Have you ever liked someone so much you regret meeting them?

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

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.

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.

/ picked an iris from the garden / took a hacksaw to the petals / when i could have just picked them apart /

\ which garden? \ only one of its kind \ a blemish in the desert, a stubborn breakout of petulant colour \ under schrodinger's sun \ model's smiles so ugly betwixt the natural verdure \ i tell them this \ to save myself from perceived slights \ and she does, indeed, look slight \

/ the word "help" drawn in the sand / the rusting handle of the shovel burning hands / as i hack at stems swaying nonchalant / in the stinging wind /

\ from left \ to right / then left \ then right / before bleeding out on the flat palm of the tool -

\ a wren \ tar-black \ perches on a nearby tree \ shakes the dust off a wing \ and casts a shadow across our little oasis \ before opening its beak to song \ dragging more people into the dark will not help you find the light switch \ and other assorted platitudes \

/ so the model walks out into the desert / i follow / dragging her garden along / it's wrapped around my ankles / oh the irony in losing blood to the vines tightening / dragging across hot sand / and eventually it's all too heavy / so i collapse / breathing in the arid ground / skin turns as red as a bull's nightmare landscape / yet she continues to walk / as if nothing happened / is it the heat that leaves me melting away? / or the guilt? / in any case / i got caught in the trap i set for her / eyes close / and she is leaving...

                                                                ­                   leaving...


                                                    ­                                  leaving...
          
                                                                ­                                   left.

and so the melody went: C, A, G, E, C, A, G, E, C, A, G, E
and he was locked inside it
and his heartbeat was in 9/8; a rhythm he struggled to move to
and it set his veins to boiling temperature
and the blood bubbled like soup on a stovetop
and the vessels burst like a boat in a storm

                                                                           ...until he found the key,
                                                                           that unlocked the CAGE.

let us try brave resolve
till tongues untwisted
doing the ritual whisp
where found its rhythm in the breeze --
cocked back like a hammer
cutting through the silence
was the creaking of an open palm.

would you like to go for a swim?
it is cold and it is dark
but parts of us dispersed
across the eavesdropping tide
makes for a wonderful place to drown.

...

a secret is like a burden,
when it is shared, it is halved.

-------------------------------As seen on Taste.com*-----------------------------

Ingredients:
One will need a portion of the following:
1) 50g of self-imposed isolation (optional: w/ drawn curtains)
2) a tablespoon of misguided misanthropy (store brand does the trick)
3) a propensity for experiencing negative stigma
4) ethyl alcohol enough to form parasitic relationship (approx: half bottle of grey goose)
5) 1kg of pervasive fear of the unknown (found in Future aisle amongst acquaintanceships, unwelcome hypotheticals)
6) a 3/4 cup of ground self-loathing  + the root
7) lettuce
8) tomato
9) cucumber
10) onions
11) avocado

Method:
Step one: place self-imposed isolation in a slow cooker along with misguided misanthropy. Cook on low for 8 HOURS. This will make LONELINESS.

Step two: preheat oven to 200C fan-forced. take loneliness from  slow-cooker then douse in alcohol before placing in oven. it's meant to burn (you're meant to burn.)

Step three: bring a *** to boil and throw negative stigma in to cook until it softens.

Step four: cut pervasive fear of the unknown into strips and braise.

Step five: plate pervasive fear and negative stigma. this combination is the foundation.

Step six: chop vegetables and mix into standard garden salad, then plate (one may plate how they wish, presentation -- to you, at least, matters not, or little; here's the one who wears tracksuit pants to parties. your parents have to remind you to brush your hair). garnish with self-loathing, decorate plate with the root of self-loathing.

Step seven: plate loneliness. truest to the recipe if loneliness is focal point of the plate. if it's cooked properly it will bleed. so will you -- just give it time.

Happy cooking!!

Alex is dead.
Alex is indistinguishable from the soil.
Alex is the dissemination of bad ideas, the confusing of such schools of thought.

Ben feels like Alex is.
Ben is lost in a crowd.
Ben is a poor choice of words, on the wrong end of a loaded barrel.

Alex feels nothing.
Alex feels the twitching of an index finger on the trigger.
Alex does not see her target, but catches the vague outline of a thing lost in translation.

Ben misspoke.
Ben makes a sand angel on a beach of excuses.
Ben is the bottom of a wine barrel, sublimates a clenched fist into an outstretched palm.

Alex is the opposite of sublimation.
Alex is subsumed by id.
Alex is locked in the cast iron *** of what she thinks her friend did.

