Koala In tree
Sonorously sleeping now
Tonight theyparty

perch on stools
too high for short legs
elbows resting askew on
sawn wood table top

the smell of dill pickles
pefumong the air
we wait for the bagels
to arrive......

heaped with pastrami and onion jam
crumbling half melted sharp cheddar
dill pickles sliced acroos the top
a mountain of foodlove
on an old china plate

old time root beer floats
and a mound of serviettes
let the **** begin....
as we snarf and scoff
our way down to china

don't forget to buy
some bagels for breakfast either

i am nine
and learning
by osmosis
secret women's business or
the art of  pie making
production line style
to the uniniated

i sit perched on a stool
in the corner, out of the way
boxed in by fruit
it is a heady place to be
as scents of apricots(bought)
blackberries and apples mingle
sweet woody and exotic,
with the citrus tang
of  zested lemon that sits
in an ever growing
pryamid on the table.

ginger and cinnamon motes
float in the oven warm air
and flour clouds the room
and settless in drifts
and dusts the collection of bowls
on the table

my mother aunt
and mrs blunt,the neighbor,
bustle about the room....
my aunts girth designates her as chief baker
and she rolls out pastry with
gusto...fat arms swinging
penduously, humming to herself.

mrs blunt is the pie filler
adept at judging the mix
and making the gelatonious
gooey syrups filled with sugar
and spice, chopped crab apple
and lemon zest.

mother is the friuter, she peels
destones and cores
chopping up apples, apricots and peaches...
leaving berries and cherries intact(sans pips)
and then later she mans the ovens  
watching for the golden crust
and bubble of pie juice...
before removing
them to cool on poppa jacks
old oval dining table...

me I sit in  wonder,
snacking on fruit,
and  ***** of leftover dough
swooning with the smell
of stewing friut.

Next year my true apprenticeship will start....
Until then, I listen to the murmer of gossip
the passing of secrets,
the bonding of these women....

when I was small
to small to see over
the tabletop, my aunt
taught  me to make God's Food
she gave me lessons
in baking, in alchemy

I stood on stool,
so I could mix the
ginger powder,
flour and eggs in
the big old green
mixing bowl
with a big wooden
spoon, half as tall as me

I wore an apron and had
one of my poppa's hanky's
tied over my hair...

My Auntie Barb,
poured over my dry mix
hot melted butter,golden syrup
and brown sugar, with careful
hands and then briskly mixed
it through, a glorious batter
was made.

together my hands
covered by hers,
soft comfort and calluses
would pour the batter into
old rectangle loaf tins,
paper and greased,
then into an oven
to bake and spread
the scent of  ginger, cinnamon
and caramel, throughout the old
weatherboard house....

I would happily lick the spoon
and scrape every last bit of gooey batter
from the old palmolive green mixing bowl
as we waited for the baking alchemy to occur

Roughly forty minutes later,
the oven door would be opened
and loaf of gingered goodness
would appear, the kettle would be
placed on the hob to boil, tea in the ***
cups, plates and cutlery on the table
sugar,milk and butter too

Then her voice, would call
gingerbread is up, and all
would come, interrupting
footaball, a good book,
an afternoon nap,
or the tv program
nothing stopped one
coming for gingerbread

The loaf would be sliced
still warm and thick
almost overwhelming
all that warm ginger
so very exotic, then
it would be lathered
with butter, that would melt
almost on contact.....
and that was a such a feast

There was magic in that kitchen
even though I make ginger bread
the same way, something is missing
perhaps the warmth of the old oven
or some little pinch of salt or nutmeg
or perhaps the ginger has changed

Or it might be just nostalgia....
for simpler times..when my biggest
responsibility was mixing ginger bread batter

ten thousand joys,
both small and big,
sit behind my lips,
in the crinkled crowsfeet
corners of my eyes
and fizz, fizz, fizz....
like sherberted,
fireworks,
within my brain.

ten thousand sorrows,
curve my spine,
scratch at my heart,
and sit as,
tears unshed...
in brimming dams,
behind my eyes.

ten thousand hopes
rush like oxygen
along ...
the arteries and veins.

ten thousand wrong decisions,
grind at my joints...
and make my knees,
click and pop,
in this muggy weather.

ten thousand right decisions
stare back at me
from your eyes
so like mine....

