I have reoccurring drowning dreams which
turn oxygen into smithereens
Wherever I seem to be
I cannot breathe

What to everyone else is leisurely lust
Is to me a desert of dust

The tide only hides, I can't see the sea
I try to stay afloat but the glass is always empty

Sailing is a Hopper painting
I can only hear when it's raining

People tell me the could only wish
Of seeing glimmering flying fish

But what seems to them nature's secret kiss
Is not.
It's a terrifying black ceaseless abyss

Rain droplets
Phone booth,
Until the outer
walls were
crying

Wetness is
A pretty
Vulnerability
But it's not
All bad
Because
Humidity is
******
Existentialism

Clouds are
Reincarnated
Saints that
Weep at the
Bitter realism
Of duality

(We are in a
Warm, wet womb
Until we are in a
Cold dry tomb
And as we grow,
We are drank by
Time)

When the sky
Is white and pure
As angles we are
washed
With sea water and
Odours expelled from
Our noses

Bathrooms are
Lonely places
Where you
Can be God
And the
White blankness
The sky
And the
Bathwater
The rain
And your
Fingertips
Humanity

The west is a lonely ritual...

Seeded in florescence,
Quiet but self-aware indifference.

Barely breathing,
Fireworks, gunshots, lightening,
Unrequiting.

Where dawn is bright and out of
place, and beneath it cardboard cutout estates.

Where eyes are fraught with glaring rejection,
And where we only cross paths at highway intersections.

And headlights echo deep wandering beams,
And shine palely into our uncrowded dreams.

Human warmth is replaced by electric heating
And people become cold, cold, cold and fleeting.