Beauty and Madness (And a Handful of Poems)

Update: The first draft of Beauty and Madness is complete. The second novel in my Beauty series is now into the editing stage. The next novel in this series will be written in Lisbon this summer and until the time comes I will be writing a book of poems using the pen and the words of Cassandra, the female lead in the series.

Writing this series of novels has been a great adventure so far, I have never spent so long with the same characters and I feel as though reality and fiction are getting confused at times. Am I writing my thoughts, or theirs, are these my dreams or theirs?

So far I have set these novels in cities I had already visited. Budapest for Beauty and Freedom and now Sevilla for Beauty and Madness. But now for the third book I will be writing it in Lisbon, the place where the final chapter takes place. So I will be well and truly living side by side with these fictional compatriots of mine.
Travel and literature make amazing partners.






Suffused golden light

Smoking sepia in the night.


Finger nail moon sleeping a dreamless sleep

Venus, bright earring of night, watches on.


I watch the two eyes of night

Spying on me as if I were

A hole in the cosmos

– And Lisbon disappears from sight.


It seems suddenly impossible

That Lisbon is alive.

It feels more like

An existential déjà vu.


In Lisbon I can find love,

Fulfill a thousand new bucket lists,

Get a diamond bright career

Or date a seedling of fame.


But I won’t do any of that tonight,

Not as long as the ethereal moon

And 4K Venus are so perfectly aligned.

There is grandeur in this view

And I’m not moving.


Leave wanting to the crusaders of Lisbon,

Here my verb-less existence

Is as pristine as the moon and Venus

For I know I am nothing

But the light I unknowingly exhale.


In not dreaming there is seeing,

In seeing I fall into a dream.





Why should I worship Christ

When all that means

Is worshiping the beginning

And the end?


Why should I worship

The Greek gods of Olympus

Only to give marbled names

To the present that veils me?


Why should I worship nature

As if it were the font

Of all the beauty bathing

The planet I happened to be born in?


Why not worship instead

– If I truly know what worship means –

The city of Lisbon, purely because

It is the city of Lisbon

My eyes innocently gaze upon now?

Lisbon has no higher meaning

Beyond the fact that

The city of Lisbon

Is what my eyes are choosing

To innocently gaze upon now?



Crying Into the Tagus


Crying, crying into the river

Crying as if I didn’t matter

Crying tears that leave no ripples

In the indifferent embrace

Of the unending waves.

A man stops to ask me:

“Why are you crying?

Crying, why, you are so young

Crying, why, you are so free!”

Crying, I remained silent

Until, crying, he left me.

He thought he could give

His life meaning if he could

Have alleviated my crying;

Crying, poor stranger,

Crying, he went away,

Feeling a failure in purpose

Crying that this strange loner

Was crying still.

Crying, I wish I could have told him,

Crying, I am happy crying,

Watching my tears being swallowed

By the titanic Tagus,

Barely noticing the solitary drops,

Crying, happy that the river

Never asks me: why are you crying?

I am crying into the oblivious river

Because my crying doesn’t mean anything.

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