Tag Archives: Eyes

Prism Dreams

I long to roll down the river called Prism Dreams; to feel the night sky percolate the open pores of my skin. But I heard that the riverboat overturned last winter; had kicked all of the stars out of kilter, had halted the flicker of dragonfly wings under a wearisome moon. I heard that life had become receptive to the fear that had flourished in the eyes of the submerged.


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If you were stood here watching my eyes, you would see a reflection of what I see before me,

Of smoking clouds punching at the forever seas, crashing waves to starry heights.

You see, there is an alluding mystery that pins me to this place,

Like a song playing on loop,
Tangled hair buffering in the breeze.
There is certainty in memories repeated.

If you were here, you’d hear me humming your biker name,
Stood in clad leather, a girl in the gang, your girl called,


You would tune into the fine red threads that pass over my eyeballs like road maps.

And I know that you’d know, that they are red thread highways, carved away over time,

by my desert love.


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Ernest Burroughs pulled the well-thumbed life manual close to his face. His cataract eyes failed him; so he sniffed out the written words with his white-haired nostrils. The words travelled his nasal paths to his brain; where he chewed on them vigorously, squeezing them of their collective meaning. Billions of random words danced atop his eyeballs like small dazzling clouds, when his chest tightened. And before he could impart the revealed recipe of immortality to mankind, a force pulled him through a white tunnel.


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White light dapples the snow through the trees. Winter’s breeze blows at flakes rested on branches, forcing them to chute to the ground like dancing angels. She rests on a bench; allows the winter sun to warm her face. She imagines that she’s sitting in a Christmas card scene; that everything is picture-perfect. But the woolly jumper that she wears makes her skin sweat and itch. She feels uncomfortable and disorientated. She gets up, walks; and decides that today she’ll smile at no one; and that she’ll keep her eyes fixed on frozen paths, which threaten to swipe her feet.


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Immortal Love

She narrates a passage from Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet; and her heart simmers as he watches her lips, with his ancient eyes.

‘A tragic story, my love,’ he says, brushing his fingers over the calligraphic text.

He bends to kiss her. She gasps, and feels blood trail down her neck. She watches it drip onto the page and expand like large ink spots.

‘You’re now immortal; and my death will shortly follow,’ he says.

He falls to the floor; and she watches his face turn pastel.

And on this day, every thousand years, she lights a candle in his memory.


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Reflections of Lady Abigail

I yearn for the pucker of youth that I once relished,

I ache for the shimmering face that could arrest the eyes of others,

A pursing of my lips only discloses the sunken contours of my face,

A wild flaring of my eyes only exudes bleakness,

My soul is dim,

I’m a shattered rose,

I’m crumbling,

I’m withering,

I crave the fragrance of light musk, summer dresses, flower picking, the lightness of step.

Time, you wait for nobody!

Time, you are not my friend!

I close my eyes in fear of my knowledge,

Inside I cry,

I fly,

I die.


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Elsie swirled the teacup around in her crumpled, conical hands; working the tea-leaves into a symbol. She had provided readings for many people over many years; it had given them an insight into their future.

‘What can you see, Elsie?’ The young woman asked.

‘My dear, I saw my own face merged with a skull. The skull is a symbol of demise. I am going to die very soon.’

The woman trembled at Elsie’s words.  As she became pinned to her chair with fear, she witnessed Elsie’s face contort; her eyes bulge and her head slither slowly to the table.


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Miranda refused to rummage in her handbag for keys, on dark nights, at her front door. She had watched numerous horror films and knew that someone would likely creep up on you in that second that you became distracted. So, when she found herself wobbling home from parties, too nauseous to take cabs, she would grip the keys in her hand, always ensuring one chub was pointed outwards, so that it would slide into the lock with ease, when she arrived at the door. She had never contemplated that one night the keys would become a weapon, become imbedded in her attackers’ eyes.


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Vogliatemi bene (Love me, please)

Puccini’s Madame Butterfly permeated the kitchen with its melancholy, as pungent tones of Bolognese elated their senses. As they chinked flutes, sipped on Sauvignon, kissed and embraced, she closed her eyes and envisioned that they were a couple, in love.


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The Raven

That day had been notorious. I had strolled across the tribe-island where I had glimpsed a raven perched sternly upon a birch branch. I had gazed at it but had not met its eyes. My grandma had warned me over again as a young boy to never look, not even in a time of weak curiosity. I would question why and she would reply, ‘Danton, it will bring with you much danger and bad luck. The red gleam of light that comes from a ravens’ eyes will weaken the soul of any that look into them; just like the sun is danger to eyes on a searing day.’ I had gazed at the black plumage of the raven perched there as I recalled her words, and my feet had become unsteady with terror. It had begun to squawk, to make a racket with its heavy wings; then it had flown from the branch, over the bank towards me; the shadow of its span had buried me into darkness, and my legs had begun to crumble beneath me. Its sharp beak had struck my head many times. I had fallen to the ground in pain, in silence, frozen with fear. Then it stopped, and as I looked at it I had witnessed my own blood stains drenched in its feathers; red on black luminous plumage; so beautiful, so ugly. Then it had flown into the sunset horizon, leaving me marred with its violence. I was twelve years of age on that notorious day, and there has been no day pass since, when I haven’t looked a raven in its eyes.


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It’s four in the morning, and I’m sat in this room of gloom, eyeing pictures of you, of us. The rain clouts against my window, violent yet so soothing. I stroll to the door with my head tilted like a broken doll because I sense you standing in the hallway. The door creaks open, and there you are my love, with those dark eyes of yours; the ones I fell into. I run to you but you run from me, and I can only scream, urge you to return, but you are gone. Then I remember that time has slipped by; almost a year has passed. The panic subsides, yet the pain lingers on. Your voice calls from outside and I wander towards the lake, where I sense you. The front door of the house bashes in the wind, and I leave it behind, allowing silence to envelope me as I walk. And again I remember that time has slipped by; almost a year has passed. I’m at the edge of the lake but you are not here. Where are you? Don’t you want to exchange conversation with me? Don’t you remember us laughing that night, when the sun melted into the sky? Don’t you miss me? I sink to the ground, and my heart can take no more. He played games with the one that loved him. I slide into the water. The coolness soothes my soul, my mind; and slowly I sink into darkness, and I am gone.


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