Life and Death


(mid 16th century: from Latin, ‘wreath, crown’)

This world will descend with us all wearing crowns,
our fear made of chain mail, ensuring we drown –
this royal, rich cluster-fuck the claws of a hound
pandemically torn; endemically bound.

One planet, one people, an abstracted art –
our hope stripped in layers while the illest depart.
Socialised distance the end where we start:
with sanitised hands we are bonded apart.

And yet, it is loneliness more than disease
that will whisper goodbye as we land on our knees,
extinction unmasking the death it will seize
as we slip well away with perpetual ease.

But we cannot forget how to smile in defiance;
we must find a cure and resume an alliance.
Our infinite strength is historically timeless:
let us fearlessly roar in the face of this virus!

© Tamara Natividad | | Written 21 March 2020


When it burns, the inferno
turns you into something not
quite finished and not yet
transformed and only
know your limits while the world
sits by and waits for its
‘pièce de résistance’ to rise from the
rebirth it gave you
like it had handed you first prize
when you had not yet picked
the numbers.

Your monster wears its party fangs
without asking first:
the current climate
calling for partial nudity and
cluster fucks with strangers who
drop their unweaned smiles
like crumbs inside the dirty of your lap –
and on and on it goes,
to martyr
to fall upon
deafened eyes and those blind
of learning.

And it burns, this puppetry,
in crowds of pantomime,
for the melting of your heart;
its wax upon the crutches of
you have chiselled from your chest
to bury alone. It burns, and
you know only how to self-combust and welcome Karma
for you fear it will one day leave without you –
and where would you run to
without those karmic ties to reign you in
or pull you back
or weave themselves inside to commandeer you.

Beneath this sweltering burst of oppression,
soiled and seeded, and
planted by the ankles in concrete shoes;
beneath the heatwave that rides you like you need an awakening;
beneath you – the hotplate – the hot knife – the hotel
embellished with red-black highways,
and roads of bloodshot weariness
raining from your eyes,

you, in party fangs
and crawling upon dusty knees
all over,
in and out
– Karma’s glove –
for anywhere else
but the squalor of this doomed acceptance.

© Tamara Natividad | | Written 09 March, 2018


I expect too much of time
in the little I have left.
I am a dinosaur,
and it,
the pummelling to come.

I wait for its whoosh to confound me;
the bending skywards of my neck;
the brevity of my innocence;
my un-vocal surrender.

A wounded animal,
contorted by such clarity,
by my lack of ease
as I awkwardly expire.

© Tamara Natividad | | Written 29 November, 2017


There we were
for a moment
awash with candy’d rainbows that shed
spun-sugar silk to dress this call for change.
It’s a pity
this entree tasted like a sundae of fever and fable.
Treasurers, we, to nought, now,
but wingless poetry; of letters, silent
and honest
we’d declined to share.

© Tamara Natividad | | Written 28 November, 2017


I fight rough
– healing you –
to turn truth
into your new home
Sharp edges
for the smoky silence
of a rear-view mirror

© Tamara Natividad | | Written 28 November, 2017


By and by,
the past, it passes –
date-raping purpose
through peering glasses:
pregnant pauses never lasting.

Every vanished thrill
restarting futures
on a windowed sill,
shadows casting mimes
in stills
as long will live the passion,
– hungry –
fuelling moments full to brim.

Just as quick, another morning
dawning – time to pass
and kill; murder,
just another constant,
one more loss on
sudden whim as
whereupon man solders on
to play the night another song
for day by day we carry on,
to pass another past

© Tamara Natividad | | Written 12 October, 2017


O, the involuntariness of life.
I did not ask for any of this. I
was not sinned from my mother’s womb to strife
between such small moments of bliss.

I cannot canter, all horsely and proud,
made to garden the fruits of my labour.
My soul was born to yearn loud, not
sink to another’s cold favour.

God willing, by the end of my days
I will leave achievements like letters –
small mercies for the suffering of babes
to learn how to generation better.

