I left the diner at 12pm.
I brushed my slightly overgrown teenage hair back,
and put on my straw hat. My pink bike rested on a
coffee-coloured wall. I pulled a carton of cigarettes
out of my pink sweatshirt pocket, watermelon flavour,
to be exact. I strolled the street, with my
bike in hand and rose-red cigarette in mouth,
the tip lighting up like a black volcano, now and then.
Leaves, curled up like dolphins dance on these
I got on my pink bike
and Tokyo-drifted down the streets of solitude.
I felt like a penguin parading down deserts of ice,
delivering a holy message of nothingness,
my words are nothing,
my sentences are nothing,
my paragraphs are nothing,
my questions are nothing,
my answers are nothing,
and my poetry is nothing.
I zoomed down the silent and suffering streets
as an unimportant pink blur, a speck of existence.
Garbage bins zoom by, where my poetry sleeps,
full with wasps worshipping rotten amber apples.
The tropical tang of the watermelon cigarette faded,
I flung it from my marble mouth and
like an executioner, the bike wheels finished the flame.
The tiny black volcano lay extinct on the gravestone street.
Graffiti posed like a Playboy model on broken concrete walls,
painted by philosophical and political punks, the real heroes
who are censored by the desperate void of customs and rules.
All they want and all I want
is to be set free
by breaking the barriers
and the barriers of language and expression
and to be hidden by the eternal judgement and
distorted doubts of a non-existent closet of fear.
The dolphin leaves dance joyfully and swiftly,
like an American boy’s passionate kiss
filled with an erotic marijuana bliss.
I am with him now,
I am with him forever,
and I am with him in the grave.
I am with his lips,
I am with his hands,
I am with his stomach,
I am with his cock and balls.
I am with his legs,
I am with his heart,
and I am with his soul.
I am with Nate.
Desolate, hurt and confused in the Irish suburbanite darkness,
I dream of a warm, sunny day in North Carolina,
right outside my not-yet house and
on bright, emerald, neon green grass,
I lean in for a kiss
Upon a pink cloud
I held a cigarette
lazily and lifeless.
I sit near the edge
of the strawberry-cream cloud.
I stare at the rose-peach sunset
that tasted like Miami.
The apricot abyss reminds me
of my hollow heart.
Ashes fall like feathers.
burns and burnishes
my little, ludicrous
lips as I question
the ghastly thoughts in my mind.
there’s always a sapphire sea
in our melancholic, miserable minds.
I haven’t seen my sea for seven days
now. I avidly await it’s radiant return.
I shall salute it like a forsaken friend
or an atrocious ally. The indigo ink
and shadow scribbles flood my pale,
pessimistic page. I grunt like a ghost.
Loneliness and depression is the definite
cure for writer’s block.
In raspberry rain
and in mulberry midnight,
and in strawberry sunset.
I sit, soft as a marshmallow,
as I admire the cherry clouds,
fantasising the fruits of life
I mount myself on mint mountains,
as I stare up at the sugarcoated stars
as the strawberry sunset turns into
a luscious, liquorice limbo,
where whole thoughts squirt out.
Never, never to hurt anyone again.