I
Whether inner or outer, the matter is naught
Many sought after what cannot be bought
Though heart and mind is where it all lies
An impeccable vision beyond your mere eyes.
  
The signature mark of human kind
Dream and reality all intertwined
Cold as ice, hot as raw fire
Grand aesthetic for all to admire –

Seldom achieved, unable to build
Quenches all thirst, all hungers fulfilled
With all imperfections, itself so flawless
Rules are negated; thus, it remains lawless

Greatest of weapons bound by no defence
For it may be subtle, yet so intense
Partnered with love, a potent ideal
Beauty will call, no need to conceal.

II
Silence lay steadily against the barren walls
Aging wood, icy stone
An empty carcass rotting away
Unable to feel or be felt
                        Allowing nothing in or out
Though a poison seeps within its walls
Changing it, from what it was once before
Now wearing a mask as if to disguise,
                   The unseen horrors lurking inside
Goblins and ghouls are the least of your worry
For what lies inside is far more heinous
Beauty’s opposition, readily awaits
No longer a guise hiding the truth -
Reality is met with eager eyes
A stammering figure soundlessly screaming  
Hauling chains and a mirror of lies,
Though not evil, a choice in itself
                   Ugliness within can often be mended.

A rocket ship cannot be orange and red with white open hatches.
A rocket ship cannot live only on cotton.
A rocket ship cannot have wings of blue taking it high.
A rocket ship must be up in the blue sky.
A rocket ship needs to see stars above.
A rocket ship is not yours to keep.
A rocket ship blanket, however,
May be orange and red with white open hatches,
May exist on your soft cotton
And have wings of blue which take it high, though,
Not in the sky to see the stars above, but
Remain yours to keep as you nuzzle for comfort
In a world where real rocket ships rise.

The pail hurriedly fills to its brim
From a gushing river, pure and deep.
Unsullied by the chrysanthemums and lilies
Which encircle the babbling brook.

‘Almost full!’ proclaims the Lark
Perched atop an aged oak,
As the wet trickles down the bail,
‘Soon, soon, soon’ he sings his song.

Down flutters the Owl with a hoot,
‘What say you, Lark?’
‘With your songs so sweet and pail bursting,’
Feathered talons grasp the neighbouring birch.

The tinkling warble resumes,
‘Not yet full!’ the Lark weeps,
In a melodic trill.
‘Still. More must be filled.’

Amidst the river stones and collapsed trunks,
The pail sits, engulfed in the serene.
O'er the vessel the Owl hovers,
As talons clutch the sopping bail.

Suddenly, the jaws separate, delivering a soft hoot;
‘To be bursting is no more complete than to be hollow’,
Warns the venerable Owl with its warm,
Serrated feathers surrounding its pale face.

‘Well, when shall I quit?’ asks the Lark in a daze,
Raising its beak to the Heavens.

‘You shan’t quit. For we all strive to be full.’
Asserts the Owl, bathed in divine light,
‘The water shall forever drip in this stream, as it shall drip in you.’
As he ascends in a flurry, the pail too flies,
Splashing upon the adjacent foliage,

Now it rests
    Neither full nor empty.

Surrounding the family of six was a woodland,
shrouded in shrubbery and
trees which seemingly rose upward forever,
linking the earth to the heavens.
The forest wrapped around the castle like a bandage on a wound,
isolating them from those far beyond the greenery and
obscuring the perfect orange circle which did not
shine upon the bitter Hold.

I think words disgust me
But touch amuses me
I get confused sometimes and
Mix up what I think
I think touch disgusts me
And words amuse me
But I never do know
What I really mean.

The synapse in which both of You and I meet.
Though, no longer can I tell where I end and You begin.
An enduring connection of which escape is dubious.
Inevitability remains a common guest,
A parasitic fiend that clenches control
As You and I laze, nonchalant of the approaching villain
That of whom strides quicker, grows stronger, and wills to linger.
A darkened silhouette against our brush plain.  
Finally: It conquers us, You and I,
And as It reveals itself I see It's face - one of a cryptic familiarity.
The Unknown presents It's dominance with an otherworldly grin.
In that moment, I see what looms so maliciously.

