A THING IS NOT
A THING UNTIL
IT IS SAID ALOUD.

(David Arnold, "Mosquitoland")

There’re plenty of fish
in the sea
Why are you fishing?
Boil some water
You’re thirsty.

Poetry,
It rises out of the cracks of life like ****,
Rubbing on contact with clothes and skin,
It can’t seem to heal, to dry, it keeps peeling, frothing forth,
Demanding a say, I say
It hurts, it feels like it feels to watch Macbeth **** his friend,
It hurts like Plath’s sliced thumb,
I can’t stop the pain, I can’t
Stop the poetry.
Cover the wounds, let them harden in the cold,
Prevent infection, I’m
Vulnerable, and this world hurts
When the stars shine on summer’s eve it makes me too happy,
When a man drives his semi-truck through two kilometres of bodies,
When a journalist sits on a car bomb or a gay man is thrown off a roof
In some faraway land, while
We sit and talk about Donald’s bad hair and complain about the wounds,
The scars, when
Really, it’s cold outside,
You’re hard as rock, the **** has stopped leaking,
Frozen, half-hearted thoughts and dreams like a zombie, we
Just go around and around and around.
You’re no longer vulnerable, but you’re hard. You’re lonely.  
An unfeeling soul.
Take a look outside: It’s no longer winter.
There’s a global warming, a blanket of ozone peels away to reveal the sky,
Solar radiation rain.
I can’t remember the last time I smelled the rain, like really smelled it.
The collisions on my skin, they break me, the wounds pour out like dams,
I’m sticky with this poetry ****, this burgeoning wonder, this
Tearing of the curtain of my temple, my body is set free,
vulnerable, and it hurts.
Only, it’s when we are most vulnerable,
In pain, bleeding with the ugliness, the mess of this life,
In much trembling,
That God will reach out His scarred hands to embrace us
Skin collisions,
I’m in love again.

I'm tired.

I numb with music, substitute

feeling with sharpness, taste of blood

oranges.
Stars and citrus.
Words are jumble, speak and stumble--

I say to myself quietus is silence,

better to keep to yourself with your

sarcasm and cuts--numbness and sharpness.  

I practice inhabiting my love letters, my suicide

notes, my little ant cage--

Watch them struggle. How

cute.
Stardom and gods.
A mortal's more fun than gods--

Why practice these strongholds,

these hauntings, this phantasmagoria.

gods are wordplay, they watch us

struggle in little ant cages--watch me stumble,
let me

speak.
Fault and fate.
I promise I am not mean--

I mean--sorry. Forget I said anything.

My mind is a totalitarian regime.

I build up walls, paranoia, panopticon. (And to me, Denmark is a prison.)

Keep the voices, the evils of the world out.

An ideology, power, purpose,

Convinces me of the diseases, the deviants,

That risks an illusion to be shattered.

I am my own dictator, hail.

I control words—words are power—

I write my own narratives, make my own excuses,

Create heroines and gods to populate the prison walls. (He was a son of God—a phrase which, if it means anything, means just that—and he must be about his Father’s business, the service of a vast, ******, and meretricious beauty.)

I rewrite constellations, make them smaller,

Build babels, buying more time.  

I tell that amnesiac blackness: that it cannot hurt me; it can’t touch me.

Those labyrinthian libraries of sky charts and lovely flower dictionaries, rooms of polychromatic paintings, which I gathered with gayety as a child—I’m still a child—I haul into the fire,

Ignorant wretch.

We live a part of a global economy, where inclusivity and transparency criticize, perfect.

I can’t stand the critics, I cry, ******!,

Condemn them to death by a thousand cuts,

Slicing and dicing, I can hear their silent pleas,

They speak to me, You are loved, Let your family in, Please stop

Please please please stop please stop stop stop speak to please stop speak to me

Horrible hungry faces, they don’t cry as I peal skin from bone,

With shards I crush those voices, with glass, broken mirrors,

Me to speak stop please to speak stop stop stop please stop please please please  

Break down the walls,

why should you die before your time?
An open market is prone to crisis,

These newcomers, it only takes one to break your heart.

Things with merit are gems; scarcity creates value.

Enjoy the labour of love and life, it is a gift of God,

Dance under pixel skies, they **** pride, ****,

Open the floodgates, the dictatorship crumbles and crumples under the weight of these tired eyes

That see light rushing out from the cell window as visions and vicissitudes

A cry from the streets outside

The end is nigh, Night is coming!

