I want to find you
in the mist
in the mildew
in the slow, sure sunrise
I want to find you there
and share a singular bitter cup
sweetened with kisses
in between sips.
You are the key that opens the safe in my chest filled with the painful words embedded in records on repeat.
You turn off the player
and replace the vinyl with
handwritten,
daisy scented,
sealed, and posted love notes
just for me.

I commit every word to memory
so I can hear them all again,
but there is never any need.  
I just look in your eyes
And they're all there.

*Good morning my love.
I hope you delight in what the gods have left behind,
For they wait to delight in you

M covered in blood and attempting to roll a cigarette throughout but failing utterly.

M: Blood dries much quicker than you think. It is hell on cotton and wool blends, but once it's dried on the skin, you can either chip it off or just rub it off, so that's cool. (beat) You know, after a while you start to be able to smell if someone is anemic. It's crazy, I know, but when the metallic perfume entertains the thought processes for so long, you tend to notice when something changes...

M realizes he is divulging too much and snaps out of it.


M (contd): I always feel like a greasy kebab at times like this. Maybe it's something in the electric meat shaver thing that just evokes memories of drunken nights and mysterious bruises acting as battle scars, compared between those who saw, and those who pretend they had. (beat) I feel a kind of aggressive nostalgia for those debaucherous days. I would do anything to be still under that one, singular light source, barely being able to stand due to the altered states, blacking out Blake's eyes and standing so close to him, that with the right music we would be sharing a slow dance. The air was thick and Miss Love bleaching her hair in the sink provided the perfect musings of life and love. We stumbled. We laughed. We fell. Now only I stumble. I pretend to smile. And they fall. They all fall. When I am King, you will be first against the wall.

M again realizes he is going too far and dials it back


M (contd): Some people suggest that human meat would taste similar to pork because of the similarity of blood supply and flesh density, blah blah blah. They're wrong. It's more like veal all over, but that really depends on how latent the person is, and where the meat is cut from. And who was the idiot who said the Chianti would pair well with liver?! ******* idiots. Too fatty. I wonder if the new 'Mock The Week' episode is up yet. Torrenting is a crime, I get it, but who pays for anything any more anyway? Imagine going to jail for video piracy! (laughs) God, like sharing a cell with a ****** or gang member or something, and you're there because you don't have Foxtel and you want to watch 'Game of Thrones'.


M finally decides to drop the facade of small talk and just be real*


M (contd): I'm not... normal. People don't often walk the streets covered in their neighbour's families blood. But if I take out my phone and pretend to be talking about how exciting tonight's costume party was, eyelids usually aren't battered. Normal people are too trusting.

My darling little one I am tasked.
Tasked with the idea of imparting what I know.
It might not all help,
But it is what I wish I knew.

If you don’ t already;
Pretend you like yourself,
Because if people think you are untouchable
They won’t attempt to approach you and tell you the negative things that you already tell yourself.

Take the time to listen to classical music,
You will like Toccata and Fuge in Dmin,
Trust me.

Don’t regret anything;
You are who you are because of what you have done,
Even if you don’t like the person you are now,
Use the present as a catalyst to become who you picture yourself being.

Fall in love with weird people.
They are a different type of person
And you learn much about how the mind works from them.

Pick up the ukulele.
It is bright and happy.
But only do this after your long stint as a metalhead.
People can say what they want,
But you have to be talented for metal
And if anyone knows about community and looking out for their own it is metalheads.

It is okay to be unhappy-
Even now I don't have the hang of this one.
But maybe someday
Maybe someday.

My tiny shining star,
The world will be cruel to you,
But it will be kind if you let it.
Take in the little things that give you joy.

But your Mum and I cannot wait,
To see the joys you experience
And the mistakes you make,
Because I will be waiting with tea and gumboots
And your Mum will be waiting with blanket forts and chocolate
And probably a better solution.

