You can drown in your perversions.
You can stew in your thick hate.
You can find your enemies surround you,
And them, annihilate.

You can bathe in your own prejudice.
You can reach for your release.
You can tar and feather trinkets,
If you don’t destroy my peace.

You can open every wound you’ve had.
You can blame it on the rain.
You can coat yourself in fervour
Until you finally go insane.

You can hope for their destruction.
You can poison their recipes,
But in your own cake’s construction
Don’t you dare destroy my piece.

But peace is an illusion.
And which piece will finally fit?
In the pain of their collusion
What chance that peace will finally stick?

You can wonder what they’re thinking.
You can judge and reprimand.
But in the cloud of sweat and stinking
Hate is all that makes you stand.

You can hope and pray for silence.
You can hope and pray for fire.
When you shovel coals of violence
Hate seems all that you desire.

Behind your gas masks and your rhetoric
You can make faces at their fleas.
You can step on every snail you want,
But don’t destroy my peace.

You can lock their thoughts in cages.
You can manifest disease.
You can curse the fallen ages,
If you don’t destroy my peace.

But peace is an illusion.
And which piece will finally fit?
In the pain of their collusion
What chance that peace will finally stick?

And that peace was only ever an illusion.

Should not art be aspirational?
Why then, this sketch of our most putrid places?

Should not art be sensational?
Why then, these small feelings and forlorn faces?

Should not art be an escapade?
Why then, tread only on familiar ground?

Should not art make you feel afraid,
Elated, enraged, or at least something more than flat and drowned?

Should not art be sincere expression?
Why then, is there nothing found here to call relevant?

And when art is thoughtful impression,
Should it not reveal a truth not immediately evident?

There need not be beauty,
Perhaps not even soul.

But if mere pale entertainment,
Should we call it “art” at all?

I started school in nineteen hundred and typing error. But we were so poor growing up we had to share clothes, so I could only go to school every other day on account of being a twin. PE was a little embarrassing as I had a twin sister. It wasn't so much playing rugby in a netball skirt, no – my problem was trying to iron the pleats back in afterwards.

At 6 years old I was cast in my infant schools nativity play as 3rd reserve palm tree, in a play with no palm trees in it. When I complained to the teacher she told me to stop moaning and remember what jesus taught us.
“Can I be that?” I asked
“What?” she said
“You said jesus had a tortoise, can I be the tortoise?”

At 14 years old I was given a major role in my upper schools annual PTA play. We were doing Romeo and Juliet and I was cast as – the balcony. However on the night of the performance, unlike in rehearsals, the girl playing Juliet wore stiletto heels. So when she stepped onto the balcony (me) it yelped and rolled over. She went base over apex knocking over Romeo and landed spread-eagled on the floor that revealed her underwear to the whole audience. I am sure I speak for every parent, teacher and pupil in that hall when I say that I can never look at My Little Pony in the same way ever again. She never spoke to me again – like it was my fault!

(Oct 2020)

For many years,
I didn't own a
television.
I didn't want one.
The news gave me
anxiety, and most of
the movies were
horrible.
Bad actors,
terrible acting
and predictable plots.

I wasn't buying any
of it.

My Dad loved
watching movies.
He often used the word,
contrived
when summarizing them.

I remember watching
The Grapes of Wrath
with him.
After the movie, Dad talked
about leaving in his will,
a list of his ten favorite
movies for his seven kids
to watch sometime.
He wanted us to know
him better.

He forgot about it and died
a few years later.
I always thought Dad had
too much faith in mankind.
But, after watching The Grapes
of Wrath again, maybe he
didn't.
I hope we all live until
we die.

Tell me that I’ll pull through,
Or I’m a little bit feel down.
For you it’s just a trifle,
And for me it’ll give a strength crown.

I'll know there's someone believes in me
I'll just hear, that he's somewhere.
Even it’s not true, doesn’t matter.
Tell lies! I really don’t care!

Tell me that I’ll overcome,
That my spirit is really strong.
But don’t pry into my soul.
It’s sealed up with black wax for long.

It shouldn’t be touched soever,
It’s only the time for its rest.
Tell me that I’ll pull through.
Tell me something! I want to be confessed!

Don’t touch the soul! It is alive!
It can remember a great deal!
Its memories are like a hive.
Don’t touch the soul! It is too leal!

Don’t worm into the soul rudely
Like in a thicket, breaking twigs.
Just listen, how it's drawly groaning!
Attend to its so silent pleas!

The soul is tortured! Please, don't touch it!
If you can’t love, just pass it by!
Don’t touch the soul! I pray, don’t break it!
The soul hurts! Don’t let it die!

A depressive episode
Is a terrible experience
But once you're through
All the chaos and despair
The aftermath can be
Even worse...

Every color fade
Like you're watching life
Through an analog filter
While everyday tasks
Seem like climbing
Mount Everest

But we keep going
We somehow accomplish
Our extraordinary ordinary
Invisible little struggles
Just to get through
Another day

And maybe that's enough