What makes you so sure your sickness need not be heavily medicated?
You walk around, your body hanging like your favourite outfit that you never wear anymore,
stumped in a box
The street lights breathe like the cigarette that you smoke at the end of the night and regret immediately after,
the cigarette that tastes like glue,
The pads of your feet blink to the floor,
Your soft eyes watch the people and their smiles, they once represented jealousy but now sail past you like leaves of boredom from nowhere,
You chew on an energy bar as the purple plants, bike riders, suit case carriers and fire hydrants stroll by,
You make fists to fit eye sockets, but your hands stay by their sides
waiting for the courage to find the change that promises never to come,
You sit on the bench and wait for somebody who might chemically excite you
Your mouth clamps shut and your food rots inside of you molding your breath,
The dog walkers follow their excuses not to be lonely
and you crave a machine to make you feel better,
no human will do,
And the cats purr against tree legs and look at you as though you are stupid,
You sit around your friends wanting more intoxication
anything but this elasticated dribble of saliva they call ‘the gang’
Because another ‘gang’ is just another situation where you can feel alone and misunderstood again,
another metaphor for your life and incapability to feel comfortable,
You bathe in quiet awkwardness that only you feel
and cry when no one looks or when no one decides to see,
And you wallow in the self pity that sleeps in beer cans and wine glasses
searching at the bottom of them for someone who can relate to your loneliness,
And everyone thinks they’ve got the answers but you do too and you think the answers are no good either,
You call out on roof tops in the loudest voice your thoughts can muster
And the teachers who get paid to care have given up too,
So you sit like an old book being read over and over again melting to resemble an instruction manuel or something equally repetitious,
And you wait for the time to pass,
and the people too,
You wait to be interested by something,
anything that will comfort you,
But you seek solace in the smell of dustbins, petrol, sea salt, beer froth and your hands in the shower,
And hope that they’ll all
come together
and somehow
let you know
it’s going to be okay.

I will open to you,
like paper in fire,
unfolding before I am destroyed,
and once I have become ash,
you will be wind,
attempting to reconstruct me as I fly further away from myself

Soon, you will realize, I am a clown on an all day, every day shift,
I will tell you things and,
you will grow tired of me
and make sighs that sound like waves breaking,
worn out by their heavy body,
and in my head to you I will say "I told you so."
and you will speak with subtle smiles that release your boredom,
I will close, after you do
and we will forget,
that we were ever open.

She was ****
and the moonlight bathed her
with soft hands
I was naked
and even the stars
closed their eyes from me

The winter city breathed,
and I was nervous in the evening
while you waited for me,

I drank your voice slowly,
I tried to sip you silently,
so that I could hear all you had to say with all of my senses,

You sound like bread and butter and strawberry jam,
and look like calm water in the early morning
like I don’t know about the oceans you protect,
and I feel like a fisherman
fishing for some sort of heart shape in the vastness of your sea,
and I want to sit on the shore all the time,
or at the pier,
somewhere where the sadness and silence are equally soft,
where the silence might be kissed away from you
and the sadness melt like candle wax,
warm and willing

The sad eyes
the hopeful hands
wrapped in the ends of long sleeves
scales for fingernails
silver purple hues
axiom eye brows
proscenium arches
the eye lashes are curtains
stained black
the scent of whole milk in tea
a kind mistake
the sarcastic cries from singing speakers
like dogs at beaches
the **** of leaches
realistic vampires
in pools of waiting water
leaches on my eyes
salt on your fingertips
lost on mine
paper cuts from my own skin
Chinese Jim Carrey on my mind
not my idea
I just heard it and agreed
the sand mouth
scratching the roof
paper *****
origami
and Japanese ***
animated octopi
and ocean park aquarium blues
I’ve been equated with
spherical spaces on my palms
the pope preaches a phobia
and he is loyal to all of his children
except some
and accept cards when they are given to you
with nephews and nieces who can’t speak
yet still sign their names
the cold shoulder
I hope you think of me
in the shower
and when you drink beer
the naked alcoholic
is like a godmother to me
he brings me
experience
the fathers speech impediment is inconvenient
like parties we weren’t invited to
the brother is loyal
the mother is not
like candy floss
sweet to the tongue
then gone
like rose-coloured contact lenses
the modern age will die
like grandparents
the enthusiasm
falls like stars
and you make wishes
on coffee circles
she is going to India
(I am not)
I am going to rot in hell
such a stench they will kick me out
the boots
thick and black
shining in the sun
like tarmac
the big nose
snorting *******
with the small
fairies are real
and they ****** us all
The suicide hopeful
that breaks promises
like bread
back to church again
‘Let’s save the gays and make them straight! The prostitutes too’
As if they didn’t have enough problems already
The teenage ignorance
and underage rage
under-rated and staged
The attention seeking wave
if you want them to see
better you were a tsunami home wrecker
at the age of sixteen
than a ripple in the ocean before you were me
the attractive son-of-a-poet
***** trick
the hairy crotch with diamond juice
the one you love love love
the Starbucks umbrella you stole
the girl who loves horses
the drummer who can’t swim well
the secret lesbian
who I’m 95% sure fancies me
and the barber who cuts hair outside the school by the concrete
in the woods

Your sad eyes
make everything else
seem pointless

I sat very sadly
outside
the
coffee shop
where I work,
where
the girl came
every day
I planned to talk to her
last week,
after 2 years
I planned to speak

I read in the paper
about a girl getting hit
by
a large truck
her name was
Emily,
the same name
I wrote everyday on
that cup

Already turned on,
she says
and wipes her hair so it cradles around her ear
look here,
she twists the radio button,
do you see it?
look,
can you feel it?
look at the
the purple that dances in the eyes
of every turned on tuned in radio listener
look
she grabs my hand in hers,
she is so excited,
close your eyes and just look at their faces
they look so
happy
wait no,
happy isn’t the word
they look so alive
yes,
to be alive is better
she says
holding my hand even tighter
to be alive allows
something more
to be alive
is like
a hole
that you can throw anything down
you can throw your
gum
your ear ring
your broken finger nail
or you can even throw me

and their eyes look like
they look like they are sitting
in that hole
you know,
their hole of
life
and they’re catching the music
with their eyes
sort of, something like,
secret star light
you know?
something like that