I see that after all, It was truly You,
Rather than some unnameable Thing
Or a being higher than I,
My sunset plain was merely broken by You,
And You alone.

A blurred midnight blue landscape
Opens to you with a gleaming pebble
Of gilt and affection.
     As sapphire waves beat the brazen boats
                Bedded on shores of a thousand stains,
                     Encircled by nautical carapaces of a time unseen,
             Prior to the reign of oceanic potentates and
       The submarine souls which now tread
   Haphazardly, thirsting for an iota of freedom amidst
A home long since ravaged.

Though, memory resides of a time before then,
As the undersea flaunted its life unsullied.
The folly of man an ironic query
To which desolation retorted
In the voice of Another.

They float and fly,
Ascending to a place
Much higher in the sky
Though little see how they chase
You into yet another cry.
But you accept it, just in case
You fail to come by
And deliver your final good bye.

Purple balloons soar
As he enters an endless sleep
To which escape is no more.

Purple balloons
Much higher in the sky
Coldly whisper;
'Good bye'.

The muted sound echoed like cathedral bells,
Followed by a hurried crowd
Of youngsters and ladies
Donning timeless frocks and shirts of old.

The courtyard green enchanted all.
Halting passers in transit,
An invitation to thy abode
Enclosed by young stargazers and aged bark alike.

The tempting branch reaches out.
Pulls you in with a faceless grin.
The torn frock all that remains in your world.
Timeless no longer.  

The New World opens before you,
A thundering display of welcome.
In a Time unlike yours
You sit.

A face of petals
Surround an opening
Of childish hot pink
That has come to define you.
Yet,
Bruised ears hang
And catch words -
Polite and not.
As Old ale graces your lips
And warms you
Despite resultant fatigue.
You're tall now
And fall apart -
Drooping,
Like frail birds of paradise
Burning in moon shine.

At midnight I'd see a cat
Male or female I do not know
Though they're fluffy —
White as snow.

A pleasant approach with an embracing face
As the creatures eyes glow
Warmer than the ol' Moon up above
And shine so splendidly that I often forget
Both the time and place
In which we met.

How can a nameless feline like you
Make me ponder who I am?

A shoeless man aboard an expedition into the unknown
With overgrown nails bathing in warmth,
Grasping a primordial camera, searching for focus
Amidst an evermoving piece of land,
Restricted to the callous one meter pane -
All that he could ever call his own.

Cautious gazing intertwined with
Tapping feet and unkempt hair.
As a poisonous addiction engulfs the air
Of which he thinks he can breathe no more

One last breath for the journey Home.

It's really great to see you again -
But who are you exactly?
With an uncanny likeness to someone I once knew.
A traitor of culture and face.
A soul come adrift.
Where do you wish to be?
You've always desired more,
Yet I see your future clear.
An empty carcass devoid of what gave you self.
A voice soft-spoken and bathed in envy,
Lacking cognizance and perpetuating hedonistic acts.
A departure from your familiar figure with a ghastly outstretched hand
Requesting I become like you,
Abandoning oneself and
Embracing thy disarray.

Copper walls insulated the cold heart of gold,
   with limbs of steel extending out,
touching the comparably icy concrete floor.
   The perfectly symmetrical skull of bronze contained
   an inhumanly small encephalon of cobalt,
packed with scarlet wires and a
near invisible flashing microchip.

Alone in the sterile room,
the infantile Adam,
now standing for the first time,
observed his surroundings as he further
         extended out his limbs – taking his first steps.

I am a God
Conceit and ego aside,
I would like to announce to all that doubt
That I am a God
My bones are rubble
Debris floats around me
I mock reality
Lick my lips
Salt my tongue
Devour the sun
I am a God
Contorting my pain
Into something tangible
Remove my skin
(A muddy coat)
I’m a feline I scratch.

