i have a little dream
of you in the moonlight
my fingertip tracing
poems upon your back
words limned in luminance
braiding foxgloves into your hair

it’s just an idea,
it’s all just ideals:
ideal you...moonlight, skin, words
a little dream of “could be”
prickled with starlight
tinged with a berry scent
a tangled glow

I stay drunk on dreams,
I stay inflamed on dreams,
my ear pressed to the walls of the worlds
listening to the whispers from the universe next door.

don’t force me sober.
reality tastes like concrete.

I have resigned myself to this;
time stretching onwards a pale weak grey like that of a dove, promising peace
-- sod your peace, after all, heaven is a place where nothing ever happens --
-- heaven is Las Vegas -- everything and nothing all at once,
and around the corner of my hesitation
comes a voice as lifeless and mutilated as the rest of me:
"shut up and live."

I have walked unshoon through dust-choked wastelands
where they strung belief and imagination up
from the flagpoles, by their throats
and burned all our dreams to light up
a night grittier than a mouthful of gravel in a desert.
tracing my tracks and trails by the bloodprints
left by bare soles lacerated by shattered dreams underfoot.
"just shut up and live."

I have dreams, curiosities, wondering too deeply
what the last moment on Earth would be like,
what it would take to breathe through the end
and run face-first into oblivion or whatever's beyond it.
I sicken, and weaken, and wake up gagging on my own sweat
and the echoes of a voice made harsh by dysagapi:
"shut up and live".

not even good enough to be classed a hack
try poetaster
but making more money than me
and more people reblog all their
juvenile word *****
than they do anyone else’s--
ah, legitimacy has been declared!
shots have been fired!
there it is, ladies and gents
the ultimate arbiter of quality:
the approval of social media!

do please excuse me,
let me go and burn my wings in penance.

may every poet you meet
stab you in the heart with their pen
and if they do not,
send them back in shame and disdain.
RAGE AGAINST THE PALE AND BEIGE.

after much thought, Jack, and much watching,
I must say that I disagree:
while no, we must not wait for her silvery flashes,
you cannot chase her down with a club, I fear.

she is the timidest of all fragile creatures,
mist-fine, shyer than summer snow;
she bruises easily, for she is tender & swelled with the magic we seek.

she will not be hunted, she is sharper than us
she will hide over horizons beyond our ken
she will slipslide into darknesses we cannot reach
beyond saltwater, stars, ends and beginnings

she is the heartbeat of the butterfly,
she chases gold along the edges of our reality
she is a mirage and so painfully real
you cannot pursue such a creature with the brutality of mortal force.

coax her. let the strains of sound like raindrops of starlight play.
close your eyes. her whispers will be faint,
almost faded, but when you hear them --
a soulquake of colours, like the most miraculous of sunrises,
the most peaceful and blessed of firestained sunsets.

assure her. approach her as an equal, another magical being:
flutter your wings, sharpen your fangs, weave webs with her.
play her music, offer her gifts, offer her your open heart.

she will wait. behind every blockage, she will wait.
embrace her frail form, and she will turn the world
into all the wonders you've ever dreamed.
because she subsists on your dreams;
this is a two-soul spinning dance.

patchwork girl dreaming
piecing together the scraps of silk
frayed ribbons of broiderie anglais
the tears of velvet darker than midnight
squares of sackcloth hessian made to scrape
against skin both thick and paperthin

patchwork girl sewn together
with a golden thread and a needle finer than hate
embroidered edges with floss spun by spiders
from clouds of dreams, flower thoughts, starwonders
and fragile pockets of maybe hidden beneath morning dew
stitches all lose, then too pulled too tight

she is together
she is all fallen apart
the soft shape of a doll
the tender shape of a girl

hold her, not an armful of scraps
     but something precious, one of a kind
          couture

the noxious dragon in the spine awakens
some kind of poisoned Kundalini
stretches upwards, burrows downwards
sends out spiral tendrils across tendons
enraged villi seeking
something, anything
to sink themselves into and cause
neural ruination
a kinetic torment raging