I've always been sad about the bathroom. The pink and black, hair and blood, tears and out of tune singing, thick and transparent. Whenever I step on the tiles I become afraid of the shower, that silver thing with wet holes, with cold stream and mindless embrace. But here I don't have the fear, only disgust, because the ground is all black and peeling and it sticks to my feet, and the coldness isn't clean, the coldness is only there because I've left it for just too long.





I keep coming back although I hate it, although each drop of water feels like a punishment and the soap bubbles are mocking my greasy everything. I keep coming back although it tortures me, because at the street I can hear the gazes pointed toward me, how the eyes shift when I try to catch, what is not said in front of me I know them all it rings so loud in my ears, I can hear them all. I keep coming back because even in the world of cruelty I still got to have a place to come home, to have something familiar, so I will feel less lonely and as if I had a purpose. It's a familiar pain, the kind of a hit that feels like a kiss. It's always like this, I keep coming back to the bathroom I do not own, I keep coming back and calling it my home. I've always been sad about it, the bathroom, home, I've always been

down by the sand dunes of St Clair
the streetlights are phantasms, diffracted
in the squinting vision of night. Lightning fractured
across the sky cracked, cathartic. Imagine, to steer
into the sea as the evening stretches, take it
to other coasts, live a life less haptic;
resurrection by the unbound, and disappear.
but most days as the wind curls the sand around my toes, this beach to wash up the same bones
the same trunks of broken trees,
what was it I was meant to be
like a limp, whale on the beach stones
eyes to the sea she dreams
  the empty ownerless sea.

My greatest desire is to slip out of this world completely unfelt.

e 2.0

p drops

H2Go

V

“whatcha doin’ with no silver
get outta here go”

gotta go on the taxis

1610

that AI hyper-highway
stretched across New Tokyo

gotta go on the taxis
gotta get on that public heat

1612, 1601 and on

hustle me some
ink and paper
to write, I know
the price ( I_know)

“R27901!”

the forgone leaders,
false prophets of popularity
take station, talk about odds,
imagine situations.

You; stuck here,
watching sitcoms on screens
in taxis.

Shania ngarra Nelvin
he said in an SMS
she showed me,
grinning.

Smoke lingering in the kitchen,
a bucket catching drips of liquid
filling the silence with a comforting
consistency. A figure in the corner
with a cigarette in a chair

“we really get the snakes through here.

You know those lines carved in the desert by rainbow serpents brought me.
And the trains used to come by here, it was the train station.
On the grass I would make baskets and talk to the boys with my artwork.
cute ones, ones with diamonds to spare”

Outside; two lapwings, guarding
their nest in military formation.
On the roads, armored vehicles with armored people.
Police checking the parks for alcohol.

The palms wilting down, dead
brown, tangling the canopy
light in sporadic glimpses
on the concrete walls.

Distance, prince of deception
and fictions. Taunting the
lonely mind with
infractions, -

to swim in the depths of fascination.
There’s only faint phantoms awake as you wait.
It’s only the restless thoughts that are slated.
To think about those other places where
you could reach out your hand and relocate.

At the table of frantic feasts, your fate
decided between the savagery of plates
where you’d swallow your anxiety and eat.
This good treat tastes like apple syrup sauce.
Who’d pretend to be dying? No wonder
you’d spend hours researching conspiracies.

“I’ve contracted some kind of disease, I’m
telling you this is like One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest
and I am Ken Kesey”

Through the tunnel
where safety lights diffract
and our cigarettes filter the exhaust fumes

where oil forms rainbows on concrete
and lilacs grow through the cracks

these incandescent heartbeats
in passing cars, passing by

and you lightly, like
a dragonfly,
realigning
to catch the light
in your half opened eye.

Tell me there’s a purpose.
No.
A severed head.
The self in departure.
Crossing a river.
Light beams fall through.
There are four walls that make up the emptiness of this room.
throwing throwing throwing throwing throwing throwing throwing throwing
Language writhes.
I fail to find the contours.
Sharp and brittle, like the hop hop sting of minute glass.
pitter patter
arms thrown
out out, out out, out out, out
The word is power, signifier of a real that folds into itself irrevocably, perpetually.
I construct that which I speak, divorcing the imaginary and symbolic with a plunging knife.
God is born in ****** revolt.
Entangled in the penumbra of becoming, I birth the stranger that is myself.
Who are you?
A static noise.
Father breathing snow onto the mountain.
Hair, grey matted, a coarse empty palm.
Tell me the tale of withering.
White abyss.
The bifurcation of light from darkness.
The power of speech split totality from the world.
Purged death in freezing time.
brittle bones
circulation
a shutting door
still air
winter passing
A cool current that stutters like the clap shut of death.
I run but go nowhere.
Child crying in the empty hallway.
I speak the word but no one is there to hear it.
I circulate like blood.
Face pressed to the floor.
I repeat.
The word is power.
Tears staining my cheeks.
I am nothing but a swell.
The empty drone of the earth.

A seagull on the street, matte white smeared with tar
Iridescent waste piling up carpark corners,
Leaves swirling in empty lots like schools of fish

and I slip away in the currents
lips paralyzed, a gesture mistaken
faces feeling fading,
vacant animation

but you, sacrosanct, with
coloured paint,
suspended
in glass marbles
and on the street,
paint running into gutters,
paint splashed on concrete.

In this sparse web of sophistry,
light is democratic, affirmative.

Another daylight draws across the ocean
A seagull dives head first into the crescents.

Cracks in the sky
They tell me not to look
My best friend bled from her knees when she left home
We went back to my apartment
And filled it with static
The neighbours broke like china
Scattering on their doormat
I think the world is an egg and I was born to outgrow it
I ripped my flesh on the tarmac
Skating down the subway
Mother hadn’t cried in years
But now its pouring
I part my hands and let my breath out
Again and again and again
It’s going to crack soon
The world will wake from a bad dream
And forget we ever existed
Step in front of a train
Take off your shirt
Maybe we’re all just sick
Filling our aches with distractions
Turned on like televisions
Netflicks, endless repetition
We go on like that
Running our sleeves along lighters
The sun opened its mouth today
Nobody cared
Too stressed over the price of cigarettes
I can’t talk
I buried my head long ago
In the Mariana Trench of Tokyo
Where we buried grandpa because we ran out of funds
And had to live off stale bread from the school cafeteria
We should have stopped
Just given up and collapsed
Filled the streets with ambrosia
Cracked our own heads awake