act i.

thoroughbred pastures,
painted Indiana oranges,
sticky sweet glaze
dripped
over a miasma of waning blue.

driving through the night,
sparks flying;
a cavalcade of lights illuminating
the ominous fissures above.

a tangle of limbs
splayed out on gunmetal concrete.
rush of tires taking a hammer
to a child’s dollhouse.

pomegranate blood;
wine-stained and viscous
pitter-pattering on
phosphorescent glass.

skeletal branches,
stripped bare of foliage,
adorn snow-covered mountain tops.
a blanket of ice resting atop
slabs of sandy burgundy.

act ii.

where terra firma and
the heavens above are one and the same,
horizons have all but vanished.
a concealed line obscured by
layers of rust belt,
iron-laden mountains.

traversing between softly rounded curves,
the plane of Venus’s body
mapped out on the geography
of a land never before ventured.

Merlot red seeping into forgotten frost,
opaque scarlet glass suspended in time
against a palette of grimy rock.


act iii.

a story unfinished,
sliced through by
industrial invasion
families on opposite sides of a
levelled passageway

so close,
yet
worlds apart
parting the red sea to
construct the Berlin wall.

act iv.

when the world’s heartbeat has subsided,
when the depths of the oceans have frozen over,
he wanders through the rugged terrains.
feet bound by yellowed newspapers
and a forgotten shoestring,
a child’s backpack strapped onto his
jutting shoulders caved in to shield the
bone chill permeating his weathered skin.

act v.

fine silver threads stretched out
across a lush green, makeshift loom.
he strikes a flint against cast-away steel
to construct his auto-da-fé:
smouldering ashes the remnants
of his ephemeral life.

a mephitic stench wafts
through sullied air
as he leaves this life,
forever distancing himself
from an absent home and
the pain brought on by
unrequited love.