The red stained concrete often intrigued the neighbours, though they unanimously agreed to never bring it up with the Atkinsons.

When I was little
I needed my dad to lower my chair with his weight.
When I alone pulled the lever
My chair would go higher and higher
When I wanted to go down
So my dad would sit and pull and
Take me down with a grin.

guys I made a book!
https://au.blurb.com/b/11021892-cherry-whine

When meaning collapses and words dance
Thoughtfully, attempting to rediscover purpose
Beyond mere sound,
You will look to the darkened chamber
And see an unusually familiar phantom –
One which you would think belongs far in past
Yet refuses to be relegated to such a place.
A fleeting moment reminds you of when letters resembled
Joyous times of pleasures now unthinkable
As a sweat stained collar renders all poetry dumb.

Eagles of stone stood valiantly outside
The rickety aged home of wood planks.
Though, were unsuccessful in their duty of protection,
As the roaring conflagration reduced the estate
To mere smoke amidst the icy air.

I wish I were a bird
Though not just to fly
But to be void of troubles
That is why

Mannequins move when people do not.
The untrodden land a lingering invitation
To which a response is owed yet seldom delivered.  
Edifices of grandeur loom with open arms.

Mannequins move when people do not.
Hills green with envy and
A thousand eyes which blankly stare
At what dares traverse a land bereft.

Mannequins move when people do not.
Voices cry out in an unfamiliar tongue
With an intertwinement of shrieks
And woeful sobs that reverberate far beyond.

Mannequins move when people do not.
Vacant cradles still rock
Back and forth as they once did
Long ago when whines were heard.

Mannequins move when people do not.
A longing to return to what once was
Before the shrapnel had rained
And they marched, unashamed.

Mannequins move when people do not.
Poppies of red made all the redder,
And slanted signatures upon scarlet letters.
Yet, a lone gaze accompanied a fragile thought,
With sorrowfully spoken syllables
And pursed lips, almost hypocritical
In their aimless deed to redefine sympathy.

Mannequins move when people do not.
For what else does when people do not.
Mannequins move in tactless ways,
Not knowing of transgressions of past days.
Mannequins move when people are nought.
Land demands a usual offering,
One of which silence is futile.

A grey-faced lady sits solemnly on a bench
For the fourth night in a row.

The twilight radiance casts a peculiar shadow
Around her presumably turquoise jacket
With bursting pockets of paper and pens.

Encircled by brightly-coloured books,
The lady, for the first time in her bench lamentations,
Raised her head and looked over to me.
And as our soft gazes collided, we noticed the darkening
Of the scarcely visible Moon, and the resultant
Gloom which consumed the surrounding greenery.

Though, she, with dreamy eyes, whispered so sweetly –
"I'll see you soon",
As she stood and became one with the encroaching dark.

We sat on a log
And called it a spaceship
You insisted on being the pilot.

The more I look into your eyes,
The more I see the one-way mirror,
     Yet I dare to look.
I see my silhouette,
Though I’m unsure if You do.

Above was a canvas, splashed with more stars than anyone could count, except Lorence. Stars shined atop the lavender and cobalt backdrop and encircled the warm glow of the Moon, with hundreds of thousands of eager eyes watching on as a blissful light danced across the sky. Most witnessed this display through their bedroom windows in the early hours of the morning, but some had different ideas. Some had bigger ideas.

The loud creaking was quickly subdued as Lorence, shuffling up the stairs on all fours, held a thick blanket against the aged wood and mouthed a quiet shush to the ground beneath him, as loud footsteps approached from above.  
“What are you doing awake?” Mumbled a lofty bearded man, still dreaming.
Lorence froze, like a prisoner caught tunnelling to freedom.
“It’s a full moon tonight!” He replied, far too energetically for this early hour.
“Alright. Well, get to bed.” His dad smiled. “And get that thing off of your back,” he gestured towards the bulky telescope.

