So often I feel that I do not exist
And I have wondered what it would be like
to allow myself to
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Just­ outside your field of vision
Blending in with the nothingness
that borders the outskirts
of your periphery
I want to be where I am not
Exist in liminal space
in emptiness
as nothing…
Broken charcoal
pencils and crayons
are all just as useful broken
as they are whole
A broken mirror
offers you your own reflection
fractured
warped
but it is still you
reflected

The luminous grey undersides of clouds
Travelling a charcoal sky, speak my thoughts aloud
As thunder
                    Reflections of my mind's wandering eye

The balm of sun and charcoal smoke
instantly evoke lost togetherness
from the very first time in the eighties
when beguiled by a well fired banger
and Russ Abbot opined a party

Hold fast to the Proustian rush
as soon enough the dim seasons will return
and the muted, sterile days withhold
all but a sense of cold and pause,
so revel in the glut and sing

Each stroke of my charcoal pencil,
Scraping against paper,
Scratched out yet another scar
Masking my feelings
As they bled on paper-
Black rivers running scarlet,
And locked it there,
A dam brimming
Unleashed,
Wiped off, in a brave
Attempt to never
Be uncovered again,
Sunken
Under alluvium.

i called him ash
as charcoal was a bit obvious
and i loved him
so of course
i had to keep it a secret

I’m thinking all my charcoal thoughts—
Scorching on my mind—
I’m thinking all my crumbly words
Are worth the dark’s dull time
I sit here in the dark
And watch the embers burn
The feelings of the faces here
Mean nothing in the urn.
I sit against cold tiles,
Hiding in the dark
The fire burns me inside out
I’m alone, I’m hurt.
I sit deep in the fire
I have no more bones to give
All my blood is boiling
And my eyes have all but caved
I sit here in the fire
And think my charcoal thoughts
I want nothing else to do
With anything but dust.
Burn the legs and up the arms
I’m done with walking free
Burn the brain, the heart, the soul
I retire to the dream.