When the nip
of the curled lip
reaches the rallying
surface of paper,

there must be substance

One cannot decree over nothing
sounds may not exhaust
and sacrifice their whims
for the hopes of a deserted rebellion,

there must be truth

You forget
so often your mind mutes
it coils into the half alive
semi state
of being

You forget
that this land we walk
is already compact
and finished

We live in the future

there are no new buildings
all we stand upon
is the bones of old
and the uncorporeal
ghosts
of pioneers ideas

there is no new
nor is there new hardship
every pain in your blood
has been endured three fold
by those living

or not living

But yet we party

our hearts wild beastlies
our ears cocked and pelt upon ends
the swirling swells of music and chant
this ancient illustrious dance...

do not let yourself be bewitched by the past
for one day we will be it.

She leans back,
head rested
head bumping up
and down
like
waterfalls that
sometimes
loose their
magical
glow and
get
confused.

Her sunglasses rest
restrain her glowing face
like the
headlights that
reflect from her
eyes
hidden from sight
she feels the
creases of the
plastic in
her cheeks
curling
impressions like
footprints on
the sand
into her
jawline

like kisses
she thinks
that hang
too long
on the
cusp of her
morning breath.

She had
searched
all morning
for the make up
that fit her
botched
skin tone
her arms had
been a
canvas of
experimental
design
like that
painting
she sometimes
pretends to
stare at

she is artist
she murmurs
as she
looks at
that vase
which
seems so

flat.

She
wears the
make up
not because
she wants to
be
or
feel
beautiful,
she does not want
the sunbeams
to shine
from under
her fingernails
or her
lips
to light up
like
christmas
baubels,
she coats
it as
penance
for a past
life
for the craggled
hag that
has no voice
in her
sternum
its oldened
fingers
tap on
her
waistline
like
measuring
utensils.

She wears
the make up
to
cover up
her
morning breath

the morning
sunlight
had
cast
a
brutal gleam
upon her
showing
all her
dark spots

she wears
make up
as
penance
for the
devilish thoughts
that bounce
like
raindrops
off her
steel roof

of the whispered
mercies
of the
voiceless
hag that
hangs in
her
noosed
throat

she wears
penance
like its
a beautiful
blush

like drifted
snow has
coated her
skin and
she is
now
destroyed

she covers
up the
crinkled
muesli
bar
hag that
sings
old
folk tales
in her
lips

the rogue
red
that
tastes like

his blood.

I am an eclair,
With brittle thin chocolate on the outside,
A hard layer of lies that takes little to penetrate,
Followed by fluffy cake beneath,
Soft to mould and ruin with words and teeth,
Following is my inner cream,
My turmoil of delicious darkness,
Liquid courage sliding through my fingertips,
Always out of my grip,
And the soft taste of defeat on my tongue,
As I hit that creamy centre,
Biting away at myself,
Until there is nothing left but breadcrumbs,
And sticky fingers.

I wash it down with passionfruit juice,
Because the tang offsets the misery.

butterfly shells
clipped wings
the ocean curls and crashes
beyond the reef
I umbrella-shade my eyes
cast shadows over overhead sunlight
the glimmer blinds
so prettily
and I swallow all contention
like sand-crusted fried food
It's a kind day at the beach
the clouds grace us with their presence
and I spit out my insurrection, my envy
of such shrouded calm
wafts of cloud, like pink bubbly fairy floss
so sweetly
like a wind-cuffed boat
choked by destiny
we watch the sun bathe down into the ocean
submerged bleeding orange into an obsidian eye, a pearl of blue
don't say I didn't warn you, says the storm
rumbling, grumbling,
toiling and boiling
I've been on this horizon all my life, it growls
little more than petulant lightning
I've never trusted thunder
all bark and no bite
but I believe in this shark-storm if only for the palate of streaked colour
the sky is a wanting canvas
my eyes are needy spectators
the soggy chips are artesian entrees
and the butterfly clips refuse to mount and swoon
So
the recipe is baked; a perfect storm
a pointed knife, carved cataclysm
a catchechism of the repentant earth
we only see the sun sleep
when it knows it's been bad.

my past self
looks back
at the orbs
I've shelved
he remarks
that of all the ways
I could've
disappeared
he didn't think
I would do it
brazenly

an unpigmented sun
blasting into
the Stygian stable
of the dark horse
called expectation
makes his way
delicately
stepping into old feet
nursing the
ails of
growing up
grey

quit
leave
abandon
your job
your uni
your family
follow me, feral child
into the wilder paces
a life unbuttoned
deedless
into a place where
rest is not
a rationed substance
sleep under the willow tree
with half-lidded precarity
until a sheet of wool-tipped leaves
dress you in slow
beguiling
serenity

He crunches fragile fingers on brittle panes,
Eyes wide and glassy, nose flaring at the smell of blood,
He tells himself he does not do it for the pain,
No, he begs, he does it for the colour.