After his dad left, Lorence’s mission continued as he waddled towards the balcony with his blanket around him and telescope clutched by both hands. The magnifying light from above entranced Lorence as he stood outside the balcony door, his eyes reflected the unspeakably stunning gig in the sky. A white light suddenly appearing in a nearby house broke the spell causing Lorence to rub his eyes dry and set the telescope down. He fiddled with it for a moment before peering through the fogged eyepiece. Navigating the instrument towards the window of the lit red-brick house, he spotted a white-haired lady comfortably lounging on the patio, fitted with a smile. Lorence then knew his mission wasn't yet over.

The friendly aged face grinned at the boy from her solitude, as she looked to the heavens, basking in the glory of Orion’s Belt as it wrapped around the sky like a bandage on a wound. She squinted, adjusting her eyes to the pits of black between the pearls of the night, and the eternal unease they brought on – the emptiness of her home a reminder of her perpetual loneliness. She dealt with these lingering thoughts through rhythmically snapping her fingers to some imagined tune in her head, her favourite at the time was Bobby McFerrin's 'Don't Worry Be Happy', which was always bound to inspire glee.

With a large yawn, Lorence darted his eyes around the woman’s house, observing the unkempt lawn resulting in excess shrubbery, the flickering lights almost mirroring her compulsive clicks and the unusually shaded mould growing on the side of her house like a festering wound. The lady, still smiling, still clicking, raised her left hand and signalled to the boy to join her in her stargazing. Getting to his feet, Lorence slung the telescope over his shoulder as he quietly navigated the dim hallway and tiptoed downstairs one step at a time.

Now outside, Lorence raised his hand to lock the door behind him, clumsily dropping the keys on the porch decking and freezing him in place. Realising the house remained asleep, he collected the keys and continued his mission.  As he approached the neighbour’s house, he followed the sound of the rhythmic clicking. Peering over the side gate, he saw the woman, still staring at the stars.

“There’s a better view from here!” She proclaimed, without turning towards him.
Lorence fiddled with the latch on the gate and moved to stand beside her.
“I didn’t realize I had a fellow stargazer living so close,” she grinned, with her eyes still to the skies.
“My dad bought me a telescope for my birthday last year. I try to use it every night, but he doesn't let me stay up late.”

Lorence, noticing the woman’s unbroken gaze, mirrored her as he looked up. The pair now stood, entranced by the astronomical splendour above them. For the first time in a long time, having someone to share in her love of the skies, the old woman shed a tear.  

The boy glanced and noticed the reflection of the bright display on the woman’s cheek.

In their moment of pure bliss, taking in the wonders above them, the world around them stood still, until a loud noise penetrated the moment, startling Lorence.

“Did you hear that?” His attention diverted from the sky.

Before she could respond, the noise intensified until it became deafening. The once picturesque sky lit up to a blinding white. And darkness followed.

Possums on a wire
Or on a roof.
Wherever they transpire
They remain aloof
To what problems we
Inflate and accumulate

Possums on a wire
Or on a roof.
Little care for how we take fire
And hide the proof
Of what damages us
Until the day
We meet our fate —
Wherever it may be;
Possibly on a wire
Or on a roof.

If you see her; send my regards
When her sweater doesn't quite fit anymore.
Her new, four-year-old paper hangs above her bed. 
Dust gathers on my old shirt buried in her cupboard.
Winnie wags her tail for the last time.
She's promoted.
Thinks of me plainly.
I see the white envelope slide under my door —
I send my regards.

How do the gnawing claws of Death ache less than the resultant onslaught of loneliness?

You'll struggle to find a home
Without smiling pictures hanging
On the walls.
No matter where you go,
You'll always find a home
With smiling pictures hanging
On the walls.
Because who would want to remember unhappiness
Because a wall is but an ideal of what you wish to be
Because no one would hang the sad pictures
On the walls.