Ben sits down at the table.
Ben places the gun in her hand.  
Ben cannot do this himself; Alex is shaking, shaking, shaken.

This:    
The vacant lot of 2AM - did she hear him correctly?
Not much of a distance for a voice to travel
Meek and fractured though it may be
So surely she heard what he said; the words "pull the trigger".
But what is the f()king point of an epilogue
If it contradicts the book? And what's the f()king point of a moral compass, if the needle is broken? No more can she read and she doesn't know the difference between North and South, she holds a tooth from The Always Open Mouth.

There are three types of people in this world: those who are rocks, those who are hard places, and those are pinned between the first two. Ben is a rock, and Alex isn't sure whether the only way to help both of them is to stay trapped, or to push him down this hill. Alex feels nothing now. And Ben is indistinguishable from the soil.

and all these gods are in one place
conspiring and -
all your efforts are misplaced
whining like an -
off-key note in a seraphic choir
lamenting a -
weekend's bitter aftertaste.

here's a thing you can't avoid:
a war of worlds on a bedroom floor
the house is kept unlocked at night
and a crosswind billows through the door.

...and all his questions are ignored
he chipped his teeth cause he was bored.

we wrote missives to a shallow grave
dug with musicals we rearranged
to fit the arc we fashioned here
as we waltzed atop the sinking pier.

...I am prone to switching off
So I will never turn you on.

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

(but we)

good morning from the after life
the 2am program
battered brains and battered fish
take the drug, make the wish

(are still)

good morning from where its sunny all the time
where you are the laugh track
your smile stuck, held up like a hammock in a light wind
no need to forgive when no one has sinned

(followed)

good morning from the place where dogs always catch their tails
russian roulette with the chambers of a loaded heart
and we're happy and we're glowing and we're glad
love what we've got, forget what we had

(by our own shadows)

although, incredible, the dogmatic pursuit of absent-mindedness, two left feet up the [redacted]

i would make a remark about how fast the time has gone
but i never looked up
to see it moving

wish upon a
wish upon a
wish upon a moribund eternally pessimistic star

[if i was a poem, dear disinterested reader, i think i would be a fridge poem. not very profound, nor eloquent, and rather insipid; though it's quite funny that i exist in the first place]

Me & Earl & The Dying Light Emblematic Of, Or Perhaps Symptomatic Of, My Interest In Whatever It Is You Have To Say

met a genie on a long road
delivered with the smoke of a cracked kitchen kettle
juggling three wishes
in his drunken monologue
like a blind man juggles bowling pins
and stupidly i used them all
on making the next few tomorrows disappear
                                                                                        and now i'm here
...

anyway how may i take your order?

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.

on your left you'll see whats left behind
the unburnt lungs and unsound mind
on your right you'll spot a cliche scene
grovelling by the anthill's queen.
up ahead we're blocked by some debris
left in tact by king's decree
the driver's blind but this holds true:
the only way around is through.
so seatbelts on and hands in prayer
hope your God can get me there.
(a man jumps off the second floor
then crawls back through the roadside door
begging to be welcomed back
as if he never lead the pack.)
there's not one stranger in these seats
but swallowed by the hungry streets
do not inhale the asphalt breath
lest we're gifted our first death.
last stop is The Royal Us
you'll never leave this tour bus.

                                                                ...this has been your tour guide
                                                                      at least i can say that i tried.

the department's lack of transparency under secretary [redacted]'s leadership is ruining our reputation. wounds still fresh, still raw from the steaming hot poker of [redacted], his insistence on [redacted] with all the [redacted] has left the cabinet muddied and in a state of disrepair; the dismantling taking place under scrutiny of the public eye, whose line-of-sight is unwavering upon the heart of the issue. being as he is in a position of influence, of power, [redacted]'s behaviour is deplorable and inexcusable, and the liberal use of [redacted] resources to stretch his spidery fingers into the forbidden *** of [redacted] is unprecedented, even as we as a people grow used to controversies in a similar vein. thick skin is now a prerequisite of living in our political climate. representatives from [redacted]'s leadership group are yet to make any statements on the issue, though it is -- from a partisan standpoint -- abundantly clear that if an apology or explanation is not issued soon, the young republicrat's reputation will combust in a display of unglory; splintered shards of a once-polished and spotless reputation flying in different directions across the [redacted]. [redacted] has landed himself in hot water. we'll soon know how severe the burns are.

