i.
you wonder if somewhere there's a voodoo doll with your face stitched on
(and if it's covered in pins since god knows that would be the logical explanation)
who goes away in winter? he'd laughed and laughed
-- and in spite of yourself, you let him

you very patiently explain that with european winters
'the sun's still out but it's no cancer risk
and the air's still hot at night but it doesn't try to choke you
and what's more cathartic than a spanish caravan park where you're serenaded by crickets?'
playing it off as a quirk, not an excuse to be anywhere else

he'll never know the comfort in being
little more than a passing stranger
a face on a street or in a window or a car
transient, fleeting; the short-term memory lasts roughly thirty seconds
so you're a stranger in a yellow polo and then you're nobody:
it's the circle of life, but compact and mildly less terrifying

ii.
unexplored streets and brains are bigger than home:
you can only be your true self when you are not at home
eyerolling, rotting from air pollution and complaining about first-world problems
you're hardly ill at mind but you're jaded and sad and sufficiently middle-class
so when in doubt, you pack a bag and think nothing else of it

you buy the guardian and a kitkat from a sullen newsagent
whose hands look like your grandmother's
(why do you notice this stuff?)
the poor guy's only middle-aged surely - he can keep the change
counting coins is weird and confusing anyway

happy flying says the hostess with a ribbon around her neck
she means it and you know exactly why she'd taken the job on:
fixed addresses are awfully limiting
and the swarms of crying babies are probably worth it
to get to go everywhere EVERYWHERE

iii.
package holiday dj digs out his usual and plays 'come on eileen' for an aging crowd
your eyes are upturned to a foreign sky and you breathe warmth
the stars are out and you are floating quite carelessly at the top of a swimming pool

happy birthday

I walk with my head down, I've outgrown this town,
I know my way around but it's boring now,
I'm snoring now, ignoring clowns that surround me, how
Do I break out, find some glory now,
See the globe, rewrite my story, develop some clout,
Enveloped by doubt...can't seem to figure it out,
Developed my sound, need to deliver a shout, no fuss, gotta row,
This **** bridge fell in the moat,
Forget a paddle,
I'm still building a boat,
Don't doubt though, I'll break out now, might be slow but expect a ******* as I go,
Not gonna linger, stay sharp like iguana fingers,
Depressed and full of stress, my best is yet to come,
Inhibitions, lack of rest keep my ambitions undone,
My dreams have been oppressed, my soul remains repressed,
But instead of being stunted I'll stun, refuse to just regress

I have awakened
a deep, drawing wanderlust
that yearns to break free.

I hear the voice of the desert --
The wind-swept dunes of barren Deep Springs.
Or the elysian spire Mount Roraima,
Yggdrasil hewn bare by angry gods.

I hear the beckoning call of Alaska! --
The chickadee’s croon from an ice-rimed spruce.
Or the mountains of Maine in the autumn,
Swathes of arboreal flames crunching under my boots.

What does it mean to hunger for something?
What does it mean to leave the beaten path behind?

A plane vanishes beyond the azure horizon.

One day, I plan to be riding it.

i've been living off cities
crossing busy streets
traces of neon lights
diminished and reborn
every single night

i've been yearning
off the pavements
of unnamed streets
the ghost towns
the unknown frowns upon me

an anonymous excitement
wanderous
magnificent
and persistent.

the whispers
of the calamity
and calmness
before the storm
worries
and
excites me

the constant
awareness
of dangers lurking
makes me hold you
your hand
tighter around my fingers

my mind spoke of nothing
but to fear
to protect
and to be brave
all at the same
second of it all

My wanderlust knows no bounds
Besides the walls of my room

I know adventure awaits
It'll be here soon

I'll hold hands with the sun
And lock eyes with the moon

I'll shed my silence
And don a new tune

I sense that one day
I'll abandon this gloom

But for now I'll sit
Within the walls of my room

The bustle of wheels and shoes across marble
are muted by the high ceilings
of the great Arrival Hall.

Underneath its fluorescent skies
a long back river flows
winding around the headlands
of counters and
disappearing into x-ray caverns.

The smell of suitcases hangs in the air like
morning mist pooling around ankles.
Not quite fading with the passing of day,
but mingling with wafts of fresh coffee
-and jet fuel.

From somewhere in the distance a chapel bell chimes,
announcing that Passengers of Flight AQ284 can
board the plane in ten minutes time.

the Passengers flock to their gate with
the dependency of cattle to the bell
and trickle, single file
through a metal esophagus and into

a Silver Dragon that flies at midnight
taking off from a starlit path
and into the cold dark night
its echoing, parting roar
speaks of farewells and
bright futures
and
distant lands

so very


far



away.