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Tom McCone Mar 2016
dance of days, head as a twig, to pass the time away. tendrils unfold and try not grip too tight or loose, to never lose or choke; sometimes feeling the low roar of blood rushing through flow-spaces, held in prepare and transparency. in these moments, there is a fine tapestry we were woven upon, gestures lain side-by-side. sayin' all the same words, in distinct& ruffled tongue.

cold snap, and there's layers again. cycles run circles and somewhere, at the back of the room, there's an utterance: "funny, that". and i wonder if i'm hearing my voice or just seeing my own breath. it echoes in the corners, out between shadows. my left eye's been twitching, but only as ghost. i carry out the honours after, only by some gnarled sense of capitulation.

but that's life.
i just hit 100k views, thank you all for your kindnesses. this has been sitting as an unpublished piece for ages, and now's a better occasion than ever to set it free.
Tom McCone Mar 2016
from the windows, a mottled sky,
pink & blue, wraps across the western
hills of the valley. tararuas draped in
clustering dark white fogthrow, and
my heart ticks down hours, a handful
of round dozens, not even that.

the streetlamps flicker up,
a little glistening roll of sparks,
sweet, all at once, and
coat riverstone and the valley
floor and, of course,
tugs at strings. but i haven't
said anythin', just yet.

as typical,
will just disappear; as a
daydream evaporates,
come autumn.
sad style
Tom McCone Mar 2016
so far, so great, & the promise
of so long lingers on tomorrow;
hung on tenterhooks, staggering
sparks run through the early hours
as realisation hovers. that only less
than the length of a week, now, may
hold my consignation to this side
of another stretch of soil, another
long dream.

& everyone i've ever and never met
will look up at stars the same, but
all my constellations, bent n mirrored,
will flare up and light out footstep
patterns like eye-blink,
surveying all that was lost and found.

but, for now,
gales whip up a storm outside,
like the electricity planted
in my gut. another
momentary awakening.
Tom McCone Mar 2016
it is such a fine thing, to see with clear eyes
all the shine of the world, refracting through both & either you and/or i.
such a surprise, so strange, but by no means the kinda strange
that drags one down:
the strange that instills an un-learnable knowledge
that the world will turn, and things can just keep getting better.
plenty of days i've dug holes,
but, now, at your word, i'm scrambling up outta them
to find acres of turned soil, fertile and beaming;
seeds to scatter wild.
cool water to trickle calm through each new day's turn,
another page in the book,
where our chapters come to coalesce.

how sweet it is to find you in page-length,
before long in pirouettes,
and leave me wondering not
the uncertainty,
but only the majesty
of what's left to come in the world,

and you, lil petal,
and i, lil fern.
Tom McCone Feb 2016
you were set as stars in a night,
relentless, tangled, act of own
will. i was a juxtaposition
   of fear & current,
     a different
       only slight
       enough to
     wash out
   what i
sight to see.
it was ridges extending out eternal
we were only possible & not more
but knowledge imparts little
& what i know now does not
save my lost soul then. it
has all fallen oh what am i
to do?


lost dawn on the incoming front &
saw its orange-bitter glow fall under
the cloudbank. & wondered what next
i'd lose, besides sleep, chance, and
sanctity of mind. i had my ideas,
but no will or means to rectify.
(through foxton). someone walks into an
already-lit dairy. coughs in the centre,
driver ain't let go of the wheel;
last two toes to right gone real
sleep, maybe to make up for me.
gleams in the gutter, sky makes
new stars at day. i do not suspect
anything but my own victory &
demise. but in which order?