and make me...
count the joys,
forget the sorrows,
live the hopes....
and strive..
to make the best decisions
i can....
and forgive those that,
i have stuffed up...

ten thousand...
i love you's,
will never be enough.

hands in cup
circling, circling,
washing away,
yesterdays detritus

humming, mindless, tuneless
far away in another place
thinking, of memories

slip, crash, drop
favourite cup
now
mosaic on hardwood floor

shards, and shards
me, a barefoot island
in a sea of ceramics

every which way
sharp reefs to navigate

but needs must
I am an island alone

none will rescue me
and i cannot sit all day

one cut,
on big toe
one coffee cup
much loved
now, binned
one bandaid
and off to work

serves me right,
should have paid attention
sheesh I loved that cup

got to love
a man with
a sense of humour;
our friend  mac
has come to visit,
with his
scottish terrier pup
named mcduff.
only so he can,
take him for walks
and cry out
"lead on mcduff, lead on"

These are the days
when a small boy
lying face down
at the waters edge
not asleep,
not playing,

but dead....

is photographed,
is spoken of in strident tones,
is lost to his family, to his potential,
is to become a beacon for greater  humanity.


These are the days,
when as a mother;

I weep as I watch the news,
I hug my son, just a little harder,
I rage against those with power,
but little compassion.
I thank god for my families safety.

I think....what is this world coming too.....

That I mourn for us all.

the imaginings
of the lonely heart

wander within this page
and beyond.
sent like beacon lights

out into the darknes
of the heart's distress

out across the waves
seeking another life,
another living

seeking connection,
a return other than
plaintive echoes reply

into the dark
the deep, deep, dark

a butterfly
of heartstrings
and hope,
sent out
into a hurricane

and somewhere
there sits a soul,
weaving a net
of love and lonliness
awaiting a battered
but hopeful butterfly

be a poet,
if you must...
but know this,
from one who cares.

it is an addiction,
that will cause strife.

you will,
learn stuff,
you never really wanted
to know.

you will,
find pieces
of your soul,
best forgotten.

you will,
stay awake
late into the night,
trying to twist a phrase
til, it turns out just right.

there will be,
tears and much,
frustration.

at times you will,
neglect your, everyday
life.

oh there will be, angst
and fear
as you let your poems go
and see your words fly...
or plummet to the unforgiving ground.

and yes i cannot deny
there will be joy,
much euphoric joy,
as you discover
new words
with which, to toy.

so be a poet, if you must
if you have,
a liking for
garrets and starvation.
enough to offset your
word lust.

...just be original
don't be a parrot
write for you first
and then for others
strive for exquisite
excellence....
but now it is
a fragile dissapearing
thing....


it is your life
you get to choose
your own folly...

my slipshod heart
creaks along
i was taught
to make
the best of things

but waiting for
some one to die
is no song

my myocardium
is imperfecta,
apparently...
won't last too long

used to be,
not a problem.
but now age
is catching up
with me.

sad thing is
i am only twenty four

hard thing is want to live more

so like a ghoul
i wait for someone....
hopefully not a mate
to make some sort of
fatal mistake....

cannot lie...sometimes
would be easier
to just lay down and die...

but it is my life's
designate
to sit on this
sad razors edge
and wait

i rest my hand lightly on your chest,
the crisp grey blond curls tickle my palm.

this is not invitation, not yet.

but a need to feel your essential substance underneath my fingertips.
i move to rest my head, my ear hovering
near your heart's steadying rhythm.
at counterpoint to the waves on from beach below.
you cup my face in your large carpenter's hands
and draw my head away from your drumbeat's base.
gentle calluses graze my cheeks.
your face, now in my curls inhaling me,
my thoughts, my grace.

we lean, into together emeshed, entwined,
ensnared.

we are our foundation pillars and piers.
we assay each other finding
the potch and opal dross and gold.
we accept the measure, allay the fears.

two seperate. two complete.
bound together.
made one.
intricate in design and blueprint.
layer by layer,
baggage and taught lies are lost,
forgotten and sundered.
we revived hearts atrophied, critical and dead. shifted paradigms, opened heads,
rehashed, reworked, rewired.
reawoke the sleeping giants,
found truth and honesty
and love and grace.

took a liking to this unkown place.
created gardens, from thought, tumbled weeds. we sought and saved and watered wilted needs.
our house, our home now, built strong
and stable.

