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.

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

Bells chime awfully loud,
Infiltrating a once clear mind
Now possessed by dings and tolls.
Puffs of blackened smoke accompany incessant whispers
And a uniform stomping of shoes along the busy street of asphalt.
A flood of hat-donning men absorb the road,
As women gaze from dusty panes and disapprovingly nod
At the odd march occurring streets below.
Flags of old fall down as new crests fly high —
Usurping what was known to be true and redefining unity.
Headlines equivocate: 'A Crisis on Flake Street', though,
If patricians did so, they'd've proclaimed freedom for all.
A conflagration of deceit and embellishments runs rampant
And joins those men parading the streets to their clear dismay.

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.

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.

An emerald stretch of well-trimmed lawn survives amongst the surrounding hill side.
Despite an evident contrast of greens and the dreary wheat-coloured plains,
The self-contained lawn remains indifferent.

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.

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

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.

Webbed bins
Empty leather chair
The tired birds who refuse to sing,
A lonely walking stick and
    The muffled cries from a neighbouring room.
Your bed dividing couches and tables,
Absorbing the living room
With an unaccompanied tick
    And a flood of chrysanthemums.
Bold letterhead proclaiming condolence with
    An air of regret of those who
Hadn’t the time
Hadn’t the chance
Hadn’t the effort
To for one last time
See your face
Chocolate roses excuse the crime
  All too busy when all was fine.

En route to the guillotine of my own construction
I gaze at each glimmer from your earthy eyes and
Cheers my own life in its final chapter –
  No longer wanting to mark the page.

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?

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.

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

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.

When I go home and you’re not there
The days won’t start the same
The familiar smell of rain
Makes it unfair
Your life was intertwined with mine
Yet I am cursed to remain
And go on much the same
In your absence
I can’t bear citrus
The garage frightens me
Walking is marred.
Why bother with this, I am mourning a death that has not arrived
But still, pain contorts me
Puppeteering
A grateful final act –
Time is on its side
Make use of night, do not mourn
Thanks to the now and the then
Discourage the future
Close your arms.

This is a game
To see who laughs first while we stare at each other.
It’s just a joke, you used to do it with your other friends.
I can’t look at you without smiling, so its obvious I will lose but I
Play because you look at only me for a few seconds and we
Share that, and I crave it.
It’s inevitable that I lose
But I didn’t think that meant losing you too
Sometimes, I still stare.

But I cannot remember the last time
Mine had come true.

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.

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.

How could I forget?
You were often good to me.
Though, never for long.

Envy a monster within.
To be jealous of what I am not,
Unlike him.
For simply
I am me.

'Welcome Home'
The words wrapped around the walls
Like the bandages on my body.

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.

'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.

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.

You forgot my birthday yesterday
Even when I told you that
I'm having a beer for my first drink,
And you laughed at me.
Oh God I should've known that when you handed me
A plastic succulent that still had a price tag under it,
You really had forgotten.
My mum and dad both told me that nothing good could come
From you and I just fighting and me always crying.
But my dog always loved you so I thought you must be good,
Even when the sun itself would run and hide from you.
I guess I should count myself lucky
'cause at least plastic plants don't die.
But I'll still send flowers to your mum on mother's day.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

North lay the Sea.
And for me
  To think of something
Other than old bone
Would be a thought (not quite my own)
  As that dumb thing
Lingers and leans at the back of my mind
Begging for attention from all humankind.

Yet still, it remains.
And dances cheerfully,
Wearing a face  (not quite its own)
And bearing a tone
Of uncertainty.

Lips of silver don sarcastic clothes
  With scarcely audible remarks
    Shaking the Sea itself, and
North it remains through it all.

I fell but it wasn't love.
Instead, it flickered to a bitter halt.
A once roaring blaze reduced to this -
Malicious antagonism wrapped in secrecy
That left me impuissant.

But still,
I fell.

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.

December was remembered for what it brought
Well, more specifically what it stole from us all.
Overwhelmed like a tear in rain –
An engulfing force demanding pain.
Then, colours faded from around
Until there too was no more sound,
  Agony seeped through each room
As flowers too refused to bloom.
What’s left now with no more glee?
Hard to say, you may agree.
  As it came so it went,
  Month followed month
  With no ill intent.
January now, time moves on
Not forgetting what had gone wrong.
One becomes two, and three and four,
Until remembering too becomes a chore.
   Now six later you sit and sigh
   When you know you should instead cry.
You say tears have expired
And are no longer required –
You should be thankful
For what December brought you.

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'.

There is nothing I don't know.
Expect you, perhaps.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

Though Death may be calling,
I remain on do not disturb.
For I am not prepared —
For I am not equal to He.

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

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.