You will be an unstoppable force in this world
And I couldn't be more excited to meet you

Today we tend to the bones of our ancestors.
Stand in the field,
Amongst thousands,
But all that is seen is a note,
Giving thanks to those
On whose shoulders we are ****** upon,
On whose shared experience, we sprout forth.
What is left behind withers,
And what is left behind thrives.

Your legacy lives through me.
And I love you
I love you,
I love you.
And I miss you.
Being here makes me wish,
Wish for something beyond this.

You always told me
‘Life is more interesting
When you look up.’
So here I lay
Pitching glances toward the stars
For solace may be found through them.
Time passes and I am to think
Perhaps they are no longer stars,
But openings to the heavens,
Where your light pours through
And I am bathed by the glow.
As if to tell me that I have yet to have lived,
And to see the path ahead,
I simply need turn to those who mapped it.
For every wrong turn
Is marked by a star.
So to seek solace in them,
Is just asking for directions.

For a while,
For a fleeting second,
I know what it is like to be reunited.
And it is comforting.
Being here,
I am stripped of distractions
And I am free.

One day I will join you,
And share with you what you have taught me.

Admitted to taking the reduced ruling
Fourteen souls accepted what this is after
All
Of this...

Immediately unavailable to face Sunday's showdown at
The Stadium.

The Titan gave assurances to the souls today.
It will not take any further action
-Despite the deal-
But their identity is still unknown
Some suggesting only retired evidence.

Hand in hand with sickness,
The hound (who is widely regarded)
Appears to prove why force
In recent years
Did indeed highly fancy tomorrow's feature;
"The Winner".

The hound first knew his fledgling
When he could finally be on the road
While his empire expanded

"I used to hope for the best"
Titan tells us.
"I used to have a while and
I used to get sick.
Now I just have to find a way
To use up that time.
I speak only to the Landlord
And his tenants.
I only blame myself for the sickness.
All I know is where I've come from
...At least, I think so...

...I hope so."



"It's a funny thing!"- Hound.

*Pressure keeps you honest.
Wet, heavy conditions expected tomorrow.
So, with everything said,
I wish you peace and love.

Love is waiting.

Nearly home.

The bed
And the slippers grow ever closer.

A memory of things that give comfort seem palatial,
Euphoric in the mind's eye,
Though I do seem to ponder of its romanticized reality

Memories always seem so warm.

In reality,
The things that hold others close are affirming.
Love,
Shared events
Symbiotic empathy,
But given the current state...


The boring,
The mundane,
The trivial and the tedious that makes the most of a lifetime
Are omitted from the mind.

But why not have a memory full of nothing but the nothingness of life?
The train rides?
Waiting for the toaster to splay its insides
So I can feast on its wonderful toasty goodness?
Talking to the tenant who does not understand
That a bouncing leg
And constant time updates are signposts to *******?

Empty the files of my brain
And fill it with the moments of nothing.
These moments and these alone
Are your true self.
if you are a good person
Is not determined by
How many charities earn your pay
Or how many items stored,
What you are is chosen by the lonely,
The solitary,
The Tigress.

Only when you accept that person,
You are happy
And free.


But don't hold your breath.

The landlord rented his space.

The landlord became suspicious.

He received complaints from other tenants,
Within a couple of weeks about loud music
And laughter coming from her room.
Banned from having friends in their home,
People would arrive in a van nightly during the summer.
The details of which emerged in the trial of insurance businessman,
Who was accused of helping her,
Without their knowledge.

She accused the abuse after a plea.
His mercy,
Her punishment.
‘The past is still very much a reality’ she whimpered.

Forced to watch for five months,
The wolf spoke as she faced the hearing
Without a translator.
They are forbidden to speak.


For her first 23 years, she was tortured.


Anti-social behaviour is having more than two people in his head,
Playing music so loud,
That it can be heard,
Outside of him.