we lean into together emeshed, entwined, ensnared,

your gentle calluses brush my cheeks,
finding salted water.
your deep rumbling resonance,
mumbles into my curly locks
"you ok babe?"
i turn my face to yours,
seek your eyes, smile and reply
"just thinking beautiful thoughts"
and gift my lips to yours,
lovingly lingeringly,

this, now,

is an invitation.

i want to write something,
bright and beautiful.
but those things,
are memories,
out of reach,
on a high shelf.

i see them, in crooked
neck glimpses,
as they gather dust.

i hope to find my
rose tinted glasses
soon,
perhaps,
when i get home
and have some rest and sleep,
i will find them nestled,waiting,
in my bedside drawer.

i know my record has,
but a few grooves right now,
and sings only lamentations.

the fragility of my body,
assults my mind.
and the reliance on chemical
relief provides, physical respite.
but brings,a side order of
mental frailty.
so anything you get...
has those filters attached.

my world right now,
is miniscule.
this is my window...

but i know,
things will get better.
bear with me friends...
i will write,
beautiful  again.

Twilight settles in
Cockatoos quarrel
loudly....
Who sleeps where tonight?

my granfather cultivated
beefsteak  and ox heart tomatoes

great big red things
bigger than his
gnarled and ropy fist

smelling of acid and
sun shine and deep rich
goodness

he would sit at the table
and seperate the seeds
out of the pink granular flesh
like a surgeon
and they would sit  like pink red sago
on cut pieces of yesterdays news
set upon the window ledge
gross yet compelling
there they dried out
in the sun
and were sorted for planting
some discarded as not good enough
some set aside for the "prize winning" bed
the plot of soil that got the best sun
the best compost, and some watered concoction
that smelt of things dead and rotting

I once asked what made a good tomato seed
his reply," you just know girlie....
you know the ones that are going to be great"

tomato growing was serious business to my grandpa

it has been a week
a big week
full of turmoil and upset
goverments dying
to be reborm

people dying to be
something other or else


words spinning, spitting hate
words tripping, traveling around
creating hope and seeding love

flotsam and jetsam
landing on shores
both foriegn and known

big thing going on
going down

...and yet you still have time
to sit and rub my feet
...and I still have time to let you

life continues.....a pace

i had forgotten
the rage and anguish
of a two year old boy
who is just too tired
and overwhelmed

i had forgotten
the frustation and angst
of  the mother of a two year
whose answer to every question
in a howling NOooooo

both almost in tears
i so wanted to help
but remembered
outside influence
at this juncture
is often more
of a hinderence

but still i smiled
and leant over
and whispered
in her ear...
it does get better
and yes you are
doing a great job

sometimes it helps
to be told you are
even if it feels
like you ain't

the bee's hum loud in my soul tonight
you sit there oblivious, caught up
singing lovesong lullabies to the golden child
but later when he is sound asleep
we be making honey, soft sweet and luscious
that's the beesong, lovesong  I be hearing
as the bee's hum loud in my soul tonight

love, begets love
in bundles big or small
love, begets love

joy, begets joy
bright dropping jewels
joy, begets joy

hope begets hope
ephemeral, shining light
hope, begets hope.

life, begets life
all encompassing life.
life, begets life

and so the cycle goes....

today
i sit in mendicant's pose
on
the corner of
webster and roget

please
some one throw some words
my way....

On the wall sits a
Huntsman spider very still
Nothing to see here

we stay still
the surfers and I
caught in
the moment

as the sun breaks
the horizon
a whale breaches
the water

the  apricot light
plays off the slick
oil black sides
of the massive beast

it was a moment
of  grandeur
broken by
the massive
water slap of
whale as it dropped
back into the blue water

and still, we stayed still
the surfers and I
caught in the glory

of the bellyflop

loss
loss,
there are...
many types,
many degrees,
to lose your car keys
one end of the spectrum,
to lose a person you loved,
to an argument, difficult,
but to lose them to death....
                            off the scale.

into the deepening night
I gaze

my eyes bright and searching
for you

as the moon rises I sigh
and turn away

one more night.....
apart

one more day's waiting
til my heart returns


into the night I gaze

the sun sidles off,
to it's next assignation
and the cool, nibbles
through my clothes.

still, i sit on the back deck,
waiting in wonder,
for a silver stiched sky.

right now....all shades of blue,
shimmer in the glow of the
sun's fond adieu...

this is, the time i love the best.
the betweening of sunset and twilight, mere moments
of turning ...
and then, into the break of night,
as the shadows deepen
and the scurrying things, come on myriad tiny feet.

the stars relax into their
rhythmic, beauty
the moon benign, looks upon
us all, in silence..

and behind me, the lights
flicker on...in my warm
and cosy life....

goodnight, to you,
little things,
that make your way
in the cold, dark...