Peace comes at this fair price –
not without effort, or calling; but
through silent lessons, taught to them twice –
Elders way showing before falling.

And so, to these children of time:
mistakes beget paths, straight and narrow.
I was birthed as Creator of mine
to lead such a flight like a sparrow.

© Tamara Natividad | | Written 10 July, 2017


Apparently, I died yesterday, but my
last breath was somewhere between March and April
– it just took you another 3 months to decide
that you are the vastness of space
and I am the lungs that are empty without you

© Tamara Natividad | | Written 12 June, 2017


Your heart is a no-man’s land, and
you have fornicated, battle-ready,
with countless minds, The Art of War
alive in your apathetic stare;
a ghostly Sun Tzu in your shadow, and
its pages falling like poetry from your face

Yet, like a Viking, you roar,
axe in hand to slaughter dreams and cut ties;
no art, no honour, and just half the warrior
you claim to be – the septic engraver of
bloody runes and headstone eulogies

Norse winds carrying the poetry I write of you,
it’s pages never to reach your crimson eyes

© Tamara Natividad | | Written 27 May, 2017


My posthumous heart
declares no life without you,
yet, the holding of my breath
to mark your absence beats it louder

and as I listen to every bloody word
it whispers in my ears,
I wrap the sound around me
like your missing arms,
until my vitals fade,
wondering if you will ever rush
like this intimate moment,
to tend to my starving needs again.

© Tamara Natividad | | Written 17 May, 2017


It is here
in this bottle-necked existence, locked
into days captioned by ticks and tocks,
where time resides in each of us
until it stops,
rotating the same hands
inside the same third dimensional clock;

it is here
where every breath exhaled is a universal kiss –
it is simply one moment and
the space in between this
that binds together our journeys, which,
as uniquely defined as we feel each is,
are all chapters of the same book
we write to reminisce,
primed and painted with the same theme we
create to self-exist,
scrawled by the same pencil, held
by the same hands as we persist…
each of us artists
with the same precise and leather-bound twist

It is here
where we long for real purpose or true faith –
to believe that something
but in nothing we trust
yet, cry blame for our fate –
each a different monologue of the same hate;
the same distracting soul state;
the same periodic and prolific bait –
God would not want us, at any rate

It is here
in darkness, arms around each other’s back
that war hangs overhead in stasis,
circling, cycling on a track and
wearing thin our patience
while it leaks like yolk from all our cracks
(we watch it drip indifferently as we huddle tight within our pack)
for the next surprise attack:
we, like wolves, insane
and seeing red with every flash –
our lonely pain inciting hunger,
our deep abyss as black

It is here
in this cosmic explosion,
and it is now just as it was then,
that peace is nought but a tragic parody
of the dreams of passing men,
and nothing changes but the theatre of stars
in lines, in queues, end to end,
enemy to friend to
for decades once again,
consuming pain like greed as our bellies all distend,
living every angle of the lie like it is money we MUST spend,
the broken tales of each of us
portending, true, our end;
dangling one more burden
like a dog-tag for a past we’ve penned,
at rest beneath a headstone
in a yard of human bookends

© Tamara Natividad | | Written 14 April, 2017


In waking sleep we all expire,
remote organics built to tire –
searching lusts for something more
to fill our souls beyond our core

We lay awake inside a dream,
asleep within a constant stream,
alone, in part, to wander, lost,
with passing time our only cost

We play as shadows holding hands
with eyes wide closed and few demands,
our every moment briefly clashing;
fast forgotten memories flashing

Here, we count down from our birth
with time a thief upon this earth –
purpose teased at every corner,
Chinese Whispers our informer

But all will realise when we’re gone
that we were dreaming every song –
that death becomes another story;
a painless world of allegory

I fear we write this book forever
as single pages bound together
to lay inside our reader’s minds
in passing paragraphs of time

© Tamara Natividad | | Written 21st January, 2017


Journey across time with calendar wings,
moments packed like spare t-shirts
and extra socks,
passport in one hand and
a window seat to the right;
an empty notebook pencilled by thought –
its white void the clouds
that fuel your glorious lungs