A crimson dark red that he can find in nothing but blood,
He paints with it, large murals of torturous beauty,
Portraits of forgotten loves and most brutal enemies,
All traced with the gorgeous acrylic, eyes deep with the brutality of raw blood.

He is a criminal, an agent of deception under his own skin,
He is a cliché, forged from misperceptions and guilt he tries not to read into,
Dark hair falls in knots, thick with dried blood just like him,
Thick with blood, waiting to be dried.

He smells the metallic paint on his skin,
Tinged with iron and red rusted mistrust,
Unbelievable in its simplicity,
Blood, plain and simple, straight from the source.

transparency slips, incandescent, into the lock,
this sweeping tilting feeling sinks lower,
we sway on the obelisk of an eye in the sea,
the storm whirls with madness unbidden,
yet the film of venerability burns on,
a spluttering candle of stone will

halt your magic wiles
I am easily forgotten in your smiles
every time we speak I lose capacity
but I cannot forgo such electricity
I wish we were forever
and I wish I had a chance
I know anything is possible
at a hidden glance
But we live not in a fairytale
and I am not your prince
so maybe it's impossible
to hold your heart through since

She is an
envious spirit
her eyes
flash green
sharp in the
soft candlelight

she wants to
burn the books
she wants to
burn the books
she is jealous
of the work
they make
the opalescent work
that shimmers
in different shades
and causes her to
cry

to think
as if
she was
not the
one.

Her envy
is borne

her envy
is born
of her
own hatred
for her
own self

it burns
it sparks
it explodes
like fireworks
in the night
the ache in the stomach
the buzzing in the ears
the numbness that overtakes
the tingles that run down veins
the tightness of the chest
the cheeks that seem wet

and burn

the throat burns

and is it?


Tears

tear her limb from limb
burn her before she can
burn those blessed books
before she

catches flint
and stone
feels the
chill of the
burning rocks
crashes one
and two
together like
orbiting moons

that spark
that falls
from within
her undulating
chest

her panting breaths
that hiccup
and stumble
and beg for
forgiveness
in the meadow
filled of beautiful
wisterias
lavender splintering
so esoteric
wisdom bred
and
arched for the
dolloped breath
of that
sunlight


which is to mean
her soul
battling
in the
garden of Eden
her soul
fighting those
calm
secure
others who

have their
heads on
right.

She is envy
is personified
feeling
of self hate
moulded to
mistrust
moulded to

action

burn the books.

Do not look her in the eye
she will snare you
with her falsehoods
that seep like
oozing wounds
from those festering eyes

she is traitorous
do not look at her
when she cries
she is crying for
your attention
she does not need
help
she is crying
because she is
drama

she is queen of
elegantly saving
herself last minute
if she wants
to die
then let her
not like she
will
its all
just
fake

she's
fake

don't look at her
she will scrabble
under your own
bleeding skin
we all have problems
ignore hers
its not
like there's
no one
there

someone will look
it doesn't have
to be you

please
she is
only a
child
she needs
to be
taught
a
lesson
in humility
crying kids
don't get
hugs from
their mothers
crying kids
get locked
in dark
rooms
until they
stop crying
and start
bleeding on
the
inside

she isn't crying
anymore
just screaming
just screaming like a
banshee
she's disrupting
the peaceful
facade we have
constructed

silence
her

do it
she is
lying

do it

don't listen to her
pleads
she is not being
hurt
she needs to
stop
this
madness

please
hurt
her

see if she
cant take it

she is not a real girl
you know
she can take it
you know
its just words
you know
no marks but the ones she leaves
you know
no tears but the ones she brings on herself
you know

when she cries
its just for
silence
which makes her
stupid
because her room
is a
quiet and
lonely place
before she
starts to
make a sound

listen to that
its gone

she's gone

Cry for the moon
he whispered
into the crown of
her hair

the golden light
that sent shivers
down her
open arms

cry for me
she said back
breath but a wisp
voice caught and chained

he looked to the sky
not baring to stare
into her slated and
burning eyes

they asked too many questions
demanded the want that
he could not supply
she was one of them

the moon shone so
solitary in the sky
above and dripping
light against the darkened blanket

he held shaking fingers
to the sky
looked through the gaps
that seemed to large

she wept for the moon
that reminded her
of her own loneliness

even surrounded by stars

an armistice of the soul
we learn to forgive ourselves
the aches of sins covered by the veil of night
our eyes dilate
- in love with an infinity of stars
possibility opens up
its arms akimbo to our own
opposite the heart is the hard of health
- our breathing stutters in time with discordance
we love the burn
just as much as forgiveness