                        goodnight.

got up,
had coffee.
showered, dressed
drove to work.
sat at a desk,
shuffled papers,
moved a mouse.
took some bathroom breaks.
came home,
deheaded camelia's.
fed the cat.
and the family.
read a bedtime story.
made love, in a desultory way, while watching telly.
went to bed.
and still.....
in that, there was poetry,
if you look....
between the lines.

In my big old double bed this fine Saturday morning.....
...one husband ....still blissfully snoring...
...one small child starfish....
...one cat kneading and pawing....
one paperback..... in want of restoring.....
one small wet patch.... we are all ignoring...
one headache slowly brewing.....regret for the loss of an early morning lay... frustrated desire at aforementioned lay.... physical evidence the big boy was ready to play....
chips crumbs..from a midnight snack......
...furtive guilt..at the thoughts .....i'm harbouring of.... running away ..just for the day
...a pair of jocks.. just one sock a small dinosuar ....and the picture book he's reading.......
for god's sakes cat stop your kneading.. i will feed you soon
a mental list..... way too long of things in need of doing........
years of love and family building......
....one early middle aged mother
.... one starfish child....
.... one husband blissfully snoring ...
....one little grey cat still kneading and pawing ......

beware the hermit crab
tucked up aslumber in  it shell
for when you pick him up to
say hello , he may
attach his pincers to your nose

beware the hippopotomus
do not dare tread on his toes
for he may just lean on you
with  little fuss,
then you are flatter
than a bread crust

beware the flamingo
with pink stalk legs
do not ever steal her eggs
for she can run you down
and peck til your blue and brown

beware the seal
the clown of the sea
If you come to close
They may kiss you
on the nose, now
while that sounds quite cute
remember fish is their fruit
and the never brush their teeth
so their kiss has it's own kapow

beware the wee small things
they need to be watched
for in their world they are Kings
and we are clod hopping giants
with no care...so of all other things
beware..be aware .

somewhere beyond
my ego...
lies the poet
who writes for,
the love of the sound,
of pen scribbling thoughts
upon fine lined paper.

the writer,
who devles into
the murk of the
morass of thoughts
rowing across the swamps
of the disordered mind.

the scribe,
who takes photographs
with words
deftly framing light and shade to produce
thought provoking images
so good, yet,
so hard to define.

the racounter,
who can spin a tall tale
on the edge of a dusty dime.

the truthseeker, soothsayer
not afraid to speak,
even when speaking
is condsidered a crime.

the jonguleur,
who plays with words
of six syllables or more, keeping them flowing, creating rhythm and rhyme.

somewhere...the earth mother lies
distilling truth into jots
and tittles
and sowing them into
lines...

somewhere...beyond
my ego...somewhere

it's past midnight
and my thoughts is just
fuzz, lintballs and
cotton candy
rolling around like
tumble weeds
across a vast and barren plain
that purports to  a working
brain.
i am so very far beyond
myself that i am forgetting
who i am....why...

it is grant writing season
and i have used my quota
of words ...

so just visualize
something wonderful,
off to the west over there..
while i sleep over under
this tree here....
and if i am quiet enough, maybe i will come back,
to me.

then the carniva,
will begin again
tommorrow...
sonetimes real life is
such a grind...

i will bide my time
here,
with you my
love,
for it was you,

who came with,
the gift of love.
to my barricaded
door
and knocked gentle
and soothed my
unruly mind.

you came with a box, wrapped, in compassion
and tied with, ribbons of joy

and inside...
hope, on the wings
of butterflys.

i will bide with you,
my love,
i will bide with you.

i just have to make it
to the end of this week
and then they are on
five weeks of exams
and semester break....

i can do this.....

this bird
sings loud
and  joyous

unaware of gilded bars
they joy is in the song
not the space of singing

this bird is a big voice
in a little world
of another's making

this morning,
i take my coffee
on the front porch
and in the argent rays
of a cheery, winter sun.

