white boats on the water

The white boats are buoyed by the water;

the blue sea splayed

in sunlight, cloud

& sky.


My heart beats

for these cubic

lines, the pentagrammic

houses over the shore.

The fishermen.



the waving light on the quay

of early morning; hunger

for the gusty rain before dusk,

or the flash flood.



Exclusive eyes

Exclusive Eyes


The changes in the temperature when they walk into the room,

my desires and my memories all hang upon a loom.


Exclusive eyes they do not care for me,

they see only beauty and it’s me they fail to see.

their sepia gaze drawn down from a million nights

as the world spirals down a thousand frugal flights.


Exclusive eyes are ones of indescribable nature,

sharp they are not, nor are they round.

Magnificent and present not unlike Panhellenic stature

but like these granite features, their meaning can never be found.


Exclusive eyes how they make me think.

What must I do? What must I be?

to make exclusive eyes blink.


They watch the turning world with the sweetest despair

and they see through me as if I were a glass of wine.

Exclusive eyes don’t have a minute to spare

but as time eludes me, the moment seems too fine.



last night

The heart pumped with blood is the origin of thought & the worms between my ears

suck it dry, tell it as it is, like a tape recorder would.


I hear it & I’m interested & I want to, dig

in; get away from, but. We have lost


touch. Understand: that: if this is

it, & all is – well, I’m glad & no:


it’s not a waste; it’s

good. A god is


killed as he walks

home one night across


the field because:

he is young & he is beautiful. Ugh,


the cushioned blow: a blade soaked thru the purple

robe. He was/is, golden his thighs


framed like a tree to climb. Tonight

leant upon the parapet I



sleep of it, my ears full of



ways to disconnect

I opened my eyes an hour later.

The long cabbage tree was waving.

The Jasmines flowered

along the back wall; nothing

had changed. I’m half

dreaming; how easy it is

to fold, to stare at a

mottled sky, fall

in the pool, hear

nothing but reverie. A key


the lock & my stomach

drops. I’m in

& out of it

fast: chiselling

stone; at the hotel,

getting laid in-

to by a tan-

skinned man, for a cut-

price room, with a whore;

a boy wandering home,

on the trains, on the steps

of the museum, wanting it

to stop, to crash

the window. The key

turns & you hear the mute pause

before the door shuts & footsteps

take the hall.



I am sorry



I am sorry
I don’t want to stand still
I want to begin to crawl
And walk, run and jump
But the sinking sand stops me
Me and all of my stars high in the heavens.
I am sorry
My heart is weak and I am weak without a heart
My lungs fill with toxic air
Air I must escape from. A distant dream lost in my imagination
I am sorry
I’ve lost the days and months and years to be what I’ve should have been
I am young and hidden
Hidden behind a cloak, my true belonging invisible.
I am sorry
A shy, enclosed caterpillar wanting to change
A mature young adult desperate to catch
Catch a shooting star going places beyond the skies
I am sorry
Future self
Please forgive
My ignorance
Your regret
My mistakes
Your memories
Our missing chance
I am sorry

A poem by Origin8

Cleopatras Cats

What’s this deal Cleopatra did with the cats?
Do they play trumpet in a jazz band?
Why doesn’t somebody answer that bloody phone?
Somebody said something off topic,
They glanced at one another,
Emptied the words gone to the wind,
But her eyes met his,
They both knew in unison what it meant,

all souls, 1902

the dirty Thames. the

dirty brown fog. i lie

upon my bed hands

behind my head. walk

the boards watch the

boats roll by. i’m


open to the voices

on the street, wheels,

the clatter that makes me

glad to be, alone. my

bones, only, weigh me

down, my existential

leanings. doctor,




this is where i broke

with, gave blood, lived

beside the

, clashed

with, harmoniously.


lived here, & near

the gutter fanned

all night by, & my

dissonant voices.



the rooms

laid in. dark, in-

articulate –

source of its

own fear, or.


here, washed by

the intermittent



poems by the sea

the frayed voices. the murmurous waves.

all i want is






if                      ~

i’m       if          you      ~ ~


i didn’t mean               to                     ~ ~ ~

but the            truth


is the truth is i didn’t

want                            to

know               if          you


my                   dandelion                    ~          my

honeybee                    ~