Dark horse of bad intentions,
I will ride you into the sun,
Let it burn you until night and day are one,
And keep riding on past on your shunned ghost.

Dark horse of my heart,
I love that dark look in your eyes,
That tastes like salt and vinegar,
And smells like ocean sand.

Dark horse of many I meet,
You are a copy,
Of my soul,
As dark as the thoughts I suppress,
And as heavy as the heart I carry.

Dark horse that I would long to throw into a lake,
I do hope you cannot swim,
They do say that sunken ships are all found eventually,
Which I count on,
For when I sink into despair and meet you once more.

Dark horse that I ride into the moon,
It is sunnier here,
Where you can see the sunlight and not burn,
Where the reflective dirt tastes like moondust,
And your heart is no longer mine to devour.

tous le monde,
ou sont-ils?
sur la rue de la vie
pour tojours

Fellow warriors,
I hope to see you here,
in breath,
and pulse,
once more,
before I see you in Valhalla.

The prize,
you see,
could be merriment,
could be sanity,
is a worthy banquet,
and I do pray,
that you do fight,
to live,
another day.

She wore her bandaids like badges.

Were they badges of honour or badges of shame?

She fears them pulling up her sleeves, all the way to the shoulders, brushing the neck, for she only scratches there...

So they won't find them.

She wonders time and time again why she does what she does.

'Perhaps I am cursed' she screams out to the world, as if it were a question and not a statement which keeps ringing in her head.

She tries to tell someone, tries to articulate what she means, tries to summon up the courage.

But uncertainty and that throbbing in her shoulder lie in wait, in the form of butterflies in her stomach and a lion purring painfully in her heart.

'Do not roar' she whimpers over and over, 'Please do not say anything' she tells herself, even when she wants to speak.

She must be quiet.

So as not to awaken doubt, so as not to force others to think differently upon her, so as not to let herself be boxed in.

'But what if I want those boxes for protection?' she tries to reason with herself, but stubborness is a disease that reeks of pausing after stubbed toes to see if it is the same feeling.

Is it the same if she hurts herself by accident? Could she have
hurted herself by accident?

'I do not want self harm to write who I am' she cries unnecesarily to the sky, so blue and taunting it twinkles to her, so endless unlike her fraying and drying self.

'Do not harm yourself then' it says, as if it were that easy, as if pain and memories and shame and the need to not think haven't already corrupted her soul.

Why is she shivering?

Why can't she breathe?

'I am possessed' she reassures herself. It is not her fault that she has been taken by a demon she cannot control.

It is not her fault that she is so weak.

She says that she is possessed, not that she feels she is possessed, for she can think of no other reason for her insanity.

'I love you' god calls to her.

She is not sure which god she should pray to, not sure where she
can let her disbelief and absolution lie. How can she know what to believe in when she has surely lost belief in herself.

'Can I give up on science?' she longs to let the non-existence control her life. If only there were rules for her life.

Will they blame her?

In the end she knows they won't. Not the ones who should be listened to anyway.

Yet she continues to torture herself for reasons that are out of her grasp.

Insanity has never been her salvation, but neither has it been her reckoning.

'I am broken' she argues when someone tells her that she should
stop, that her skin is beautiful, that scratching it is only futile.

She realises it is her own conscience.

There is a dark part of her that wishes she would not heal, so she would not have to replace the marks which disappear.

'I am broken' she repeats, wondering if someone is listening to her when she speaks to empty air.

She knows they aren't.

Home

The taste of granite flushed her mouth,
Felt like brittle sand between her teeth,
And she grimaced harshly,
Blaming the crust on her teeth for her situation.
Her knuckles cracked as she pulled her hands into fighting fists,
Her heart beat sung cruelly in her ears as she stared,
Black eyes dancing in unanswered danger,
At the large looming presence in front of her.