Rapping at my window,
Tracking in mud —
Allowing a draft to enter
My four walls.
Who is that knocking on my door?
A wordless whisper accompanies your sightless gaze
With a ***** essence following.
Who let you in?

We don’t really cook anymore
It’s just easier now
Not worrying about
Pots and pans and knives and forks and napkins and
Instead thinking about waking.
If ever there was a right time, it would be now
I die when you call them movies
Insisting that they’re films
One semester I studied it
I know better than you.
I surrender
If I’m not the best why bother?
I’m lonely but in an existential way
I’m not simple
I don’t just want.
I complain
I’m not the best now
I liked hurting girls
You know I’m well read?
It doesn’t stop there
I worry still
Just about me.
But also
I’m still worried about what we’ll drink
And what’s for dinner
I think tomorrow is important but I'm starving.

What causes this?
Arguably the greatest tragedy one can observe —
Amidst cigarettes, grog and gum sits a bouquet of
Freesias intertwined with blossoming buttercups which illuminate the murky can.
But why?
The scent of faeces now stains the bright bunch of flora,
As the once shining ribbon of gold takes on the foul sheen of the ramshackle can,
And now, I ponder how one can do this.
I ponder how you could do this —
To me.

As I said my goodbyes,
Exited the room in a haze
And hummed a mournful tune.
You lingered in the doorway with glassy eyes
And lips which struggled to perform on command,
A silent voice.

Outside, incandescence guided my journey
As filth cleansed my feet
And barren edifices surrounded me.
The rhythmic drip of murk from
Congregated puffs of white above blinded me.
As her silhouette emerged
Sweet as ever.
Bathed by beams of crimson.
It can’t have been.

You march forward. As though you’ve located your voice
Your lips purse and push each syllable out one after the other,
Your pacifying tenor cherished each sound, like all of what left
Your mouth was lyrics to an unknown song.  
You continued, never stopped, as words gushed like a stream.
I stood, paralysed.

I'll tell you all about it when you awake —
How the brilliant bees buzzed as they rested on your
Birds of paradise and hummed a happy tune alongside
The brightly shining beams of radiance,
And the scent of sweetness resonating from
Your hive which filled my nostrils.
I'll make sure to tell you all of it —
And I won't skip a single detail.

Your clock now rests on my desk,
And each tick and tock simulates the beating of your heart,
A heart which now rests in the earth —
The earth from which it came from
And of which it has now returned to.
Your clock now ticks for you,
No longer with you.

You collected what remained of Me
With an embrace too familiar.
As barren eyes leered
And spiritless reassurance washed over.

Your once crimson silhouette
Now a fading grey,
Polluting the air with addiction.
Engulfing what you wish to call your own.

My journey and my body
No longer my own.
Perfectly yours as you thief.
A victimless crime so you deceive.
Apathy a cruel creature.
Remorseless and voracious.
And so, I solemnly grieved
For what I was yet to achieve.

The call of the void to remain unanswered.
Yet, there You were to bring me Home.

Like a blip upon the timeline that is My life
I struggle to recall the time,
Though, not so long ago that I had entirely forgotten,
When days were consumed by your presence.
Whether speaking or simply sitting – basking in whatever
The environment offered us, it mattered very little.
I long for the stretch of time which seemed endless to
Once more return,
And to fill My life further,
Reminding me of what friendship felt like –
A foreign comfort now rarely received.

A barren home
An indescribable emptiness
“Under development”.
A loss which lingers.
The air of pain.
Still, there remains
Something.
A speck of gilt
Serrated and luminous
In the ravaged pasture o’ emerald,
Murders of crow’s chortle,
Feathers of lark’s fall
Bodies of sparrow’s lay.
A display, spread uniformly amongst the
Blades of liquor-green, stained with
Unusual crimson.

