i always wanted something
to fiddle with,
gesticulating appreciation
of cigarettes wasn't enough,
so i decided to grow a beard,
and forget the violin.

and when the last of the shadows climbed into his bucket
the little boy that no-one knew
whispered something to them and carried the bucket to the ocean's edge
he was seen by several setting the bucket in the water as a wave approached
then turning towards the other children along the beach
and motioning them to come
which they did, some 60 or 70 of them
suddenly drawn to this boy that no-one knew
he looked back to the sea
at the crest of the horizon
a dome shaped craft that dwarfed any vessel known to man
emerged from beneath the waves
suddenly hovered silently above the beach
darkening the skies
it was there but a moment
and was gone
when the astonished crowd turned their gaze towards the young boy
he was gone
as was their own
December 22nd, 2112
seventeen minutes and 21 seconds before the Sun died

i am strong.
i clutch my ribs on certain nights
because i might split open -
i might even spill.
my fingers stay tight
to keep me stitched.

i am weak.
i seal my tears in a jar,
let it sour and congeal.
i take my success
hard.
i love
unruly

on a clear cold night
came a streak of warm blue light
I awoke under the Sun

They shoot the blackbirds
In locked cages
For singing of living freely.
They say
"No! No! No!
Those birds are insane
Bums
Losers
Dead to society.
Now,
Go to work
Go to school
Stop at stop signs
Marry
Have children
And pay taxes."
But I heard the lunatic chirping
Riding on the echo
Of a shotgun blast
It said
"Nothing really matters
And the people aren't as important
As they think.
The boundaries they set
Never really existed.
Now quit your job
Throw your wallet in the garbage
And run naked in the streets"
It sounded beautiful
And I can't seem
To get its ringing
Out of
My skull.
How long should I
Pluck
These black feathers
Of mine?

if you took
the edge out of a storm,
you'd be left with a blank film;
no soundtrack of droplets,
no lightning
cracks of conflict,
no romance, from
air steeped in rain.

so if
you wiped away your childhood
scar, laced your
back up straight,
turned the volume **** on your opinions
and cried a little less -
what
would you be then?

if you softened all your angles
would you tell your story well?

you filter every pixel pore
you angle yourself thin

my darling, which
do you love more?

the ******* the screen
or the girl in your skin?

I'm trembling, terrified;
that you'll look down sweetly
into my dark eyes
and hit a dead end.