She could die,
Truly die, splat, gone, disappeared,
Wind howling with her absence,
Never to be seen again.
And she didn't know how to feel about that,
Was undecided,
Twisted and curled and gnarled in darkened thoughts,
Couldn't quite wrap her fragile mind around reality.

She was walking,
Back and force, pacing with side stepped tracked expectancy,
Eyelashes swaying like whiskers in the wind,
Cold eyes opened and ready to see the end, the coast to her city.
Her feet clacked like a horse's hoof beneath her,
Her shoes, never cleaned, smelt quite similar to a horse too,
Musty, sweaty, *****, filled with unleashed stench,
But she did not plug her nose.

The smell was hers to disgust on,
She embraced it.

She tucked stray hairs behind her angled and alert ears,
Letting calloused and shredded hands do such a gentle action seemed wrong,
As if they only mimed the part they were meant to fit,
Even though they had been her hands for as long as her hands existed.
Her eyes raised slowly, in key with the slow moving sunrise,
She gazed in mesmerised and petrified wonder,
At the unveiling scene of terrified beauty before her,
It didn't seem real.

She dropped her arms in shock and amazement,
The two falling tactlessly beside her sides with the agility of a ragdoll,
She found herself walking on slightly bent legs,
Towards the glorious picture.
A child, no older than four,
Demon eyes the colour of the blood,
And silver hair the colour of the moon's reflection on the sea,
Lifted out a curious arm with gentle innocence.

The child was not normal,
Though neither was she with her black eyes and doomed expression,
They fitted together, their palms folding like two clashing pieces, and slotted seamlessly,
She had thought her hands would fall off if they ever touched another.

Why was this boy so special,
And why did she not hate him for it?

She lifted him into her arms with a maternal grace she had never understood,
Tugged him close until his small plump face rested on her clothed chest,
Could hear his gentle and fragile heartbeat thumping softly against her squished torso,
Banging harmlessly against her ribcage.
She felt tiny hands play with her straight locks of hair,
Running fingers through the tragic art of her style,
Sniffing the smell of unwashed hair,
Of unbathed pale skin exposed to the elements.

The little boy's nose did not wrinkle as expected,
He did not appear to think she smelt of horse like her shoes.

The little boy smelt of woodchips, of forests, cooked chicken, and clean air,
He was far too precious for her to be holding,
But she couldn't seem to let go,
Not once she had him.
He brought his butterfly soft lips to her ear,
Gently brushing hair away from the opening,
And whispered softly, as if he had no idea how glorious the words were,
Against her shoulder and into her heart.

“I'm home, right?”

He rolled the words over his tongue,
Tasting them like fine wine,
As if he could not believe them himself,
And she could only hold him tighter.

it is a brilliant yellow budgie squawking out in the dawn,
its beaded eyes reflect like sharps for dappled sun,
the girl with the yellow raincoat twists her hips,
she imagines the budgie's wings could cover her skin quite fashionably.

The wave lilts,
lulls and ebbs in time with morning croons,
we all shelter our tired eyes,
watching white horses as they race to their dooms.

Often mistaken
As a neighbour
To the roofed cliffage
Of a thousand speckled
Imaginings

There is no beauty
In the dark friends
That rip and thunder
In our shared
Night sky

Despite all our efforts
We are trapped
By the spectacle
Of sadness
In denial

I have plundered your ebullience,
dipped my talons in between the breathing slits of your vivacious presence,
I hunger for such exuberance,
my eyes widen with euphoria,
a leech of all that ripe and tender effervescence,
a singed wick upon the temple of your tranquility,
I will not let you be,
O I am truly your misery.

Under the moonlit stage
a stagnant rhythm plays
and my tiger hears the call
folding out his teeth
and I luck the words I know
and this pulsing fury grows
until all sound is shouts
all heard and left unremarked
I am the tiger in the dark

She is past tense,
I do not know her anymore,
She is not me anymore,
I am cold to her,
I insult woman of past tense,
I pull at her hair and scream in her ears.

I am not her,
I plead,
I am not her,
She does sound like me,
She smells as I smell,
of autumn leaves,
baby steps, and
despair infringing on a perfect photo,
She is not me.

I remember her like I was her,
I will swear the monster she is, she has tricked me,
I slap her across the cheek,
Quiet you,
She is not allowed to speak any longer,
She is no longer me,
She cannot dictate my decisions.

I speak of her in past tense,
As if I am not hurting myself,
As if I am no longer her,
As if we do not suffer the same fates and memories.

