer and winter. A season of dualism, where lovers come out of their shells from the warmth of their blankets and the awe of historically romantic films. A season where two individuals stand frantically on the border between love and desire. The summer, a neighbour who stares possessively through timeless binoculars, noting frailties, of which it can prey upon under its tenure. For now, lovers remain untainted, witnessing the natural colours of earth being reared on the voluptuous spring terrain. The doting eeriness of winter, forced into the far corners of their mind. Human beings are habitual in the sense that they are easily swayed by beauty and allurement, shunning past comforts that were equally kind to their soul. Ungrateful to the familiar as it flirts carelessly with the inconspicuous. An epoch in which fantasy reigns, above passion, above tenderness, above the foundations of love and euphoria. This reality of decadence transmits across universal channels. A phantom in an era where human beings think with their organs, discarding the whispers of the soul. I speak as a transgressor. Or shall I say a victim of the modern age. Where the eyes of men are detached from their hearts. Where the mind is polluted with echoes of doubt. Of torturous confusion. How does one escape from this erosion of trust when your own being is in opposition? You drown in pleasure and lascivious behaviour to feel something, anything, yet not even a droplet of love can be found. Even this earth, it falls for the night and it awakens beside the day. An eternal struggle. Torn between the darkness and light. Between two natural phenomena. I ask myself this; why do you spend these precious seconds with a pen in hand, sending your thoughts off into the far realms of the mind like knights in the midst of war? What do you wish to find? The purest question is, what do we all wish to find in this chambered dome? If you have not unearthed the answer up until now, cease your readership. Love, gentleman. A vicious, kind love that is sustained through not only elation but calamity. A form of love where you hypnotically gaze at her divine presence as she rests in the soft hours of the morning. A form of love we have spent lifetimes trying to uncover, yet sink every time into the ocean of lust that has blackened our hearts and souls, transmuting men of fire, into men of ice. So, gentleman, do not stop in your efforts to reach this surface of saviour, for only then will you truly breath and appreciate this life in all of its splendour. Only then will you value the winter and spring, as the summer awaits crystal lovers with open arms.