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Musings that fluctuate between pragmatism and abstraction.

— somber ink —

It takes courage 
to look into oneself.

Tears must be earned;
tears must be turned
to lessons.

It takes courage to crumble.
It takes fear to evolve.

Years must be spent;
years must be rent
into pieces
before true life
can begin.

It takes courage to think.
It takes pain to evolve.

Life must be loved
and love must be lived
lest one’s true self dissolves
into ashes.

It takes courage to see.
It takes loss to run free.

It takes courage
to simply
be me.


"Blest with the gift of fire" -
the words carried weight.

A hex disguised as a blessing

Safe inside black steel 
furnace burned without a sound;
only a flicker of light through the visor 
- almost imperceptible -
betrayed its presence.

Writhing tongues of black
mixed with dabs of flame
burning forever
yet fed.

Melting from within 
cold outer shell no longer could 
withstand the energy.

As the miasma 
violently poured out
from every opening
the end was close ahead.

Metal crumbling 
clanking sounds and hellish growls 
if constructs can’t contain this fright
then what of human skin?

How to temper the fire
seeping our of every pore?

How to adjust 
the scorching 
into warmth?

How to tame the feral
and protect
with loving arms?


Ultimately, we are alone.

We speak of connection
and love
and friendship;
of understanding
and caring
but there is always a gap
between our mind
and our selves-
between our mind
and others.

Ultimately, we are alone.

We forget with art and 
we get distracted through our senses
music and love elevate us
philosophy pulls us out of our world
for a better look.

Ultimately, we are alone.

You were alone in your helmet
when the arrow came straight towards you
full force
out of sight.

Your pupils dilated and
you reached for your gauntlet
and your breastplate
just in time.

I was trying to look inside and
as you slapped the arrow away
the metal hit my face.

The splinters pierced my skin.

Ultimately, we are alone.

I was alone when 
slightly bruised
lightly bleeding
hurting deeply
I slipped into my blackened metal suit
and laid down on the ground.

I couldn’t feel your hands
tracing my cold, hard shell
but I knew you were there.

As the armor melted away
I took out the splinters
and you licked my wounds.

You reached inside the hole over my chest
and you touched me;
you gave me hope
and love.

Ultimately, we are alone;
but through all the joy and the pain and the sadness
the ascent in the vortex
we call the absurd
[life, in the common tongue]
I hope to have you by my side.

Ultimately, we are alone;
but through this strange, vibrant decay
I want to be alone

with you.

my demons

They are small.
They are odd.

Their gait is crooked and their voice is harsh-
raspy, with jagged edges
and piercing my eardrums.

Matte black skin
cycling through irridescent grays
yellow eyes
reflecting the strangest of lights.

They are small.
They amuse with their idiocy
and yet sometimes
they bring me down to their level.

They sense a smile
and try to pull it down
to make a frown.

They try to draw the blinds;
close all the doors
but you have the key.

You step in like the fire that you are
and light up
warm up

They can’t hide from the flame
and every sweet word that you speak
every touch you lay on me
every look, as our eyes meet
makes them perish.

They are small.
They are odd.
They’ll be gone.

They are small.

They’ll die out one by one.


I envelop this earth

through mind alone

a stone’s throw away

from something


and not brave

simply different enough

to make one reflect

and turn inwards.


I envelop this earth

through heart alone

the light that shone in me

allowed me to see

much more than I’d need

to navigate its deepest seas.


Satisfied, but never pleased.


Hope to my side

and not on me

not once more on my knees.


All those years
I was afraid of getting burnt
until I realized
that I myself
am the fire.


I’ve no use for steel anymore;
to attack or defend.
Soft skin, thick blood and a strong spine.
That’s all I need.

I won’t retreat or withdraw.
I won’t hide.

I’ll expand and extend
I’ll connect and transcend;
see the world with new eyes.

Head floating ‘twixt the clouds
feet firmly on the ground:
I’ll be a giant — only human-sized.

Raamstraat 17

So, I saw “In Bruges” again and it reminded me of this poem I had written when I first saw it. Here it is.

It’s a magical town.
It’s a fairy-fucking-tale town.
Who the fuck wouldn’t like the fucking swans and the canals and the fucking medieval buildings?
Who in their right fucking mind wouldn’t like to be in Bruges?


I mean…yeah.

What with


Who in their right mind wouldn’t love this town.

I mean I knew it from the start.

"This place is a shithole", I said.

I said it.

But Ken disagreed. Fucking culture and bullshit, I KNEW this place was rotten.

And the only thing I had, the only thing.
She was too good.

Too good to be true.

But she wasn’t.
And it was.

And so in a kiss in the streets
in the lights, in the mist, there was a


Not a christmass ball that broke.
Not a falling glass of beer.
Not a vase that hit the floor -

no. It was something more.

More of a splatter than a pop
more of a lake than just a drop
more like a bullet in the head
that found the priest and young’in dead
that shot Ken right up on the leg
that killed the midget, square in red
the gun that Harry forced and fed
into his mouth before I said

"No, Harry, he is not a—"

bam. No whore from Amsterdam
no (queer) beer
no chocolates or sweets
will make me wanna walk these streets
more than my love for Chloe does
red, frowning, crying as she was
seemed like she’d put on too much rouge -
goddammit, here in fucking Bruges.

Was there no other place to die?

I really, really hope I won’t.

I hope I don’t.

I hope I don’t.


and retract.
Pendulous leg -
foot barely touching ground.

Say toes are severed
say bone is broken clean;
say death is close ahead:
what then?

Say nothing happens -
I shudder to think.
The pull is overwhelming.

If only these futures would show.

Sometimes I do not wish to see.
Sometimes I simply wish to know.

the pull

Cracking knuckles
tapping pens against tables
flicking Zippos open and shut-

‘been waiting. and thinking.

Sentences of
punctuated by action
and reflection
all written down;
sketched out like a roadmap
for me.

Seems like any time now
I will see
that version of me
I’ve been looking for.

Humming songs and
flipping pages
tracing surfaces
with restless fingers

but it’s not really waiting.

It’s just springing to action
in slow
m o t i o n
over time.

Got the reason;
I just need the rhyme.