There are no right answers.
The sky rejects the birds, turns them
over to gravity,
embedding them in the concrete and dirt.
The grit refuses to become a pearl,
just as the wound refuses to heal
and the flesh eats itself.
The market sees a sudden spike in
sales of Champagne and cyanide.
Coordinated efforts seek and fail
to curtail the rising tide of violence
in the nation's dreaming.
You realise that this crude, barbaric language
that you can't understand
is your own.
Beauty glitches and pixelates.
Frightened, furtive confessions of love
are unheard over proud, visceral
proclamations of hate.
Tongues divorce mouths.
Every now and then, a voice
inside your head says,
'Thud.'
The measures of sanity become
more quantifiable and
totally arbitrary.
The horizon
tightens
like
a noose.

It doesn't matter if this is wrong.
There are no right answers.

To be more
than the shame
staining my skin
a pallid shade
of grey,
would be more
than the dreams,
painting the windows
of my mind
with a rosy tint,
of hope
of chance;
it would be
all.

But,
is this pinkish-haze
from the comfort
of reveries,
as I’m enveloped
in velvety corolla?
Or are these
the malignant,
sardonic
barbs,
that foretell
my fate
as a truthless soul
in an honest
reality?

His soul is a smoked cigarette,
Blackening his bare heart.
Try not to reach for either, I fear
ash falls apart fast.

Her mind is a sober child.
That likes to believe that its drunk.
Wouldn’t she die if she knew
Boring and tiring are hangovers.

They continue to run past parallel
Steady at edges, drunk on the highways.