A waste of space
moves from place to place
with a shameless haste
and a graceless face.
All the space that's wasted
cut and pasted
freedom encased
though briefly tasted.
Laid to waste
that wasted space
limbs were taped
and there defaced;
the sign said "Waste"
to home we raced
at a frenetic pace
footprints traced.
The edge of space
where fruit met waste -
a confusing place
reeks of **** and fine lace.
A waste of space
wearing my face
lost the race
to the black dog's pace.
But just in case
here's a place that
cannot be wasted:
bed frame's embrace.

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-...

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.

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.

[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.

This hidden gem
Forgets how to shine bright
Keeps shielded a shimmering soul.

This hidden gem
Is hidden in plain sight
Disguised as a lump of coal.

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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.

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

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..."

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.

if i were to pen an autobiography
it would only be a line(?) long
because here not much of interest goes on
but if for some reason you'd like to get to know me:

"an acute lack of self awareness,
and an astute sense of irony."

me: "today i feel big
i feel very big
colossal, in fact.
wingspan all-encompassing
beaming bristled coughing light
day happily backwards.
i feel significant today
really, really important.
didn't polish my own shoes
left home; home wept quietly because it would miss me.
today i feel hungry
very hungry
ravenous, in fact.
hungry for your company
hungry for broken shards of warmth
hungry for the day"

you: "you look tired"

me: "....oh"

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

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.

"back to a wall at the broken glass ball where ones fed up with it all not just feeling small

a twitching of cheeks it's been this way for weeks and is this what he seeks? the cellar door creaks

bed fully-clothed you and your betrothed and the people you loathed a stones-throw from homegrown despair alone

i take no time to finish this rhyme exorcising the grime accruing in the back of my mind pure stream-of-consciousness line-by-line at 12:29

need a passport to get to the kitchen sink need the friends i don't have for a chat and a drink need to turn off my brain in order to think need a rope and a stool pull me back from the brink

i'm collecting read receipts today. thanks for your help."

*Seen Mon 14:42

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.

line the shores
with hospital beds
let them sleep by the sea

if nothing else
they can jump the fence
untethered from the bodies

but when the credits roll
i still won't get up to leave
because behind the smoke screen of relapse
there's figures waiting for me  

some days i'd like to stay
some days i'd like to drift away
i've never had an original thought
but i keep thinking them anyway

so what will it be: a slice of life, or a chunk of wrist?

note for when you're ahead:

no one very much cares about your stupid little poems
your missives to a sickly version of you.

they're disinterested in your allegories
your holy fables about ***** needles and needless dirt.

and god forbid they watch you climb the ladder
unless your foot misses a rung, and you fall a wonderful fall into the welcoming embrace of the concrete below.

oh but i assure you they are crows
perched on a telephone wire, watching the theater of your car-crash life, as a limp arm tumbles out a capsized window, and the children dance in a circle around the fire, singing:

"we're here, we're here
for all that you hold dear
your eyes so dull and lifeless
yet they cry such pretty tears
we hold you out at arms length
but close enough to hear
the warring two, halves of you
as we imbibe your fear

...but no one very much cares about your stupid little poems."

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.

though not a man in the mirror, per se
more a man behind it
with a penchant for schaudenfreude
smile yellow with sadism
the rot, the cavity
grinning from behind the glass
like some ******* Cheshire Cat
to my Tired Insecure Alice.

no two ways about it:
he is there and i am here
symmetrical
but for the man's barbed tongue
perforating mirror and
licking at the corners of my brain.

he sings an ode to a spindly leg
torso of crush'd cardboard box
predisposition for loquacity
(not a city you should visit)
and badly drawn countenance
scrawled across coffee-stained parchment.

so convincing is this
man behind the mirror
with his pejoratives
administered with utmost precision
surgically removed volition
saying things like:
"The City That Never Sleeps
would cower at the indelible image
that is the hulking bags under your eyes."

i have nicknamed him "Conscience"
in the hope of wrestling back control.

you are all:
children
green
naive
unprepared

community full of previously coddled and heretofore coddling parents with their doting Yesses and ever-so-rare Nos. A poem, my good reader, is not any old thought; it's not a question, a "when-will-my-husband-return-from-war?" simple concern, but how a lyric tangles itself up in the bramble of a rhythm:

Just
Like
This.
See How the Words
Jump From One Spot Of Your Brain
To the Next
As Though They're Panning In Stereo
Such Illusory Text.
And Notice the Rhyme
Injected Therein?
I Would Keep Complaining
But the Bit's Wearing Thin.

one either has a way with words, or they should do away with words, but not before they try. i am not a poet, but i do, at the very least, try.

please try, tee-why.

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

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."