Honeymoon with more sky and fewer limits,
bound at the ankles by freedom
– and spontaneity, by chance –
the fresh juice of destiny
your north in every glass of south;
a stomach full of butterflies
to take you to places the maps won’t

Voyage, gift-wrapped in mystery,
each sunrise peeled apart with branching arms;
that new car smell
to steer you upon the magic
of rhyming skies and watercolour footprints –
companionship in purpose
embedded into the souls
of all who climb the peaks of your dreams beside you

© Tamara Natividad | | Written 22 July, 2016


Led by foreign madness, we
– to long expected sleepless graves –
will swim to sink and drown in numbers
weighted down beneath the waves
with nothing left inside but shadows;
no-one left of worth to save.

In one end and out the other,
warring with psychotic pride, then
born again and made to suffer
– karmic purpose ill-forgotten –
each new chance at life, a buffer:
“Next time: change…” we chant inside.

Cycles written, history leaking,
sorely weeping through the pores
of growing wombs and offspring born
– another child of soulless form –
to breastfeed lies, imprisoned, shrieking
time again: disease repeating.

Sin ingested (soup for poor)
– the bile of shame and burden lost –
as people starve and lives are sold
and terrors planned to mind control…
and all the while our sickened bodies
hover, rotting, rank with worry.

Toll the bells – it’s time to breathe
and weed this horror from our conscience;
steer ourselves towards a pardon,
pave the way, resume our garden
seeding spirit, heart, and mind
with growth to bloom for one last time
or we, the people, incarnating,
won’t survive beyond our mating.


© Tamara Natividad | | Written 9th July, 2016



this moment will slip away from me
drowning out my fears in a raft made for two
oars afloat
beyond my cramping fingers
and nothing but my shadow will be revived


© Tamara Natividad | | Written 13 June, 2016


Piece by formless piece of me, compose of new desires:
write me back to life before my hope, deterred, retires.
Inflate my heart until it finds itself in soothing flight
and sprout for me the wings I need
to beat its rhythm right.

Expand my lungs to fill with life and bleed this void no more –
to breathe ambition in until it seeps from every pore,
expression-filled with written words:
my storm to self-empower.
Yet, in this silent wash of time I very humbly shower.

Find within my shadows proof of flawless, lustrous light.
Elucidate my purpose, forming day from cloudy night.
Write of peace, a balm, to heal my
bleakly fractured power –
a vision, rich, to seed and plant,
and soon, I hope, to flower.

Inspire my eroding soul with passion to ignite;
a reason to awaken, fresh; a fervour to incite.
Harmonise expression
to unlock what I admire:
write me back to life before I, sadly,
might expire.

© Tamara Natividad | | Written 13 June 2016



Bear witness
for in this river of flesh
I carry souls ashore
where countless numbers of
babes become men
become monsters and then
become thrustly
and greedy
and desperately famished
of reason but too fat with ease, and
too brittle and fractured
of heart and of sense
and, thus, absent of care
to repent or ascend
but instead,
so depend on their
wafer-thin skin to protect
their descent
into watery storms,
– into tangles of nets –
– into womanly curves –
and the blue, blue eyes of breasted streams,
ungodly fresh sin,
and purposeless dreams

Bear witness

as I birth these farmers of filth
as they strangle the earth
while I patiently wade in
the knee-high abuse
and the ocean of seed
to stand watch by their graves
where the no-longer-babes
– the sailors and cowards
and bastards that dribble –
are caught in a wave
of stone and soil ripple,
– are anchored and drowned –
without sight, nor intent,
but the passage of life
for a time
– once less lived –
due the freedom
I selflessly lost
but to generously

Bear witness:
I swell with the waters of life
– the mother and wife –
for an endless such blight;
yet, still, I exist, swept aside,
and, despite.


© Tamara Natividad | | Written 10 August, 2015



Time: a purpose
built for frolic and fancy;
an infinite seduction
so exquisite
that it’s yet to be considered to exist;
a burden so nameless
that life abandons it
almost upon inception.