One cannot sleep with starry skies in the eyes.

Stay awake, because the guards are coming,

Remember—you are to be tried for warcrimes, hail.

You and me, we can shuffle off this mortal coil, our self slaughter a mere trifle

In this ocean of failed realties, as man to cosmos.  (All I want is blackness. Blackness and silence.)

Cause this flesh to melt I beg,

Keep cutting, smaller pieces,

No, the sunrises, it’s ****** and orange,

Citrus, it burns in these wounds,

I feel pain, I feel, warm with this ambiance,

A jacket to prevent morning chill, breathing wisps,

I don’t want to leave, I don’t want to die,

I don’t I don’t now don’t don’t don’t no I don’t want to leave no leave me

Wait!—


(Feb 7 2016)

Christmas full moon to scare the monsters away
I wait for revenant spirit
What do I say?
Happily ever after? Is that it?

It’s Christmas, so what?
I’m a Christian, what now?

Does green planet dry and crack like clay,
Our souls cast off into fiery pit?
Whose story am I in anyway?
I’m caught in other people’s stories and s*

Embroidery of lives tangled in chaos-
Are we the non-approximate product of a particular origin?
Sinews sewn of souls and flesh-
Are we trapped in mortal coil and bound to such curious fates?

I stand here in saintly moonlight
I beg for grey to blot out starlight
so the stars won’t burn my eyes

So many stars–hide me

I love You–bind me

D O U B L E T H I N K

.
Black is the colour
Where other colours go
Swimming in
.
I am absorption,
Thick graphite drawings.
Tar, pitch, embellished
.
Bruised colours like flowers;
Hidden powers in these cowards.
Mortals are more fun than gods–I touch
.
Music, sinews, my flesh, fie,
These lights bruise my eye–it’s cold
I smell. Sigh. Rain and earth, fresh,
Solid. Home
.
Black is a colour
I swim. Sleep. Such
Is this: I am not Hamlet’s Ghost
.

13/12/2015

I've lost you, old friend. These stories I write; I put periods on penultimates; abandon treasures in attics; things I love. How easy to blur--to get comfy. This brain needs rough edges, slicing blames. Cold winter stars keep this machine active, heaping more coal on the fires to keep warm. My hands are cold; I'm forgetting to keep warm; to keep.
I saw a shooting star starring at orion warrior in clouds and sand; but sand it isn't; asterisms are gathered pebbles I use peruse lose in lactic glass. Flotsam; seashells; that's what meteors are; they are. You can't dream 'em, trust 'em in pixel black home; only see. A glimpse; turn up; look up; so many stars. I saw lady luck in constellations conjuring, memories music mournings--mourn. I mourn the things I did not want; I seek asterisms's deep; warrior constellation is a garnet, others connected by. What? I can't see the depth of heaven. You try to peel your gold make-believes; to see behind, when really, your ambition has made you a beggar. Beggar wants what cannot give happiness, truth. There is nothing on the other side; there is nothing behind the fabric of heaven; you fail to fathom; attributes and properties of the world unseen, in depth. Let yourself. Give. Ugh, I can't see! Universe is unseeable; reconciliation is heart's quest. Eternity into everyday.
I wonder
in.
I love
to.    
Rough edges. To feel alive is an obsession with death; a goodly death is rare. Life is lived when death and reckoning are done, and God gives--love to me. Rainwater; petrichor; Son's crimson stain; my pages sticky with grace. Grace, gosh, grace; I don't deserve to die a goodly life. I deserve fate of dark shooting stars; you can't dream 'em, trust 'em; only not see. Meteors are mirrors; I see myself; I don't. See. Myself.

14/12/2015

Make-believe multiverses written in the
Rain
Petrichor
       Ichor
       Blood of (my) gods
Congeal. Thick. Rich, putrid poultry pan
                                                             ­           opticon
                                                                ­        theon
The bigger I am the smaller I am,
King of nutshells,
In ambition I beg--beggar butcher
Kingly kind **** beggar--look
In, give in, cave out implosion (my)  
God demands sacrifice; copper
liquid spills, fresh,
                                 Replace
                                               old blood
                                                                ­Regicide,
                                                     Warm
                                       running
                                 red
                         over
                Mars,
Vallies of dead bones they
Make a noise (crunch) like
Nutshells
Eggshells
                 White emaciated pale weathered withered
                 wothered wondered want I want I wont ...    

