Can you see it like I can,
a boasting child,
a boating child,
an accident
she drowned.

Down,
the bubbles escape,
race like red toy cars
as blood blossoms out ears,
and pressure builds,
and fingers reach upwards
                                                         ­                                        pop
where small fingers are glassed with soapy water
and white and blue frosting.
scribbled over red lettering, "Happy Birthday Meredith."
And cards were presented with pasts and futures,
torn open like a shark attack
and ripping skin,
flapping back like dog ears, as he sticks his head out the window
and howls at the neighbors
for their loud music ways.

Silent crashing waves,
that boom death metal
and ride tidal curls
that bounce off her head.

As she writhes,
a red ribbon in her hair.
Hair of spun gold
like the sun
smothered by the moon.

Darkness eclipses.

And the last of the air is pushed
through her lungs
for light has drifted away,
torn like a suckling pig from its ****
and she is lost.
As her body floats away, pulled down.

Unclasped, she roams free.
groans, "Meeeee. Find mee...eeeee."
And eels slither from her jaw,
agape and brackish blue,
like pirate ship wine
sunken *** and treasure troves,
and streamline red.

Adding to a salty complexity
of tarnished speckled metal
like speckled eggs.
And brown eyes
bore out by hermit *****
that broke their shells after a gluttonous feast.

Unbuttoning her dress
a flower paisley sort of thing,
a useless scrap of sodden material,
for nothing matters,
as she thinks nothing can hold on to her
now and before.

She is aware,
but not really there, because you would miss her
like you did when she stood in the hall,
your eyes passed over,
and so stayed her silent screams.

So she left our world,
or rather hovered and watched
as much as she could without eyes.
She watched you,
and felt nothing over your cries
because she feels nothing
Now.

you spun silk across the skyline as the frail sun
spilt, onto the far-eastern seaboard, while those
consistent clicks fell resound and washed away
down the drain behind the blanket ran to pitch
as the clamourous small hours from city centre
disband the overcast to stillnesses and grandeur
of emptied haloes, trickling with dust, so i open
my muddied lungs and laugh; for now i know i
have kept fallin' anew all along, if i think i think
i will be alright will i make it through this night?
will it be any better, in the dawn's soft light? i'm
not
                  afraid
                                             anymore,
                                                                    though.
we were star-crossed, but for one single moment:
the sky tore wide, and all inside of your ribs, the
constellations swum where once i'd only found
doubt, inside your eyes the lights played
out melodies in time, as
dawn opened up
beneath
us.

Late at night or in the ungodly desolate hours of the morning, the writers come out to play. The insomniacs stop staring at the ceiling, and the depressed dry their eyes.

Late at night or in the ungodly desolate hours of the morning, we write away our happiness, our joy our sorrows, our pain and our emptiness. We write away our illnesses, briefly taking back our voices from them.

Late at night or in the ungodly hours of the morning, us sleep deprived lot fill pages upon pages with our words. Some burn them, some keep them, but we all write them. We are the closest we are ever to be to feeling alive.

Then we go back, back to being tired or sad, back to being heartbroken or empty.




Late at night or in the ungodly hours of the morning, the writers come out to play.