'Asleep', they say.
Waiting for whatever is to come next.
Though, a crooked nose and
Scent of decay pulls you back
To this reality —
The one you left not too long ago.
Empty eyes lacking pigmentation
Feigns life and claims you,
But only I see it.
Only I
Hate the past tense.

You're on watch, you cannot sleep.
Torpor looms as fingers twitch,
Stay up, stay alert
Now is your time.
You mustn't give in to fatigue.

Sterility encapsulates the ironically termed 'living' room,
With beeps and hisses battling for supremacy
In a growingly discordant manner.

Until the living interferes
And proclaims 'No more'.
No more shall rhythmic tunes stake their claim,
No more shall the room of white become stained
With the pain of a world unknown.
No more shall men of Earth be lulled by your faux swan song.

Though, sounds of 'life' carry on.
"You're on watch, you must now sleep"
Purrs a cloaked figure.

A gathering of clouds reminds me of what it was like
All that time ago, when you were more than an echo.
Now, rainfall is all but a memory of what is lost,
And what I am yet to accept is gone —
Reduced to an untouchable phantom wearing your clothes.
But as the rain gives up, I still see your hand over me
And I manifest a grin to show you I'm here,
Still.
After all this time,
I, unlike you, never left.
Because without you, the rain is cold.

Our fire's died out
since Winter.
    Yet the house somehow
remains engulfed.

A room full of amber is new to me.
So is the presence of another —
For I feel o so out of place here;
Wherever here may be.
But an air of unfamiliarity is nothing new
To one as old as I —
A traveler of face and place.
A thousand patricians sing a song of Old World fame with lips wide.
Still, I am unaware of this place and nameless face I bear.
I am evidently not from around here - or so I'm told, as strangers watch on
With glazed eyes and indistinguishable faces that silently scream, begging for my removal.
An unwelcome guest to a backwards land of the final ring.
To which I submit.

A year since his death and I’m fine.
I don’t mind formalities but
Being backed into corners by crazy family is more than I can handle.
    Your aura has changed!
    It’s blue, know what that means?
    Oh, of course not.
    I never saw you as a writer but
    Psychology is a well-fitting hat.
    Are you happy? You look sad,
    Whys that?
I’d be happy without this conversation.
There’s no cold water left.
I wake up and everyone is still here.
The house is anxious
The dog screams
I say these things, but I know I am fine.

I met a woman at a bus stop once.
She sat next to me, which I, being a teenage boy in a school uniform, found peculiar
As that sort of image usually acts as a repellent for kind-looking individuals.
Though, I was glad, and promptly shuffled over.
As she sat, she began to speak to me, and her lips pursed and carefully let out each syllable with such care,
As though every sound she produced meant something special - something beyond the confines of the English language.
I recall her introduction, as she looked to me and smiled;
'Hi, I'm Joanne, and you?'
Without thinking, I shook her hand and we began chatting.
At this point, the bus was probably thirty minutes away, and we knew this conversation had an obvious expiry date.
Joanne then spoke of her husband, who had recently lost a hard-fought battle with pancreatic cancer,
And made what I initially thought to be a mundane passing comment, as she noted that I resembled him —
Though, I had no reason to inquire as I was hardly in a position to request information about a strangers deceased husband.
As she continued, she repeated a phrase which she said her husband used to often ramble:
'Another day in paradise', and smiled each time.
At the time, I never understood the four words she had said again and again, and I questioned what she had meant by it.
Even now, writing this, I struggle to comprehend what one could infer from such a vague phrase.
Though, the answer seemed much clearer as our conversation approached its inevitable end,
And Joanne once more commented on how my hair fell to the side much like her husband's.
As the bus sluggishly made its way to the stop in front of me,
Joanne stood, with the blinding sun above illuminating her and the blackest black shadow below her,
As she said farewell, echoed the phrase one last time, and walked to the
Bus stop across the road, and took a seat.

Stealer of face
Engulfs my very being.
Though, regardless of what I desire
I understand that ultimately
I am yours.
I will always be
Yours.

And I may be nothing more.