She whispers for forgiveness,
I look down with cold eyes,
My heart clenches for her,
It aches in my chest like a bruised bone,
Spitting acid rain against her burned and brittle cheeks,
I would not treat a real person this way.

She claws at me for an embrace,
Love yourself the kinder person in my head preaches,
Holding my hand, as if I had not hurt myself enough,
As if my hands were not covered in my own blood,
She is curled in the corner of the room,
Sobbing for my forgiveness,
Pleading to know why I defile her so.

I turn away,
She is not me,
It is okay to hate her,
Even when that means I hate myself.

She is at war with many things,
Too many to relay,
But her arch nemesis is of course herself,
The inner being that hisses insults in her ear,
The raven that claws at her insides,
Making her stomach turn in anxiety,
And her head pound in fear.

Sometimes she think she is a vessel,
Not a vessel for the gods of a vessel taken by a demon,
Simply a vessel, trapping the truth inside,
A slick skin which looks so realistic, tied all around her like binding ropes, that people believe her to be real,
Even when Inner Her is screaming out in pain,
And Outer Her believes the skin to be too tight, and brings up a pin.

Inner Her is not kind nor sweet,
She is judgemental, selfish and filled to the brim with toxic self hate,
But she supposes she has trapped her honesty in a web of lies,
So it is only right to hate herself.

Doubt is a slimy liquid poured onto her skull and into her eyes,
She thinks it smells too nice to get rid of,
And perhaps that was a lie too,
And perhaps Inner Her was banding on her ribcage, just below where her heart rests,
Screaming in righteous resentment “I hate you” over and over,
Like a song's chorus she cannot help but hum to.

She goes to the beach,
The sand cool between her toes,
Wind howling in early morning protest,
She smiles when a jogger passes her and smiles,
They smile back,
Inner Her rocks back and forth in insanity,
A thought coursing like poison through her veins “Can they see me?”

Both of them have become invisible with time,
Their skin flayed thin until it doesn't exist,
Hair pulled away from many nights trying to steady herself,
Bones crumpled under the weight of her incoming mortality,
Eyes hollowed with restlessness.

For there is no sleep for the walking dead.

Inner Her laughs,
A big mad cackle that stretches over mountains and down into animal burrows,
She points a finger held out as a weapon,
Laughing with no humour,
Only burgeoning and treasured insanity.

She has done it,
Finally.
And now Inner Her rests on the flesh of her dead enemy,
...skin and bones blown with the wind,
joining the sands of time to an eternity of darkness.

Outer Her was fallen.

It is the double skipped heart beat on the record player,
I repeat (repeat)
the stutter of life,
the chitter of teeth,
we're cold but the burn is so heavenly.

A fall from grace,
big wide plastic lenses
that frame the face 360 degrees
angelic, is one name for it
dweeby, another
I love the mathematician hidden in your briefcase
I like to open it up at inopportune moments
and let myself bathe in the light

You're a 'yes' man,
an optimistic optometrist,
helps me see who I want to be,
(yes man, yes, man)
Long lion's mane that plummets
and tugs on heart strings
I always was an accompaniment
to your instrumental
I long for the day that
your stiff collared ape-father
lets you palm the pulsating heart beat of
an electric guitar once more

Take the strings out of the boy
he's no longer a puppet
but the song plays on
(yes, man, harmony)

the pull is strong tonight
i do not know the fullness of the moon
but there is a bleak, waning, reflective light
within me
i have not been outside myself in days
flush with memory
with repeated history
i close my eyes and absorb the yearning tide
that goes over me

In the business
Of Ending Worlds
I grant
mankind and his children
the curse of
Greed
Envy
Sloth
and,
Guilt.

In the business
Of Preserving Misery
I grant
all who heed me
all who hear me
all who fear me
the singular
inability
of an individual
to change the
tide.

I've heard these words sung
in every life
I've ever touched
and this
quarrelsome
touch
of the love we need
of the warmth we crave
shunned
shivered
pruned, and carved, and withered
a skull made in my own name
staring to
this pearl of dreams
this orb of truth
I see my face
and I,
happy-shrunk
hung from
tethers
I'd never name
to long for the touch of
a hungry man's wish
and I curl my fists
the words etched in stone
plaqued on my wall
dirges of a future haul
and my mind flicks back
and screams in blood
because there is
numbers written
on my grave
and I fear
the day
that I forget
my name

The stubble tells a story:

got up. drunk. head pounding. knew i'd had too much last night. fridge is full. what did i sell. what do i have to do to get it back. i need more. more. fills me. the calm. i have it under control. but I need more.

razor. gone.

choice: razor or drink.
choice: razor or drugs.
choice: razor or rent.
choice: razor or girlfriend.
choice: razor or smokes.

not really a choice.