© Tamara Natividad | | Written 4 April, 2015


My Passing

Come lay with me
so that I
with any luck at all
pass into the night
– yours, being the last face
I shall ever desire to see.

© Tamara Natividad | | Written 13 March, 2014



Every second we touch
leads us closer
to separation.

I would rather watch
for there is no end
in sight
to this vision.


© Tamara Natividad | | Written 26 December, 2013



If I were the ice
and you were the sun
I would
until there was nothing left of me
but a reflection of you
in my puddle.

© Tamara Natividad | | Written 12 January, 2014


rush recklessly forward
in awkward sentient colonies
by self-preservation
and fragility
by regret
and indecision and
burdened by lust
(shadowy voyeurs that we are)
in unreasonable haste
by misunderstanding.

awake sleeping
– faultlessly –
by emotion
and media:
to get ahead of change
before change changes.

We push
silently alone
– forgivably selfish –
and factory bred to be unaware
of what to ignore
drowning ourselves in excuses
and reasons to find them
searching for peace
and harbouring nothing
– absolutely nothing –
of the sort.

We survive
possessed by impression
and ruined by greed.

We launch
propelled on
and upward
finding any description that fits
to fit
calling it ‘destiny’
(the time we have left)
that time exists
but in the moments
that we hurry
(society, that is)
in droves
to pass on by.

© Tamara Natividad | | Written 11 January, 2014


The Man who never brought hell home
was wise beyond his years.
He suffered long
but lived it loud
imprisoned by his fears –
and those were thus:
that those before him
came and went
with nothing left but
pain and name
and more of same
who went and came
from seed in soil
to root and stem,
to fallen branches, time again:
a family tree to fuel the flames
on cold and lonely nights.

Embodied by the coat of arms he wore,
this Last to hold his name,
he swore,
– in vain, perhaps –
to stand at ease no more.

The Man who never brought hell home
encased himself in spite and spirits:
ghosts of generations gone,
encroaching deep within.
He sought for answers,
fought for reasons,
questioned why his bloodline grew
to fall and rise
and curse and kill
with secret lies
and stolen rights
and ties he could not sight.

The Man who never brought hell home
had died
the moment he arrived
– or so he thought –
he always said,
with eyes in search of something else . . .
perhaps that love that once he’d felt,
despite the years of crime he lead.
And what is left, again, but holes
to fill with buried woes and
broken war-like games and
shattered dreams
and darker still yet, nothing.
Nothing, as it always seems.

Not a sliver shall him by, it pass,
of hope,
of love,
of peace –
not until the very last,
this Man who never brought hell home.

And so, this Man, with blind belief
declared his story would be brief,
atoning for the sins he cast
in other’s lives
in years that passed,
and spent his days in self destruction,
free from want, control, and need,
biding time with bated breath
like men, before, who longed for death,
entrained in mind and soul,
until one day,
the hell that never came,
came whole.

For every man,
and son of man that once there was,
who sharpened knives
and counted tools
and cleaned his guns,
and polished pride, his moral compass
by his side,
who now lives to wake and wakes to die,
repelling faith, repelling truth, and
cussing lies –
this Man has died.

© Tamara Natividad | | Written 11 May, 2013



Clouds drift atop the stimulus of life
– mindlessly numb voyeurs –
blindly present,
vaporously absent from blame.


© Tamara Natividad | | Written 17 November, 2011



Faced again with options,
– I am –
thumb sore,
from hitching a ride
to any direction
I’m taken:
partial nudity
framing the high risk
beneath these threads –
allowing nothing
but neglect
to course through these veins,
closer than a man’s knife.

Nothing but dis-ease
can stain like old graffiti:
stubborn and unwelcome,
and impossible to wash away.

It beckons to take my life
– this weed that chokes me –
but I know better than that:
it’s already gone.
What little of me remains
is always outside searching.