A  L I L Y  S T A N D S
In  v a n i t y  v a l l e y
G r e e n blue v i o l e t
T r e m b l i n g I--I am
Cold
       I can't feel my hands.
I rush rash rip stem
And all
Timeless life
                     Look how it not dies in my hands.
                       Look
                               I can't see
Unstuck by time trapped
In this eternity, make-believe,
Flower fickle, it is
A sentinel robbed of its post,
Eons past will pass before decay,
L I L Y ' S  F A I T H --Can't
Let go of this moment, just
Let it die in peace,
In v a n i t y  v a l l e y
Of bones dry dying...

When I wake up I see a man
Whose hands are open and eyes
Are free to wander.
He is royalty--a royal beggar,
A dry flower pierces
His heart--it rains
                               River
                                         run red
                                                      with
                                                              or­ange juice sun
Squeeze.
His hands on his sides.
On sand and seashells.
Open valley, horrible horizon.
Celestial cosmos ocean sky is
That it? Is that me?
Do I raise my hands or f
                                          a
                   ­                         l
                                      ­       l
                                              To the ground. Beg.
Where are my gods? This
Sun is too bright, I can't see.
The cold. I blow breaths of smoke.
Vapour vanish too
Cold. I can't feel my hands. Go
Back
Inside.

Steel-wool clouds

The rain is milk,

Soggy cereal leaves,

Squish under my feet

Sausage leftover legs,

Soaked,

Coffee puddles and

Bones

Pitter patter

Fail,

Words make me

Rip em out,

chew too long,

Spit em out,

Give out,

Give in,

Disposal

Mind’s expression is

Poultry heart,

Self-cannibalism,

Genius’s passage

To the heart, costs,

Cuts-

Sacrifice.

Book Thief taught me why painting is better than burning (books.)
Hamlet gave me a glimpse of grief, cutting the heart of tragedy with his poisoned rapier, where beads of things red and desperately human trickle forth. He helped me realize my dream of being king- king of nutshells and withered violet petals. 

Tris reminds me of myself, and Gatsby, too. 

Keegan’s car and Browne’s poems awkwardly sit in the corner; I see them as I walk back and forth down the halls, too busy to pick them up. My mind palace is a hoarder’s nest.



They make me, I paint them over, thick and
bubbly with memories.
Layers upon
layers, now a
sculpture.
What’s me and what’s not?

Queen in yellow in her tower,
One of the Severed Seven, it haunts her
As she wanders her wretched black tower.

Puzzle pieces distract Ophelia,
From insomnia and greyer matters,
Itty bitty code, copper liquid spills.

Perpetual twilight, insoluble,
Scattering eons of stars like hot ash.
Life's cold, flowers grow in glory and man.

Queen in yellow in her tower,
One of Seven Severed Echoes, she loves,
She marks her heart in wretched black tower.

Puzzle pieces distract Ophelia,
Her god begs for a sacrifice, hungry,
She falls to the ground, copper liquid spills.

Perpetual twilight, insoluble,
Ophelia and Queen, dissolution,
Death increases vanity- man's glory.

The Queen without a face:

Standing between two warriors -two friends- built with star composites, asterisms.
She is crowned with Corona Borealis- glittering, sparkling. She smiles.
Hercules pats her on the back, playfully. The crown slips onto the Queen’s nose at an angle, her hair in a mess.
The three of them walk across the grassy horizon.

Acid bliss. Citrus circuits.

What?

Unclear writing, unclear thinking, thunking. Wait, who? Why now, tautology. Unclear, inconclusive.
The starry-eyed lover of everything? Or the overcast, dark spectacled preacher king? Graphite eyes, starry skies? Pies, kies, lies, what rhymes with eyes and skies and light-bending forces threatening to. Tear. Me. Apart.
Ghosts and gravity, black holes and dark thoughts, deceiving selves and lying heart. Tautology. Unclear. Inconclusive.

Forlorn is a pretty word.

God save me:

Save me. From myself. And.
For myself.

Imagine no apocalypse
What then?
You Vanish.
That’s it.
Fish will return
land will rise, fall
merlins will take sparrows on
the blackberries.

I try to convince myself that there’s no struggle;
That these are just war games. 