She stares into the abyss.
Lungs battling with mighty gales,
Eyes open wide and stinging from the spitting rain,
On one foot, balanced, teetering ever so slightly over the edge,
She has looked,
Has gazed upon the ultimate evil and ultimate peace,
Believing to be safe on her side of the cliff top,
Not concerned when the inky black talons of eternity sink into her skin like knives,
She thinks she will fall one day,
One day when her foot does not grip as harshly to the side,
And she is scared too,
Terrified,
But knows she would also be relieved,
For she would have an answer, finally.

What is out there, over the edge?

So fresh the pain
The words clog my fingertips
So new the wound
I can barely stomach anything
A challenge, fine reader
For a knight like you
To find the words, to express
Your deepest pool of loneliness
I can't, but feel, the words that flow
So brutish in their relentless fury
Today is not the day to speak them
All I feel is untapped power

Should I feel like I have won?
When the battle was only within myself,
And no one was keeping tack of points or victors,
And there was no prize other than stakes of land on my body.

Have you given up yet?
This eternal war we have declared,
Only for bragging rights,
Of I am okay or I am not,
Or saying nothing.

Why do I feel like you are waiting?
Like a trap winding inside my ribcage,
Ready to snap a bone on exit,
Ready to pounce out of the jungle and into the arena,
Waiting for me to fall asleep and for you to slip into my skin.

Should I be afraid?
That you will win and I will be left without structure,
My strings like a violin played by you, so consuming,
When I am a puppet and you are my spine,
What was once bravery now only an adrenaline high.

Should I be afraid?
That I will win and I will be left without what makes me myself,
That my fight against you stole all my desire and I will be empty,
That I will realise you have become me,
Are me,
That I will realise I have lost something you will not return.

Are you a thief?
Who has stolen the girl I used to be,
Who has stolen my bed and body,
Walking around in my stolen shoes as if you were me,
Who has stolen my goals and ideas and drive,
Who has stolen me car, perhaps, as well.

For why not that too?
When you have stolen my body,
Seduced my mind,
Staked a claim inside my room,
Piling bloodied tissues and needle packs like flags.

Should I try to run from you?
Pack my bag away in the night,
Kiss my family on the forehead one last time,
Even when you reside within me,
Even when that means I would be running from myself,
Even if I know it won't work but will try it anyway,

For I will try anything to be rid of you.

Are you a disease?
That has soaked into my sheets,
Slitted blisters and burns into my skin,
Dug crevasses like homes in my mind,
Burrowed deeply in my heart so you can make me cry all the time.

Am I doing enough?
With my some-day-never therapy and robot listeners,
My unwritten diary which lies lonely and neglected under blankets like shields,
When I do not know if I have a problem,
Or cannot admit to one,
Even when I say I so,
Like empty words,
But I cannot believe it.

Will I give up soon?
Since it is easy to,
Since you want me to,
Since some days I want me to,
Since no one is listening for my sanity to come back,
Since I am not sure if I care anymore.

Are you my character?
My basis for being,
My summed up understanding,
My morals and drawn lines,
And is that a synonym for distraction,
Or block,
Or love,
Or enemy,
Or addiction,
Or... destiny.

Why can't I quit you when I want to so much?

Some questions don't have the answers I want.

indefatigable
they say there is a wall
tall and strong
with thrall and throng
and every single being
who breathes and beats the breast of Mother Earth
will hit this wall
and they say
voices reaching crescendo
strangling clinging notes
of condensation
that the wall is just a pounding fist away
that your hand, bleeding and bruised,
black and blue and all the colours of the rainbow
needs
NEEDS
to pass through this wall
and emerge
in genesis
a new born being
from the slippery tunnel of a brick womb
hair crusted with clay
eyes closed with brimstone
mouth choked with dust

what they never told me
was how many bones
were broken in building that wall
how many bodies we buried
beneath the gravestone of our wall
how many bonfires lashed out
how many beatings we took
clambering over
digging under
pounding through
how many fingers I cracked in my wrist
a shattered screaming withered skeleton
begging soundlessly for the wall to let me in

and what was past the wall?

