closed off, cease candor, delusions of grandeur
to everyone but you, Online Person; because that's your name,
as far as we're both concerned.

this in mind, consider me an open PDF, buried on page ten
of your favourite search engine
hallowed ground, that is.

[not an open book, those are honest and available to everybody who cares to look]

by the time you get to page ten
you've strayed from the path of relevancy
but the results pique pointless curiosity -
partly privy to my pathetic plateau.

and even my brothers are not in the know.

no man's land:
a healthy dose of could-be-worse
for the idiot who equates
the quotidian
to the epicenter of a war.

a special place in hell
for people
who ask for advice
that they can toss
over their shoulder
like a dying cigarette:
instant, capricious gratification.
in hindsight, he shouldn't have cared
for what his friends thought.

like me, perfect role model:
as in control as a truck with faulty brakes
as much fun as falling asleep at a wake
as resilient as a fibreglass dream.

sees the situation that awaits
around the corner
in the alley
that pulses with pathetic light.

cowers
runs
cries
says:
"i wish my skin was as thick as my skull"
and immediately, immovably, refuses to change.

Funny, really, how we
All refer to love and practical jokes,
Broaching the subjects from the same angle.
Referencing both the feeling and the prank,
I lament: "I fell for it/I fell for her",
Concerning the lies I've been told,
About the playful manipulation of truth.
Tall tales told to exploit one's trust.
Eccentric bedfellows, if you ask me.

Though, at least the infamous 'prank',
Has the integrity and the courage to
Enter the frame without a pretty facade.

Graced with either, I'd choose falling for a joke
Over falling for another human being, because
One is light-hearted, and the other
Deigns to light this heart afire.

Audrey is adopted,
She feels quite out of place,
In a house of strangers,
Affections go to waste.

Audrey cloaked in twilight,
With one foot in the grave,
"We'll send you to another home
If you do not behave."

Audrey wanders offwards,
Into the milky way,
Of cardboard homes and foreign tomes,
To find a place to stay.

Audrey misses long hair,
And so I'm here to fill,
The hole left by her sisters,
Who left against their will.

Audrey has no option,
But sleeping on the ground,
Deep inside our foster house,
While Mother's not around.

Audrey is adopted,
She's feeling all alone,
She's taken herself for a walk;
I hope she comes back home.

for the plenty that proffer
"write what you know"
i'll have you know
i don't know much

pursuantly, here is my poem:

...

"ha-.... haiKU", says he,
who has just sneezed violently.
Poetry is sick.

i got lost
in the library
to think my time was wasted
or rather - borrowed
and left by the orphaned paperbacks
like the last dog remaining
at the rescue shelter.

i got stalked
in the library
to think i worried
about finding cover
when, in fact, i found thousands

and i hid behind them
skipping through
hospital wards
where the bereaved
wore glistening plot armour,
and American homes
where paternal affection
was grievously mistook
by European men
with lyrical prose

and when i emerged
found my bearings
set my feet
in the tar of reality
it did not treat me kindly

so, to the librarian:
if i disappear again
please assume i'm safe and sound
because if this is what being lost is like
i'd rather not be found.

They say a picture is worth a thousand words
And the horse with the broken leg
Is lamentably doomed to the stable.

They say a picture is worth a thousand words
But a picture is still worth not enough
To put any more food on my table.

here, take this
you're well-dressed, well-groomed
not quite well-adjusted
but you'll get there soon, one must hope...
apron goes in one hole, loop around, across
here, let me help -
now you're ready for
(re)action...
trip flat palm shaking
ceramic plates
make great crashing sounds
and even better prison shanks
apparently
i apologise as profusely
as a butchered animal bleeds...

"ah, it's alright mate
**** happens"

indeed, it does...

...looks like he swerved
into the wrong lane
one white line up the nose
and Sir Tired Trucker
forgets about the white lines
adorning the road...
everything begins as debris
he was just returning things
back to their natural order
like me, the other day
when i gave the library back its books
see? one and the same...
authoritative man
steps out of the car with the flashing lights
assesses the damage
assesses such a sudden loss of life
and treats it with a shrug...