i watch, the young birds,
learn,
the art and politics,
of perching on the wire.

the manouvering required
to keep,the heirachy entire.
the cheering, chirping refrain, undertaken, to remain in the game.

all lessons to be learnt
if to gain
a place within the
highwire elite echelon
of local birds of fame.

awakened by the purr
of the little blue cat,
seeking warmth,
on this crisp spring morning

we, the little blue cat and I
take our breakfast outside
walking across the dew damp grass
to sit at the old wooden table

he, steps high, waggling his feet
me, i step deeply into the grass
enjoying the verdant, green smell
that rises,
enjoying the brief  commune with
nature
enjoying the return to childhood

we sit, companionably, eating
he leftover roast chicken,
me, purlioned cocoa puffs,
my son's saturday treat,
that he will surely never miss

as we sit, the sounds of the world waking
drift past us.
windows opening, the snort and cough
of an early rising smoker, cars starting
the birds chat and chirk, and the plop
of the fish as the break the surface of the pond.
the garbage trucks stop and start trek up the street.

and now in the house, the radio, and kettle begin
a shower turned on, a bass voice sings, not well
but with joy.

now the day has truly begun...
one last mouthful of half remembered childhood
and then back to the daily grind
as the sun makes it's way past the low lying clouds

the blucat, chooses to stay, out watching the birds.

little birds
all yellow mouths
and hunger

chirp with needful bellies
keeping the olds
in frantic motion
to  silence the calamitous cries

you are the show of the day
for the half grown, well fed instinct
that sits on the other side of the window ledge
eyes wide, ears forward, poised to leap
he watches trembling, with adrenaline
filled need to hunt, years of
domestication be ******
he is tiger, you are prey

at least till the door to the
refrigerator opens.....

lots of bits and pieces here, bits of strings, pieces of cloth, laundry pegs, handles to god knows what, scattered coins from scattered lands, paperclips, brokendreams, rubberbands, scraps of life
on paper doodled, rolls of film, batteries alive and dead, scary thoughts from one's head, lego blocks, bits of wood, seashells from the seashore, keys from a life before, unknown things, important somehow, jigsaw pieces of a china dove, thumbtacks, nuts, screws and bolts, lists to do, that just did not, lids from old jamjars, spent pepperpots, bright neon plastic straws, words left unsaid, that may have started wars, little stone pebbles collected,
because, packets of seeds, vegatable and flower, the combo to the lock, of all the lost hours,  bits of the times, i often regret,  pieces of my heart, awaiting repair.....
but amongst all this
stuff i cannot find,
any leftover, clarity of mind.
rooting around in the junk drawer of life, always an adventure, not always kind.

i want to bite
down,
on the word
and tell you the absolute
and dangerous truth.

that your bitterness,
has soured your
soul.

your famed stoicsism
has fled,
and most of
what you say, has become
a whine,
reedlike and annoying.


but i clench my fist,
against my thighs
and count to 97.

because,

you are my mother

and your life,
has been,
not exceptionaly
kind,

and at eighty five,
you may well be
entitled,
to luxuriate, in your pain.

but just,
sometimes,
could you do it  a bit
more quietly.
please....

black
the sky above so far reaching,
but disinclined
to become involved
in petty disputes
that night.

red
glowing the fire of sugar cane cleansing,
smoke thick,
billowing greasily

black
clouds covering
angry thoughts,
brought to bear
in closed fists.
beating sense into her
until,

red
flowed down
cheek and chin
absorbed by skin
and hair
and the little

black
dress he bought
for her to wear,
with

red
stilletto high,high heels. lipstick too for pouty lips,
now

black
and blue.

red
her thoughts as she lay beaten, but not
broken on the warm

black
asphalt tar, leaching

red
the cigarette end
showed
as slowly she stood,
fixated

black
the hilt of the knife protruding from the white dress-shirt

red
the lifeblood spreading

black
dress walking to

red
porsche,

his last view .....
              ........fading to

black.

i am a sheep of the blackest
shade.
and my sisters,
wooly white angels
in bleached mohair.
me i could do no good.
me bad through to the core.
them angelic, pure.
at least that's what, everybody,
thought they saw

girl, i am a member of the black sheep clan

my feet have always had,
a need to be elsewhere.
Dad called it my infernal wanderlust...
so, i have heeded their call.
travelled far and wide,
finding love in ports everywhere,
but none for to be my bride.

