Sunday morning monologues
Front row fixtures
Dreamy papercup dialogues
And cracked tile constellations.

It's safe inside these walls
Safe, they scream, safe
And behind my smiles and uplifted hands is
My never ending unease.

Sunday morning monologues
Front row fakes
Sunshine maple tree jogs
And stained tile motivations.

I could stand up
Leave those lyrics running
Walk out
And never come back.

Or take to the mic
And scream every last
One of my insecurities
To the whole dang world.

But I'll never
Do either.

Sunday morning monologues
And front row blanks.

The sunday quiet eases my mind,
a welcome vacancy of thought spirals.
In the distance a soft tune plays,
music spins in and out of my space.
It fills my limbs from head to toe
spouting from my lips, my eyes, my-
my music spins me into a daze
and trance unlike a hypnotic phase.
The sun beams high from its sunday spot,
the clouds are fluffy, light, and white.
And as the music blooms to peak,
the lapping blue envelopes my cheeks.
I float in absence of the my weight,
absolute serenity claims a stay.
Its clear blue sheen brings peace to mind,
like I could drown here and still not die.
Its weightlessness drenches my hair,
yet when i shift into the air,
the weight is heavier so much there.
I intake life and fall to the floor,
the most abnormal experiences
are felt under this blue shore.
My body trembles as reality shakes,
my breathe is leaving,
to the surface or to a calmer place?
A disturbance by the door I hear,
gentle giggles of my sisters near,
I gasp for air as the bubbles explode,
This sunday warmth is toxic yet not loathed.

It's an impulse you can't control,
An action you wanna take back
But let's face facts
You can't delay it
The pain waits patiently,
Tapping away at your consciousness
Regardless of the consequence
And I'll be honest with this
It's almost impossible to stop

Almost

The key word I hang onto with every breath
This is not just a test of strength
But of reality,
Making short work of your sanity
You try to stop it
But it won't have any

I see the kids with mocking laughter
Not knowing that my body awaits disaster
Trying not to cause drama
To kick up a fuss
To set off the bus
Drive it down main street and yell
"Hey look mum no hands".

There's a reason rumour rhymes with tumour
Malignant and fast
If not careful you'll breathe your last
One misplaced cut and your veins start spewing
On the gums with nervousness inside your mouth you start chewing
And deep inside your anger is brewing

Boiling
Broiling
Coiling around your throat
Just to choke you out

That's what my impulse is like
That's what my impulse is about
And sometimes it's hard to resist
When my subconscious persists
That little voice in my head telling me
"You ain't ****!"
"Just another mother-******* chopping board
Slicing
And dicing
The Sunday specials you had stored"

I'm better than this
Experience defines who you are
And I'd rather not be a peeling bandaid,
A walking, talking, bleeding scar
That won't heal!

That stays, never gives up for the wrong reasons!
Searches and lives a life without meaning!

I'd rather just be myself
Not the trash can everyone dumps their **** into
Even when it's full

I want to be safe
Can you say the same?

Sunday blues
like clockwork
                    tick
                           tock
      the girl is crying softly
                          humming a tune

Sitting here Sunday morning
Just watching it rain
Rolling down my cheeks
A river of pain

Thoughts of things
I've done in the past
And of relationships
That did not last

Thinking of loved ones
Who have sadly died
Trying to remember
Every tear I cried

Hearing the call of the morning dove
Makes me feel so blue
Bringing me back to a time
When I didn't have you

You rescued me from a life
That was cold and lonely
From then until the end of time
I'll be your one and only

Were we not once love stood in abbey shadow and sun,
were we not once lovers at the top of bowling alleys
holding, having fun?

As you showered, I
bathed in the oeuvre of your
aura opposite,
thought of
midnight scrambled eggs
     then bed
and the coffee to keep it company.

It’s then we woke
to the Sunday cacophony of avocados on post,
head to the second supplement in
to learn of the best twelve coasts where good lovers go to live,
where good lovers go to hide and give,
where good love exists.

If only the car wasn’t broken:
second hand, forecourt pile of ****.

Certain people see things
differently.
Now why do we do that?
Is it a lack of closeness?
Maybe communication?

I have questions
for the pastor/Pete Campbell clone
at Immanuel Bible Church.
Like,
why does your sermon feel derivative?

How often are songs played in-between the sermons?
Are these songs a necessary transition?
A slideshow?
A distraction?
I still don’t know how to sing,

or keep tempo with claps.
Pavlov’s dog is hated,
by you.
Do you hate the dog?
Or do you hate the results of the experiment?

Is science,
a deceitful ex-girlfriend to you?
Someone you don’t trust?
If so I can understand you.
But I don’t understand you.

Because you have your truth.
And I have my truth.
Peter said to me truth is an abstraction.
I’m telling you your truth is yours.
But,
cup your hand and press it against the wall of my truth,
listen and you will hear a man and a man talking to each other.

Their naked bodies are sealed by an anchor that you have never seen.
The first man leans forward
and
kisses the second man on the nape of his neck.
Then, the second man kisses the first man on the left part of his chest.

Should I stop?
Am I scaring you?
Do you want to watch a blonde girl stick her tongue down another blonde girl’s throat,
Until her breath cannot escape and float and trail off her lips.
Like the dove white spaceships that launch into the expanding horizon of darkness.

Am I making sense?
I want you to follow my words.
I want you to respect me.
The first man is talking. The second man has his arms folded behind his back like a
Korean man, and he’s looking out the window, gazing at the dove white spaceship
Propelling into the incredible shadow, the one that is swallowing up everything we love.

Pete Campbell is the shadow.
Do you care about POV?
Are you bothered when another person is talking about a person in the third person?
I consider your opinion,

Even when you don’t consider mine.
Does that make me weak?
“Television turn off the mind,”
that is a quote that shot out of your mouth,
like an arrow from the Green Arrow dressed in Cupid’s apparel.

Or is that the flesh?
Carnal.
I digress.
Tangents happen.
I was rude. I am sorry,

And I know sorry is a word,
And you do not value words.
But I am a poet.
Words are my salmon and red wine
Rewind the cassette.

I just took a wrong turn going to church
Ended up down by the old white birch
So I decided to sit down there at it's roots
And up to my shoulder scurried a little newt
I liked the little fellow
Until in my ear it started to bellow
Why are you doing that I asked
He said not a thing just pulled out his flask
He motioned for me to drink
And before I could think
I took a big swig
And before I knew it I was dancing a jig
The swirling and twirling brought me down to my knees
The limbs in the tree moved with the breeze
And before long I started to wheeze
What Mr. Newt what have you done
Don't worry dear with us you are becoming one
So scurry on up here and sit on the branch
By day we watch at night we dance
None of this has happened by chance
You wished for it, now it is so
Back to your life you no longer have to go