Bright star

of open shine

large lungfuls

of Christmas pine

Bright sun

sandy shore

never forget

remainder's moore

Bright child

with hollowed skull

the only wish

to resist the pull

Bright coin

shiny skin

pretentious gleam

of wealthy sin

My suspicious brain is counting faults again
Like time, that ticks, so thick and true
I can count on my silly brain, and you
The twisted truth that haunts my glow
I am the oldest antidote
That lingers in my own flesh and blood
Litter lips, frittered love

IF there were a child,
small and speckled,
like a fallen star,
wrapped in the skin of an angel.

THERE are questions echoed,
bouncing off the walls,
a song in tune to melancholy,
driven by their high pitched naivety.

WERE it to ask me,
about the fullness of the house,
the converse of myself,
the paper thin skin.

A response comes from ether,
it flows from deceit and devilish nature,
I feel the lie fall like outward breath,
so easy, yet growing more burdensome.

CHILD has no name,
for we do not label innocence itself,
it would be insanity,
and I would surely die before...

It is a sharp pain
stab-like
intense and
unaccountable

The boiling bubbles over
A crow taunts from silken skies
I SCREAM outwards
shockwaves trembling at their own forces

But it is a pithy pain
an instant retreat
the anger fizzles like steam smothered by rain
I smell the indolent petrichor
this after-taste of after-rain
and the doleful waking death returns
a smooth decent to sleep beneath the flames
the choked-throat ash

I am the biblioklept of my own diary
and as I scour the stolen words,
I cry,
because I do not recognise their meanings
the one limpid fury has dimmed
to such dolour and that all colour is sapped
and the world, painted in shades of grey
in its own dilatory helpfulness
does not bother to weep for me, either

I reify this idea of living
as if life is actually a moving form
but in these bewitched static seconds
of frightened rage to doused sorrow
I see the blackness between the stars
and the finite that lingers in the infiinite's wings
like a shard between ribs of steel

and I recall
in my words of fulsome wisdom
that even steel one day melts
and only but rubble can remain

I did not hear her scream,
from the room within my chest,
begging for freedom,
pleadings for mercy and tight sobs for love.

She did not colour me pale,
did not sap the colour from my cheeks,
paint me of sickly pallor,
skull head hung low as she yelled over and over for forgiveness.

I did not hate the girl trapped within me,
did not brush her cheek mockingly with my fingers,
crafting obscene and dying features upon her face,
she did not cry when I cut her.

I have not contained the beast,
there is no dark hole inside my heart,
I am not toxic,
she is not clawing at my insides until even blood is unsatisfactory.

I am not in denial.

Jammed
like the last clean place in the dishwasher
like the ugly foot on your war-paint totem pole
like the mollusc meets mantelpiece decoration stuck on your windowsill
Snow drifts
as fine as the combed hair on your head
sweeter than sugar
more damning than dandruff
as hard as the head of a coconut which you
hit, again and again, with the **** end of a hammer
Bang. Bang. Bang.

The sound jars
on the off beat
sounds like mars
meets
penguin feet
but you dance
caught
in the headlights
in the sway
you're your own one man James Bond villain
and you love to watch the spotlight flicker to dusk
and the end credits to roll
with that tune,
stuck
jammed
twisted like the rusty end of a bagel knife
into the rusty end of your brain case

Ba dum dum, ba dum dum
feel it
in your feet

ba dum dum, ba dum dum
we'll never know
when we might again
meet.

Dew drops
of
passion I have
left behind
stain my
lawn
like your
toxic
tears
never could.

a whisker of tinsel
the smoked pine of Christmas
old uncle Noel is knocking on our door
so we
hop
skip
and
high jump
out the window
we are the grinches of our own celebration
burn the tree to ashen cinders
douse the smoulders in old egg nog
shout obscenery over the joyous celebration
family removal day
boxing day, ever a day early

the precarious paper pile
builds up
I see the precipice shudder
in uncertainty
my gut lurches
pulled by gravity and
terror
will I drown
in my
mountain
of work?

untasted words leave the lips of the mercury man,
he is slim and sublime,
attenuated to the bridge of his nose,
but his trunk is thick and sturdy

he holds impermeability,
is too still and stubborn for lovers,

mercury man slips through my fingers,
but danger remains.

Stoke the fire,
Fan the flames,
Our burning souls,
Should never dim,
If those who heard,
Did see their Grim.

hundreds of scrolls of poems leave my lips,
but to read is to surrender,
thus the song plays on.

The muscles ache,
or it may be bones now,
and I am but a host,
for their pulsing complaints.

Today the motion will never cease,
I am the brain within the body,
and the world cannot be silent presses,
or it will rot away.