"ah, shame really but
**** happens"

indeed, it does...

...boys will be boys
they say
hot-headed, cold-blooded
a warm bed and a
home ground advantage...
he took something from her
the only thing
standing up for her safety
be the hairs on her neck
now wrapped around a little finger...

"ah well, i made a mistake
but **** happens, doesn't it?"

no, it doesn't, you ******* pig.

the great big metronome in the sky,
as those of a Floydian persuasion are wont to call it,
tick, tick, ticks,
with a switchblade intransigence,
for a docile audience, rows of anesthetized deer...
Mr. Whogivesa and Mrs. ****,
and their son,
with the hyphenated last name,
living the namesake...
"don't talk to strangers?"
why not show them the sleeve,
where one's heart resides...
melodrama,
the most lucrative business move,
(then why are most panhandlers still panhandlers?
i guess it's the luck of the draw)
...takes after his Father most,
that being he always stops short,
that extra step,
much too extra to take,
a voyage in itself...
in his standstill,
where the metronome ticks, ticks, ticks,
and only few deer are left awake,
by the dull-glow of drug,
a voice, between drags of a cigarette:

"kid, skipping stones across a frozen lake,
is not that impressive,
but convincing everyone it is? well..."

I've seen better days, but God am I jealous of those who have lived them.

we are a horrible team
kicking holes in the twilight like the silence is drywall
like the most unhappy of accidents.

we are two tongues caught in a mousetrap together
waiting for each other's assistance
suffering for the sport, the art.

tomorrow trading songs
coded messages beneath catchy choruses
enough to feed the families we don't have.

for the rugged old men on the highest shelves
who eat too much and spit much more:
if we give you back your own advice, will you take it?

here below's my laundry list
reminds me to air the ***** stuff and
give back what you left behind

..."maybe i will tomorrow", i imagine you saying
for the 1000th 'tomorrow' in a row

more than a few shattered bulbs
for the muse with the bloodied face
and broken nose.

at the end of the rope
i am merry, masochistically, asking him
"spare an original thought?"

and he can
but as soon as he agrees to let me use it
it evaporates

so i go back to punching holes through the drawing board.

[ground floor]

not enough to "tell the stones we're gonna make a building",
they need your assistance, your calloused brain, cratered hands,
made keeping pace with rehearsal wakes and misspelled bands
on their own they preach to that choir of dust.

[first floor]

your job, should you deign to move, is carrying them to the site,
to draw blueprints void of red flags,
to throw away the riches and make peace with the rags
to put down the pitchers and escape from the lust.

[second floor]

help should not, can not, will not, be on its way
you will twist and knot your spine until it feels okay;
a tangled web of limbs but what can i say?
the march here is long and gladly unjust.

[third floor]

but the stones have done their job,
fit together like trying to reach God in the clouds,
this is the part where you wave your baton proud,
and enter the home built from the stones that you trust.

[top floor]

here's a wide open space; many outs, many ins,
and they're armed with indifference and your steady heart -
it ends right here, back where you started,
limp on the ground, without reason or rhyme.

[ground floor]

especially not rhyme.

I don't want to die,
I don't want to die,
I don't want to die,
I don't want to die,
I don't want to die,
I don't want to die,
I don't want to die,
I don't want to die,
I don't want to d-...

Oh, my Medusa
That piercing, seductive stare
Gets me so rock hard.

"braullw nevae falls"
That's 'braille never fails',
Spelled by a blind man.

Matsuo Basho
Turns in his grave: first, five times
then seven, then five.

The dankest of ****
Floats slowly into my lungs
Oh wait...Asbestos.

hahaha ye boiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii
yeyeyeyeye ye boiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii
hehe wyd

On that cold morning, where your breath was painted on the invisible canvas between us, it took two steps to cross our countries' borders. I imagined contact like it was a thing that only occurred between the lines of a fantasy novel, and then I stepped back, back, back, through the gate and under the neon sign.

