“The enamoured past and sorrow has darkened my lips among heartless souls.”

I will never be a novelist that is certain. Forgive me, but plot seems hollow and most characters are superfluous. This is my inadequacy as this post, surely, makes clear. I hope I have retained some audience!


The enamoured past and sorrow has darkened my lips among heartless souls.

a group of boys crouched, stirring gazes

upon the timid dissent of caravan clatters.

And I’d say: “…”

Fates drift in as frivolous as the unruly winds. Days we’ll leave behind, as their thoughts and insights seem unfair, burning through on the soluble reflection Forever casts. As it is silvery sheets of memory are busied rearranging pasts; construing adequate space for honesty’s wax and wane. Languorous rivers pass, like grotesque self-deprecating Carnivals, in the night. […]

Waking as strands of imagining reel through my mind: my death savaged at the hands of sight and reverie replete with superimpositions of you remain an instant, trying uselessly to grasp the heraldic complexions of the dream yet consolation is elusive. Now alert, wakened to swelter in the torrid afternoon marked by the imperceptive and thoughtless resonance of minutes.

What had been said, indistinct in the hypnagogic haze, which seemed to match then and Paradise, alike?

That lance has gleaned my heart and drafted multitudes of bile in the thankless void; Incessant accusations enumerate Cataclysm’s inaudible outstretching, reaching every limit.

Beauty derides me in silence.

‘He was pale even to the lips,’

Editor’s Note: Recently we featured some engrossing poetry from Ekstasis Amor while we waited for his novel to take shape. Now the shape-taking has begun, and the lyricist seeks feedback!

Tentative first chapter of ‘The Kleptocracy’. Comments regarding the intelligibility of this selection would be greatly appreciated! Continue reading “‘He was pale even to the lips,’”

Razzamatazz musters bold candour.

Awaiting the first pages of my novel The Kleptocracy to present themselves, I have faith in these two poems:

She is as a scroll of fervent Thuluth.
Not adorned but is ornamentation
Of Life; flitting through perilous existence.
A Minaret scene through and above the spandrels,
Gilt and wondrous!

Continue reading “Razzamatazz musters bold candour.”

“Choo-Choo to Broadway… Don’t get icky with the 1,2,3… Life is just so fine.”

I am a novel-writing neophyte. Although, i have lost a non-novel writing contest before. 

Well! i have a tentative course:

A boy reclines at the base of a tree, upon the high bank of a river, ruminating within a sunlit reverie, an idyll suggestive of Huck Finn’s liberty. 

“That which cannot be spoken of must be passed over in silence.” The Boy, unaccompanied on the river-bank, finds—just as Wittgenstein—there is much which must be passed over in silence. (A mode of paresthesic dream-white translucency envisaged by a Boy prostrated in stupor.)

Uncertain how the idiom will be perceived I have decided to site some context which hopefully facilitates justification: Continue reading ““Choo-Choo to Broadway… Don’t get icky with the 1,2,3… Life is just so fine.””