Blessed nightmares
ghouls and phantoms of
crystalised snow storms
that swirl around me
and catch my breath

it frosts
silent in the
winter's air
all stiffened in the
brittle wind
daring not to
move
holding the
spine straight
and
back still
cursed by the
fright
of waking the
monsters deep
within

laughter echoes
along the empty moors
grasses swaying stiffly
reluctant to dance
in the forceful wind
the high and roiling sound
rolls over the
curling hills
and down into
the
curdled bellies
of those
listening in

they sway
like porcelin dolls
crooked and cracked
solid and balanced
faces reflecting the
unforgiving light
that shines like
torch beams against the
soft nectar of their
pupils

they dance
the winter chalice
lips parted
as haunted
mellowed
tunes
fall from their tongues
and
soak into the
sodden soil
with
the desire
of
warmth

their fingers flush with cold
shivering
quivering
ever so slightly
as the
turrets of storm
pick up
and the
roaring of the
turbines
crackle their
clinking bones
against themselves
they clang
like rust
in the
bleak winter sun
hallowed hearts
beating
by force of nature
and
not
by choice.

This chasm is fathomless,
it falls
deep down
into the pits
beneath my stomach
built in
bones and flesh

it tingles within me
purrs with
unruly fury
when left alone
I feed it
fill it
compress it
down down into the
dark depths of my soul
so it will not
climb up
through the pit
skeleton limbs clanking like bells
until it
finally reaches my
delicate throat
and clamps down

I feel the
need of completeness
to feel full
it likes the taste
of my torment
the feel of
pins scraping my
limbs
it likes the
bile in my throat
the alluring look
of my
swirled content
in the sink
it gurgles my anxious
singing
it swirls my
desperate pleading
like fine wine
it loves the
gentle brush
of bloodied
fingers against a
trembling torso
that twitches in betrayal

it feels full
when I am torn
am split
between the
need to fill
and the need
to live

it smiles that
cruel and
cracked stretch of its
dark mouth
echoes of
taunts spilling
like the curls
from the print of
long forgotten
love letters

it is blackmail
to have
the choice of
feeding such a
dark hole with
tears or
morsels
the guilty taste of
those morsels
free of the
confines of my insides
the shame of the
tingles across
veins and
upturned limbs
of pale flesh sparkling
with glittering glee
begging for me

begging for me

to feel so full
yet so empty
and always
needing more

apprehend your own second soul,
it is the back seat driver who makes all wrong turns,
born being upholds the simple truth of being as,
utterly incomprehensible as possible,

verbose and unstated,
skirted around concepts
like drowning dresses that skim the shins,

yet do not apprehend the beauty,
or slim the startling wiles,
for knowledge is a rarity,
and nonsense is a disguise.

Moonlight:


I think it is time
to stop this kerfuffle soon
before it has won

the achy heart pounds
it does not understand me
rather it would fight

my ears curl like leaves
they resemble elven sharps
they quiver so kind

maybe I have wrought
the tides to sweep me home to rest
and loose my stiff bones

a child does not ask
why a man holds his tongue well
do not ask me twice

the tree is evil
its bark collapsed by its plan
and I watched it fall

do not rhyme or sleep
slumber is for the deadened
sheep count so beguiled

my heart likes your lips
and my toes curl like your hair
so of course its love.

treading water.

Limbs stretched out
hopes of sunshine.

Mouth turned to the sun
open wide
flooding
air in lungs

swim for hours.

time does not bother me
as it
pounds
against my skull.

lie back and float into dreams
dry and safe.

I made it
another badge
to add
to my
collection.

the water churns
in a storm

paddle
arms swinging
legs pounding
at the brutal sea.

beg for land
beg for rest.

sea keeps churning
the sea knows no
patience or
mercy.

I am afraid
to close my eyes
to swim
to fall.

to sink into the ocean
and drown in my sleep.

half of me wants to die
the larger half is begging
for land.

people throw their floats

They hit hard
some don't catch
some float away.

the ones that I hold
ease my weight
lift me to the sea.

Sleeping feels safer
with floats
and pillows
no pounding heart to keep me.

it feels like there is someone there.

Swimming alone
on the grand ocean
outside my vision.

I have swum for so long
I never investigate the human sobs
guilt churns in my stomach.

I do not want to see them drown.

I am scared
they will
pull me
down.

Guilt bites
at
my wrist.

I keep treading water
my own small pocket of darkness.

Waiting for the sun to set.