girl, i am a member of the black sheep clan.

always moving forward,
so i don't have to...
look behind.
but still,
self recrimination
is a constant bedfellow
of mine.
you know, it takes years,
of dedicated time and headspace.
to become a man,
beyond, his prime.

girl, i am a member of the black sheep clan.

a merry, meticullous ****-up.
who can laugh, at hisself,
yet, still continue to commit  his biggest crime,
daily i **** myself....
daily i survive....
just a one man crime wave,
not worth trying to save.
but you do, you do.

girl, i am a member of the black sheep clan.

motley me,
with a jester's soul.
trying for laughter,
but just getting more old.
lived a life, bought,
purely on fool's gold.
now close to the hereafter and still breaking the mold.

girl, i am a member of the black sheep clan.

the Crue knew who i am.
i am just one of this world's many misunderstood.

*girl i am just one member of the black sheep clan.

one year on, one year on
and nothing differs,
yet nothing is the same

the sun come out today
as it will tomorrow
the grass grows,
the wind gusts and shakes the trees

all manner of things just carry on
all manner of things are blithley unaware


but not I,
I feel the difference, the sorrow
the spaces that can no longer
be filled...

I feel the void....a great gasping thing
that hides, waiting to catch you unawares...
and then takes the colours from the day
leaving behind a glassiene grey

one year on, one year on
and still, I turn to you to say...
but you are gone,
and now even your scent
has begun to fade away....

the old pine table,
was scrubbed daily
with a mixture of bleach and salt,
and then sluiced
with clean ice cold well water.
it had a felted softness to it,
a wonderful tactile memory
i am still unable to explain.

sat out upon the balcony,
overlooking the beaches
and whale island.
caught both the days sun
and a short substantial breeze.

it was an oval behemoth of a thing, would easily sit twelve adults,
at a christmas feast.
but now just one or two,
excepting when we arrived,
on vacation, then a half dozen neat.

and on most mornings,
big broadsheet papers.
spread out, anchored down,
by oranges and bannanas,
sea shells and driftwood,
teapots and coffee cups,
whatever was to hand,
scattered haphazardly about.
the rule was if you took a bit of fruit, or whatever,
you had to supply a new anchor.
so as the morning wore on,
fruit became books and toy trucks, teddy bears and cricket *****.
all presided over by granda,
as he worked his way
around the news,
spread before him,
like the hands of a clock.
changing seats, irregularly,
with a sigh and a plop.
muttering to himself,
or calling out to gran,
news of suggested import,
or the "specials"of the day.

that old pine table held,
the world spread out,
for intelligent disection.

i still can feel, it's surface,
like rolling, polished pearls.



.....no still not explaining it,
at all well.

bleak the heavens above
bleak the heart within

black dog sniffing my skirt tails

it is a hard thing
watching  
a loved one suffer
mental anguish

need a ray of sunshine to break
the cloud cover, today

waiting for the roses to bloom
she loves the home grown roses

will take her a mango,
the taste of summer on her lips
may make her smile....

the odd sockery
do but mock me
as the lego bits
grind the bones
of my heels
faintly i smell
old orange peel

toys, stuffed pell mell
into ye old treasure chest
the piece of three weeks old pizza
you ain't ever gonna unring that bell

favorite teddy at rest on window sill
looking far from his best
and in his snake-arium, lies bill
the blue tongued lizard lazy and still
on the shelf beside, the books
of the boy wizard,
the one with the glasses

the bed barely passes
the status of made
and in the nooks
his father created
all sorts of findings
and keepings and
thingamabobs are laid

bless, in the corner a beanbag, sags
with the weight of my world
and his book bag, all snuggled up
with the tuxedo cat, whose motor purrs
like a harley cruising on by

the room a catastrophe,  in it's early stages
but  at the sight of them my ire disengages
and i stop still and thank the stars in heaven
that these two are mine, that they are happy
and safe and incredibly fine

sunday afternoon in the burbs
somewhat, wonderfully sublime

in the corner of my left eye
i feel the blooming  of
a migraine begin
occluding all reason

nailing pain to my brain
and causing civility to flee before the tornado wrath
of assualted sysnapses
time becomes distorted
like algea in a summer pond
the verdancy of the ache
looks pretty
yet underneath i suffocate

the time of darkness
begins...
to bloom like a carrion flower....