A Magician in the Court of Inconsequence though no Magic Exists

They would have me bring
Great accolades,
Another’s recognition,
Before reading my pain.
They tell me, to prove worthy
In the court of ignorance,
Before they are able
To themselves judge my worth.
Someone to vouch
For my tears,
My flesh,
My blood.
Come back a man,
You are just a boy,
And no child
Should have a voice.
For prestige
I must come equipped
With prestige
Itself.
Who is anyone
To judge my pain,
When they have never seen
Through my eyes?
They can f*ck their awards,
And not because I fear
I am unworthy,
Their judgment is useless.
What more does an artist need
Than a muse
And love, love, love in abundance.
They brush of sorrow,
The colour of veins diluted with spirit,
The canvas of life itself,
And a heart able to break, again and again?
What more do I need
Than a woman and a scythe,
The world, it’s joys
And sorrows?
Music aplenty, for those
Willing to listen,
To see, to be,
To die.
Only in death,
Is any life complete,
So to with love,
Poetry is only heard in tragedies.
What accolades do I need
From all those dying around me,
When one day she’ll read my words
And weep?

By Haemophiliac…
Finished 16/04/2009

A Budless Bloom

Time and no time at all,
Too often and never enough.
A lifetime spent,
With a woman’s taste on the tongue,
Never lifetime enough,
Even one woman, a woman too much.
Depravity, they accuse me of
But I am only human,
No longer the youth I once was,
Not depravity enough.
A woman, one woman
They say I obsess,
A lifetime lost in one journey,
What do they know of obsession?

By Haemophiliac…
...finished 14/04/09.

Sleeping Beauty

In an age
When not even dreams
Dare to exist,
Where romanticism
Cowers behind
Ever grey clouds,
The sun, no longer ablaze
For those that remain looking
At an evening rose,
What a sight to see
A sleeping beauty,
Surreal in her own existence.
At a time
When no one
Would dream a dream,
Per chance I see
Amongst life so practically real,
You sleeping that way.

By Haemophiliac…
finished 12/04/2009

Written watching a woman sleeping in the far corner of Starbucks on Oxford Street.

Mor Karbasi & the Midnight Streets

Today I discovered something beautiful. Why I’m gifted such moments I’ll never know. Darkness, light rains, the last surviving blossoms, and jasmine in the air. I swear by my broken heart and humanity’s plea, by warm tears traversing the stories embedded in my face, that there is no God. But if I should be wrong, of the lost, the damned, it is in real beauty that I see apparitions of the divine visage. Nothing transcends all limitations like the overwhelming sense of a ripple through a soul that I claim doesn’t exist. Why is it that I am one of a few, blessed with eyes that see the luminescence of true beauty?

Finished 11/04/2009.
Inspired by Mor Karbasi.