– red lights –

– red eyes –

– bloodied hope –

So I’ll take their word
– these men who stop to ogle –
and their banter,
and I’ll take the seat they offer
while I push their oily hands away,
just to sink back
for a moment
into the stubborn stench
of leathered history –
into the cosy
but broken seats
of the ride I’m taking now
– not the ride of my life,
but the pick-up
to another stop.

And as I sleep with eyes wide
and ears open
I search within

for freedom and peace

– an end to it all –

But it’s their cigarettes and coffee
that keep me breathing.


© Tamara Natividad | | Written 19 October, 2011


Your sweet promise
coats me like a varnish,
wrapping my sticky desires
in an airless

Fatally sealed,
this timeless wait in madness,
this paused intent
of craftsmanship

one un-stepped
foot ahead

contains me like a parasite,
and I, far from drowning,
hibernate within;
mirages of possibility,
seeming eons of time

– bereft of touch –

pass me by, imprisoned.

But wide awake alone,
inside this vacuumed husk,
I quench my heart

– reflection –

while my hunger,
still unfed,
provides the popcorn
and the trailers
to the feature film
that scratches at my
and stunted soul.

I wait (believing)

baited and entombed,

for the next civilisation
to un-bury me

and recreate a reason
for my being here
that parallels an excuse
for their own.

© Tamara Natividad | | Written 28 August, 2011


Each branch
of my life-giving tree
provides a path
my heart can follow,
where its direction
and connecting purpose
lead outward
– always –
to infinite beauty:
to a scope beyond that
which its blind roots
and captured leaves
can only dream exists

© Tamara Natividad | | Written 22 June, 2011


Impale, oh thee, thine words
with burning, slow incisions,
once, and again,
unto death’s

© Tamara Natividad | | Written 22 June, 2011


Falling fast down hovelled stairs,
digesting wealth to ransom cares,
grotesque men who soil and harrow
suspend my dreams from thinning rope.

As discharge weeps from places raw
and blisters burn a molten core,
another phallus, soiled and poisoned
wants for smack and cunny’d whores.

I bleed from wounds so deep within
of pain so stark and crude and sore
that pins me ‘neath the brine of sin
like drowning prey in spunk and piss.

I fail to dim the moving shadows:
those twisting jerks of spewed release –
but coming soon will silent growls
of dripping fat and blistered guilts.

Voiced within me, vague and distant,
something cries, yet tears withdraw.
Copious unheard pleas are buried:
here lay I, unknown, destroyed.

To burrow past unhuman men
(to further seal a keyless lock)
would ‘splay me in the public eye,
exampled, maimed, defeated: lost.

Phlegm and fur may line my mouth;
engorged, my lips, a whore for more.
But somewhere deep inside myself
I’ve walked away from Brothel Shore.

© Tamara Natividad | | Written 18 October, 2009


Concurrent sessions of geometric,
(explicitly whimsical)
liquified squares
arose from patterned nether regions
of ‘somewhere else out there’
in smothering particles of
truest radiant flares.

And sat I upon the visible dreamscape space
that existed no-where
but outside of my illusory plan,
and cherished, I, the pictorial preempted
in the moment of my after-life birthing
of which polite demand
again beseeched me ride.

Yet not a one of the graphical displays
(filtered fresh from infinite dimensions)
approached me like a complete whole
– neither a partial whole –
but as a synchronistic sphere
of clouded systemic rumours
made to halt to keen attention
but one light-bodied and mirrored virtual soul
such as the sporadically alter-egoed I.

Flowing from one source to the next,
beyond the simple measure of a single point
a blast of knowing flagged a recognition spark
that folded time and space
betwixt one universal structure
unto the
(not unlike symbiotic)
self instructioned mind –
and so to Mind Exist described another route
for Love to spread It’s fastest cycle;
birthing cells and growing rife,
to yield a fresh creation.

And hereupon I watch/ed with hunger
that which transpired time before,
providing what is harnessed now,
with will to still repeat again,
and so again to knot forever
into chains of new momentum;
slipping through and marking too,
another path to God.


© Tamara Natividad | | Written 11 June, 2009