One wise merchant:
once tried to sell you a concept.

There you were,
lounging on the street,
like any half decent loiterer,
when this haphazardly placed shawl,
bumped you to a wall.

Tattoos fluttered along their brow,
their mouth shimmied from one thought to the next,
and this,
gypsy of a fool,
was trying to sell
the thought
that you would die.

Knife to throat,
fist to rib,
eye to eye,
it was a convincing proposition,

but ultimately,
only a salesman's pitch.

You wonder,
ears curled in on themselves like hunched over drunkards,
when your art became objects.

The artifacts hang,
from frayed skeleton string,
stretched and whittled like string-bean veins.

Your hand itches,
like distilled water as thunder growls overhead,
and you know it is reaching for a pen.

No longer,
can you stare into the mirrored engravings,
and see fleshed out  words.

Scant nothings,
hum their prayers up into the sky,
but you do not follow.

There is,
time for you yet,
and art is not reality.

A milky veil trickles across your window,
it has the same consistency as cloud,
and as fingers run from edge to edge,
you sigh, as if pleasured, by this translucent skin.

Your body is as still as stone,
neither lungs lifts its arms to heave,
rather you are stagnant, and dead,
like dust.

The room is round,
you wonder if rolling along the walls is,
a bit not great,
but still descend down the ***** of portrait to portrait.

There is no depth, nor charity,
within or outside this room,
but somewhere, in the walls,
you once thought you heard a voice.

It was silky, and thin,
like the air swallowed at the peak of a cliff,
huffed in and out like last breaths,
stale like last meals, except it was perfect.

This hollow chant does not pass,
it hedges on the oval of your palm,
and as you splash your face with
milky flesh, the life returns.

In every poem
I have ever written
there is a character
somewhere
hidden beneath the folds of text
and enjambment

The sleuth
is its name
gained by
the unmistakable nebulous nature
of its very flesh

I have never
in all my shallow time alive
been witness the sleuth in
a natural habitat

for the sole reason
that the sleuth
this hidden unfathomable
being
has no nature
or preoccupation

It is alien
of the highest calibre
and will exist
long after
my poems
stop
unfolding
their
wings.

We wish we were younger -
when every flaking drift of sleet was magic
and the crinkles around father's brow
was a historic moment
laughter was common place
exploration seeped into the skin
and our own wonder lay exotic yet forgotten

We wish we were older-
so that the wisdom we yearn has already arrived
so that we open our eyes and see
echoes of the kaleidoscope of life we always wish to see

so that meaning is more than stripes on a dashboard
and we look back and smile winsome and fresh
with yellow tinted teas and teeth
eyes twinkling with ancient promise

if we're older we made it,
and there is temptation in such security,
to wish away one's precious moments

We wish the clocks would tick back-
so that time was more forgiving
quiet and prehistoric
with large looming dinosaur trees caressing our flesh and sights
we could breathe once in a while
our eyes may flicker away from the day and into the sky
and at night we would lay beneath a blanket of boundless wonder

back then,
no one knew what lay in the stars,
so angels existed in more than dreams and
wishes

We wish for the world to end-
the fires raging in our hearts
catching alight at every stray ember
from the black choked plumes of smoke,

we want the burn
the pain
we want to feel it
to live
and breathe it
until
our lungs collapse

we would huddle like slick pelted penguins
a barricade of togetherness
the furies of nature fighting back would unite us
and some long for the seductress of community
to hold us and embrace us like our tech-enslaved mothers never did

We wish for the years to pause, then fold in on themselves-
and we would awaken
from stasis
with wild brains and gaping mouths
lips forever parted in childhood wonder
at the indescribable nature of the future

there is always hope in the future,
for the future is everything
we seek
but never eventuate

we wish,
we surrender,
we pledge our souls to the almighty cause,
never once pausing,
in Our time
to think that
if we let it

this could be paradise.

I am married to my brain,
its a
life long
partnership
that I
never agreed to.

When did you
decide
to be born,
is it not
a violation
to split
the thread
of the universe
with your
birth
like a
bullet
to the
brain.

We're in love,
you see,
deeply
submerged
in each
other,

we'll never part,
or,
we'll positively die
if we do.

Marriage is a
battle,
its a
war zone,
but in ours
there are no words,
only thoughts,
that never leave,

until
we part,
until
death do us part.

And my brain
wants
a
divorce.

A monster
lies in wait
shrouded in dark
festooned in
onyx curls
of brilliant
disguise

its teeth
are as long
as my arms
and I wonder
how long
it has hidden
in my veins
like poison
its nails
brushing against
the bed
of my own

I dare not blink
not sleep
don't move
I am insensate
and frozen
this pitiful
state
has only just
begun
but it feels
as if I have
layed here
for eternity

the monster
never leaves
although
sometimes
it sleeps
and I taste
the infuriating tease
of lush reprieve

it always
comes back
no matter
how far
I shove
it down.

Maybe there is a reason for that.