Gradus ad Parnassum


These tangled sheets’ suspended animation:

Calamitous exploit into overindulgence.

Inebriated remnant of erstwhile dreams


An intravenous shot of all bodily senses —

My treasure when alone.

The scent of you that ambles, so stark in indiscretion

Upon my skin in absence of its owner. Calling.

Possessed my fingers rifle, all textures learnt unlearning

And blinded by the memory of you, my vision falters

In luminescent moods. Aquiver in dynastic fall

That voice… I hear it still. Transporting

Impious in staccato,

It ties itself around my wrists in conquest

In permutated taste, surrendered monosyllabic trigger…

I raise no claim on anything but you.  


Memento Mori

The grass was soft underfoot, freshly mowed.  Ismay breathed in its fragrance: her favourite smell. It reminded her of her grandfather, the long walks and horse rides he took her on when she was a child.

For many years after her grandfather died, there were a few dozen smells that reminded her of him. She could still remember the smell of his cheek after a hard days’ work at the farm: sweat mingled with a trace of rolled up tobacco. His hands were earthy when he patted her head.

His scent underwent subtle changes through the seasons: baked apple, cured ham, dandelions, pea shoots, sunflowers, grapes.

Time had been cruel. It robbed her of what she held dear. And little by little, it picked away her memories too. She was grateful that some still lingered, even if only as brushstrokes, impressions, moments captured within.