I spoke to a drifter last night. I forget his name, but his skin was bleached and his hair was crimpy and he said: "The only thing worse than being a muse is living". Then he left, digging his toes into the floorboards on his way out. I'm not sure I'll ever hear from him again.

This morning I stood on a street corner and felt a thousand strangers' shoulders brush up against mine. I didn't move. I drank from exhaust pipes and stole expressions from faces; faceless; facing forwards, eyes cutting against the grain. I had a list of demands on a scrap of wrinkled paper. I must've lost it on the way.

I'm about to drive a shaking fist through a glass screen. You will bruise and bleed but so will I. When the glass is splayed out over the keys, we will lose all communications and our marriage will be reduced to the exposed nerves flickering behind the shattered mask. That's okay, though, I needed to move on anyway.

the devil goes doorknocking:

"hello, sir! would you like to sign up fo-.."

i shut the door in his face. which, by some freak accident or other, is red red red.

i made a mistake.
the devil breaks in.
i sharply intake.
then cornered by sin.

there's a flame in his eyes
and there's ice in his veins
there's no message to reap
but a soul to reclaim.

*"what the hell!?" i shout, i cry.
"you're quite right, though 'Devil' will do".

"oh my god!" i whisper, i sigh.
"he can't help, friend. i killed him too."

these few presidents
wring disaster from decisiveness
like they're squeezing tar from a sponge.

three heads of state
and not a single solution
except the one that dissolves whatever it touches.

                 billy the kid, did what he did and he
                 died. billy the kid, did what he did
                 and he died. billy the kid did what
                 he died. billy the kid did what he
                 did and he died.
                  
                 nothing
                 to
                 help
                 before
                 he
                 *left

you are my universe
if my universe is an animal
and that animal is tearing a smaller creature apart with its teeth.

you are my world
if my world is just this room
and the door is constantly locked from the outside.

i cannot tell if this is asbestos or stardust -
- either way, i can't get it out of my eyes.

liquefied ivory trickles down the drain
picking out lavender to the sound of rain
/
back alley blues from the white picket fence
trade your broken heart for dollars and sense
/
the early morning glow is where uncertainties grow
as we dream our young dreams, static courses below
/
a muted flash of LED lights and i
view them like a dot painting across the night sky
/
please try not to crash your car
pull yourself out of the tar

So I'm sitting here, right?
Thinking of something to write.
It's not going very well, if I'm honest.

Like, I can't really think of something important to say...
Poems are meant to be poignant, though, aren't they?
Something worth time and effort, like a parable, or learning how to drive.

If you're interested, it hasn't been that long,
But I underestimated my own ability to shut down at will,
To run head first into dead-ends.

What is a poem, really?
That's not rhetorical, I am genuinely confused; my default state.
How many feet do I need in a line? I only have two to spare.

And if I give them away, how do I cross the finish line?
So I'm stressing over where to put the stresses
So my head's as blank as the verse in a Shakespeare play.

So I'm losing patience quickly, like a drunk doctor,
Or some similarly silly simile-slash-simulacrum,
Simulating the deepest of sympathies for myself.

Wait...Did I just do it? Did I just write a poem?
I think I did. I mean, I probably wasted your time in the process.
Sorry about that. Really, I am. How do I finish this?

Thanks for listening!
Wait, no...
The end!
No, hold on! I can do this...
Have a nice day!

Ah, whatever. You get the point.

the sweeping, disfigured noise
once a muddied succession of numbers (0101101, et cetera)

reconsidered

has long since made its home in a dream;
a blooming curlicue of letters (AECAAEGA, et cetera)

like the intimacy between pen pals.
like spinning plates.

My bedroom curtains,
Are a rich, Penfolds red.

Of which I am quite certain,
They hide the stage inside my head.

The unkempt bed, a centrepiece,
For every act of this here play.

My *******, my kingdom,
Come stay for one mere day.

Clouds are forming on the roof,
Some celestial being's frown.

Now it's raining in the arena,
So bring the curtains down.