n-y-x

Poached Eggs Eggs are God's (if He does indeed exist, that is) gift to mankind. There are an infinite number of ways to eat an egg. Maybe not quite so – I should know; I am fond of exaggerations – but damn well close. It's true, you know: that thing about the egg but also, the other one about me too. Haven't you realized? Somebody once told me that the creases on a chef's hat marked superiority. I suppose that that is a fact (is it actually a fact though, I wonder) many know, but I've also been told once that the number of creases on a chef's hat showed the number of ways he can cook an egg. Well. In many ways that much can be tru

Bird-brain "Bird-brain," I hear you utter, your voice a hoarse but defiant whisper. Funny how fights disintegrate into petty name-calling inevitably, after all the shouting, the tears; when everything has been said and the all the hurt served. I look around the wreckage of the long night just passed and wonder how much of us we broke this time. Clothes strewn all over, broken bits of furniture haphazardly lying around, glass everywhere: evidence of our rage, our pain. Our love. In love, everything is important. Often, it is not so much what is being said, but what that which is said is being used as a replacement for that makes me hang on t

To the you that was never to be: I cannot be who I am not. Just the same, I cannot have what I do not. I would have given my heart out on a silver platter, adorned with my organs in a neat little row. I would have gladly dug out my eyes for you to have as an appetizer, and my brains for your dessert. For if I cannot be with you, then what use it is to me, my bodily organs? I would have no use for my eyes – these cruel eyes that seek out visions of you in a crowd. I would have no use for my brain – my poor brain that torments me so with thoughts of you. I would have no use for my heart, the one palpitating organ that flutters when i

Love. Without shape or form,it that flutters To and fro the hearts of friends and lovers alike. It that gently Stirs the awakening of delights, It that gives the world, its joys, to one. Love. It breaks us apart. It tears our hearts. It brings us pain, And all things profane. Pouncing on poor souls, It rips out our guts, And leaves us helpless And confused. And all in vain.

This deep, dark hole the shape of a human being. One human being. Singular. That’s all we all are. As we go through the course of our lives we engage ourselves in multiplicity – we attach ourselves to partners, we surround ourselves with noise, we fill our spaces with material objects: the same things but which comes in different sizes, and colours. Yet we are all alone. Singular. Independent. We yearn our lifetimes to be independent: nations struggle; one child’s fight against his parents – Independence. Highly revered, but why? We are independent. Always have been, what takes us to see? A false struggle for f

Here is half of my heart. It isn’t much, but do take it. It’s been through a lot. Its twin ran away one bright sunny afternoon eight months ago, and never heard from since. The twin that yearned for an anchor; weight – the twin that could not picture perils, or the high flying rush that standing on the edge brings – that which what I hold in my hand craves. Here is half of my heart. It isn’t much, all wrapped up in brown paper, shriveled from the cold. Do take it; do what you will with it. My paper wrapped heart, sent to you via express mail. Take it, tend it, throw it to the corner if you must: my disobedient heart

I am not comprehensible, Nor conversational, I do not look you in the eye, Nor talk with the intention of being heard. Cut me up, Slice me open And you shall find, My blue, blue insides, Just like the dark of the nighttime sky.

I wish i could live among words And let them raise me Like a pack of wolves might But then again They might not And have me as a petite light snack Words might be safer And then Maybe not