What else is there?
As we stand and watch water boil away leaving bloated rice,
and we look at cracks in the floor that have trapped the dust and grime of life.
The clock ticks... ticks... ticks... Snapped Back. Where is the tock?
Blood pools in the kitchen bin, cools amongst the packets and discarded food,
congealed petals torn from the dying rose,
saved and disposed.
Settled in purgatory for the things that time strips...
squeezing through a narrowing tunnel
shed, reject and flee for the end
or lie and fail, bloated.
Don't take it from me...
the greatest liberty
is choosing when to throw
your own life away.

Years and years of page after
page,
sscratching, smudging, flicking the pen
putting off disappointment...
nothing looks like how it looks in my head.
Poor world, poor me.
Suddenly I look down
at my hands on the page,
My hands did it for my head,
not really, my head merely agrees and possesses the
arrogance to think
itself in charge.
Charcoal resembling my
insides, finally there on
the outside.
Fruit fly lands on the
fruits of my hearty hands.
Both drunk on wine but
unprepared I flatten in
on the page,
poor world, poor fly...
My perfect picture,
punctuated with the smudge
of life.

You can feel it,
In the voices of men on
phones in bars
Spitting apologies turned
recriminations.
You can feel it,
In the scratching of strings
on the guitar
of an inmate and the eyes that
stare in the face of disinheritance.
You can feel it,
In the clasp of the couple
at the beginning or the end
In bed in the dark
in a fleshy shell.
You can feel it,
In  the ink on a page
scribbled in rage
that goes nowhere
but leaves you different.
You can feel it,
In screams of a soldier
turned human through pain
calling 'mum!' or 'god!'
dying abandoned .
You can feel it,
In the cries of a child
who's met unfairness
and not learned to swallow the blades
so throws them out in tears.
You can feel it,
In goodbyes that are
lost for words
but language cannot express.
You can feel it,
In the the stretched out fingers
of those trying to reach
a hand or hate or love or life.
You can feel it,
In watching another slip
and slide away
and flail their useless limbs.
You can feel it,
As the morning rain
hits your hand
and cleanses the skin on your knuckle.

You can feel it sting
You can feel it sting
Let it sink in
and feel it.

FINAL SCENE WITH A GIANT AND A WHIP

The last scene of this love flick
Involves a man with stinging eyelids
And a giant woman in leather kit
Straddling a jet and cracking her whip

Before the film fades to black
The man slides some letters to the back
Of a vinyl case, to hide its ink
On the cover is the woman who’s cracking her whip

The case is packed inside a box
The man hides it, with his hurt, up in the loft
He pauses for a moment then tries to forget
The leather clad woman who’s straddling a jet

A close up shot of the vinyl sleeve
The boots, the whip, the plane and cleavage
Would really represent what he put inside
The image of fun turned into a lie

Does a weathered heart yearn to be replenished?
Or is it too broken to tick or be tickled by hope?
Do the tears of time drip drop down,
until drip by drip the drops extinguish the warmth
that is pushed from the inside out
by the crisp glow that curls smooth paper
to a glow red feather?

Why does every second second
Pass faster than the first?
So the thirst for the
third, fourth and fifth to slow
becomes an accelerating threat
to the volume of seconds left to pour.

Why is it
that the steady heart beat momentum of time
is distorted by the fluctuating force of perception?
Fluctuating the feel of the pulsating tick tock
of the clock.

How come while time carries on unaware of the damage it causes
we cause the problems
with our endless trek down a trail for questions and answers
and blame time for not stopping to less us do this

Crying and blind, blinking in the dark
We can’t see a thing, we can’t tell
If we’re flying or falling or sinking in the dark
The only thing that is with us
Is the pulsating, unsteady tick tock
Inside us in the dark.

No Good Ever Came...


No good ever came
From staying up all night

Except when it took all night
To satisfy our thoughts

No good ever came
After the eight pint

Except when we drank too much
And finally said the words

No good ever came
From sleeping for hours all fine

Except in those morning hours
When we were safe from the whole world

No good ever came
From staying sober and bright

Except for the days we remember
When everything was sharp and whole

No good ever came
From standing completely still

Except when we stared at each other
And knew just who we were

No good ever came
From filling up on pills

Except when we hung from the ceiling
And clung to the clouds in mirth

No good ever came
From chasing childish thrills

Until we found that place inside
And laughed at how simple it was

No good ever came
From using power of will

Except when we clung together
Much longer than we should

No good ever came
From constantly pretending

Except when we said it would be fine
And sort of lived our lives

No good ever came
From the act of surrendering

Except when we surrendered
To the currents in our hearts

No good ever came
From being real and raw

Except when we absolved ourselves
By accepting all our scars

No good ever came
From fighting in a war

Except when we fought each other
Instead of face ourselves

Nothing ever good came
From shedding all those tears

Except when it let you know
That I was full of fear

Nothing ever came from me or you or us
Except for the briefest moments

When good came from both our lives.