The only person to feel the same resigned.
The landlord asked the hound to verify the affair.
He handed two leather-bound volumes containing a map of the marks.
It was on that day,
The landlord took the decision to leave seriously.
Once known,
He made the claim and gave no hint as to the tenant’s identity.

Up for a chance to win, We wish you safe travels.

Turn off the light,
Force my eyes to adjust  
So for a brief point in time
I don’t have to deal with the world.

The roués of an instance
Pressing and compressing
Ideas once held so dearly,
So close to the chest,
Fundamental morals that are nurtured and grown to define who I am, to determine what defines me,
to know what best explains who, what, when, where and why I become ‘I’;


...Has warped.

We are all required
To develop an acquired
Taste of territoriality
Over who we are, and what we have
Or,
Who we have and why we are.

“She is mine. From the second I laid eyes on her I knew.”- The Landlord

That determinism,
That ‘I am who I am, and the only thing that changes is time’
Is flawed.
Time does not change!
Who we are changes!

Change only comes from within.
The unfathomable amount of people I can and will be,
Stems from me and myself alone.
However poignant this is,
The matter arises that,
No question how much responsibility I have for why I am, who I am, and who I need to be;
These people will never meet.

We are told to dream,
That we can be whoever we want to be,
Though we never want to be who we are.
The closer we get to the carrot,
The more we realise
It is dangling from the pole taped to our heads.

Never live for the dream
Just be existent in the present,
For the vision does not exist.
And never will.
It just changes.



*And I am sick of dreaming… But I lack sleep.

…Oh god, what have I done?

Here.
Attempting to write something
To match your eyes.

Something that will make you see things
The way I see things.

Noticing.
Every mark.
Torn by  fences climbed
To get away from those who didn't take your hand
And fly.
They left intricate laddered rips in your jeans,
Though you try to hide the fact that you know,
That I know that is the case.

We play childish games of denial
Because all romance is to be transported to a time when we were innocent.

Back to a place where ‘I love you’ is what your parents said
When all the screaming, laughter
And the innocence of loud noises stop
And is replaced by silence.

‘I love you’ made that warm feeling
Growing and radiating out
Eventually finding the tips of your fingers and ends of your toes
And bursting out,
Moving through to the next person you touch.


Contrary to popular practice,
‘I love you’ is not just three words to be said
When you are trying to break the awkward silences
Left between two people who have simply gotten used to each other.


I love red licorice.
It gives me a warm feeling of sugary goodness.
Though artificial,
In the times when the weight of the world is the weight of your sheets
That lay a top of your body
Which you tell yourself over and over and over
It is not good enough for that person
Who gives you the inner warmth
That a campfire gives your shins;
I find that artificial red licorice warmth is good enough.
And sometimes good enough is the best we can get.

Here.
In the hope that the words that must be said
Stream from ink to page.
I hope my hand moves so fast over the page
That smoke starts flowing and my words mean something...



But no words come.
No letters.
No ink scratches the page.





*I just want you to see the way I do.

I don’t love you.
But if I did,
I would spend countless hours writing poems for you.

I don’t love you.
But if I did,
I would perform seppuku so not only I could remove the pain of you being with another man,
but I could show you all of the scars in me that you left behind.

I don’t love you.
But if I did,
I would construct convoluted, conniving catastrophes in which every man that hurts you gets the plague.
I would spend hours on your facebook hoping for a hint that you still care,
And not care that the amount of time spent thinking about the idea I have of you could be used to possibly pursue another,
Though all I want is to be wrapped in beautiful white cloth with you,
Swinging slowly in the warming sunlight and talking about nothing but everything is felt instead of heard and the intentions of what is said become blindingly more important than what is heard.

I don’t love you.
But if I did,
I would hold it deep inside, though the sight of your car outside his house at three in the morning and the news of your new job and new tattoos drive pins covered in ‘I love you’ into the pit of my stomach, promptly followed by bowling ball to knock them down.

I don’t love you…

…*but if I did, I would pretend that I don’t.