I wear long sleeves and the word
Fine
Like kevlar.
I search for second player, when,
Real
       ly, I need a commander.
I gather treasures, battle strategies in
Journals;
I tell myself that they're just easter eggs,
Useless
Use
      less.
I philosophize  
That reality is, really, a hollow
Hologram,
A video game, not real, not wrong, not
True, useless;
A projection,
Protection.
There's no war, no battle,
It's my d mons that speak dark things, when really, there's a
             a
             e
One  lett r difference.
I tell myself that the game's over, try
Again, try again.
Failure stabs, I say
That it was my own doing,
It's just war games.

I need to take a walk,
Run, run away
I tell myself,
It'll do me good.
I come back for another
Try, try again.
I was retreating, my armour could
Not protect me from the claws, the scratches from
Within.
It's nothing, I say,
It's all in your head;
It's all in my head.

I try to tell myself that there's no battle to be won, to  
Be a man.
Men don't play video games;
Men be me n.  
They defend, they protect,
They forgive.
But I don't feel forgiven,
I say I'm forgiven.

I'm fine, and
These are just war games.

Ocean wind pastel sky city swept away

Birds suspended floating puppets

Trees in twilight buildings

Dim lit busy urban jungle waters undulating

Waves wave when where whence I why

Eye see sea glimmering forevers

Drag on apartment glow worlds

Lofty hologram wish love here stay star

Beautiful things hollow center

Yours was a worn out tome
Maple leaves in-between sheets
Membranes, whole universe tucked away
Underneath your arm, secured by a sentinel of light
Delicate, repelling darkness with wisdom of mountains
Mine's a paperback
Broken and creased spine, held tight
Moulded into my hand
Fingerprint, Identity
I have a book light, late nights, tired eyes
Pages unattached, barely sane
Her's smelled of libraries, autumn
My own of campfire oceans and rain
We both smelled of rain                      Petrichor
Sweet and salty
Her fragrance was the ichor of the gods                    Ichor  
I was the dirt                     Petra
Each page, layered with mine
We cannot be severed, only burned

In my pages, half-thought poems and abandoned dreams
In yours, careful cursive, romantic essays
Corrosive
None the wiser, we both ignite

But

One cannot rise against two
And a threefold cord is not easily broken

c a m p f i r e o
c e a n s
s m o k e a n d s
e a b r e e z e
b a b i l
w r i t t e n i n p e n c
i l
i l l s e c u r
e
f i l l m e w i t h b
l a n k s p a c e
s  p  a  c  e
u n d e f i n e d w r
i  t t e n i n n o
t a b o u
t
t o m e a b a t t e r
e d b a b i l b i t
t e r  b l e s s e d c a m
p f i r e o c e a n s

Under the bridge
Pills, muscle & back relief
Empty
Cigarettes, mirror pond pale ale
Sail away from consciousness
**** slowly
Socials Studies 10 homework
Conflicted cultures, transient economy
Fur hats
Exploration, exploitation, for
Fur hats!
Litter, candy wrapper
What are you underneath that pretty shell?
Hard heart
Soft heart
Fragile
Pencil
Potential
Lost hope, failed system
Failure
Still the stream runs on, runs away
A steady hum, a constant purr
Pure
Impure
Sinner  
One day the stream will dry
And be forgotten, swept away into
Oblivion
Our memories, our ghosts
Numbed by the sound of water
Vanishes in time's cascade
Like pioneers and their fur hats.

We’re all alone in our minds.

Don’t be afraid,

There’s plenty of space to move around.

It’s your home, and a home needs to be renovated, maintained, lived in.

Strong foundation.  

It’s your universe, your reality.

Take control, tweak the dials, bend gravity.

Starlight illuminates the heart.

Bitter blessed

Better tested

Knowledge burns

Hollow inside

Welcome home

Stars only shine bright in darkness

Shade is appreciated under a rising sun.

Life is experienced in times of fear

Fear is replaced by a pleasant dream.

Beautiful Grey and Darkness**


Stream and leaves decay.

Navy green, brown, clay-blue.

Subtle shades.


Cold bones, wandering mind.

What am I looking for?


Hidden world

Creep over my body.

Take me slowly.

Reality slips away and another replaces it.

Two actors, one protagonist.


Pale and melted

Colour floats on the water.

Dancing, finding

Folds and creases.

Reflections, refractions.


Mild cold

Makes its home in the empty spaces

Between fabric and skin.

Goosebumps.


In-between, twill.

everything and nothing.

experience and oblivion.


Hide me, let me

freely wander

inner worlds.

Careless in

Beautiful grey and darkness.

Plastic
           Elastic

Costly
           dis
aster