you were a long-run hedgerow enclosing
the horizon, day i first saw your
face. some times you wish moments had
a repeat or rewind facility, but that
case did. so i learnt the first few
words of your language & liked the
way it rolled off tongue. truth was, i got
pretty **** down within the other
corridors of my days. truth is, i was dust flung
off the land in a storm. i was
unsalvageable scrap. but i started
learning all scrap is useful, once you
figure it out. the dust was settling, the
rust was sloughing. & i met you.
and i found out who i'd like to
make of myself, finally. make it right.
maybe stay happy, for not only
myself, but to align with
the set of prime ideals i found in your
love of life. & i've a lot left to learn,
but, of course, i wanna learn it all.


found somethin' that felt right for the
first in a back-catalogue of long times. felt
like destiny, though it's not something i ever
believed in. and, even in this chaotic sea
of random windblown chance, i did find
something and felt as though you might
actually feel the same.
and it terrifies me that it may
be taken away before either of us get
a break. taken by tides in which either
of us has next-to-no say, and i'm afraid if
sometimes dreams are just that and life is
real and furthermore is destined (not that i
believe, but not every god-fearin' man is a
theist) to be painful.
'cause i don't want anyone to hurt, though
i know you're brave enough to stand it. is
it so selfish to crave a world in which
pain is only part & parcel of a bygone era?
where suffering is just a dictionary entry?
where i could hold your hand
just a short while?
sleepless thoughts from the eternal open stretches of a night bus
Tom McCone Feb 2016
dreamt in strange shifting blocks, interwoven and with startled faces, sentencings spoken wordless. woke up to the blurry thought:

sometimes in talk, i am confronted with ideas that in no way reconcile with my own structures. in response, i often choose to not say anything, or let it uncomfortably sit in my gut. in cases where the opposing point won't be heard, i suppose this is alright. but, when my own rooted beliefs are challenged in a valid manner, it is more akin to the silence of shame than of dignification. is this symbolic of the internalisation of a more sound philosophy, or inability to process it against the grain of my own?

avoiding argumentation where it is of little purpose is one of my prime conversational aspects, and in an overarching paradigm avoiding unnecessary speech in general. but what internally portrays as tact can come off as indignant coolness, or bitter indifference. so, do i continue to speak in only the meaningful outer lashes, or let down the floodgates to some degree?

human interaction doesn't need necessitate grave importance at all junctions, and sometimes the most comforting talk can be of nothings (which i still find myself often party to, despite my self-portrait of filtered short-spokenness).

how do i open myself more to accepting or understanding when points are more sensible than my own, and integrating them into my consciousness? for, surely, if i disavow myself from giving up dated sentiments, i shall truly stagnate.
one key lies in rejecting one's own intelligence: having been told you are smart your entire life serves to seal one in their own vaults of knowledge, despite the fact that the knowledge itself may be faulty. i am slowly learning to accept my flaws and appreciate other's praise, but not take it to heart so much.
Tom McCone Feb 2016
we were wandering down the side of the highway, pickin' blackberries on the way back to the car. this'd hit my mind many times over the past week, and will probably continue out into the future:

there's somethin' ticking away in there, makes me shrink away from humanity, despite the loneliness i ain't wanna amplify any. words i need to say crop up, out of the blue mist of living, and internally i make all the motions to spread 'em out, see the way my hands, lips would move, in exact musculature sweeps. but it don't follow through.

is this leavin' blues? that if i shrink away from those who care, it'll be easier to let go once more? or just an excuse for laziness (fairly sure 'twas for the last month or so, last city)? if i swore i'd love equally and with open heart, why can't i keep eye contact, even with my own cousin? is this penance for all ashamedness i can't slip from my hands?

i'm full of excuses and few good ones. i am changing and learning to let go, but understand that perhaps i need to learn to hold on a little better. is it possible to figure it out before true wrenching loss colours my palette? or is it necessary to keep shedding skin to find meaning?

don't know how to express fully how much people mean to me, and can't seem to do anything in a half-measure. is it okay to settle for flawed motions, to prevent from seeming bored? to act as i see through in others, find of little use; is it instead endearing, or even just to confer base notions in a derobed manner?

how do these shells come away? how do these walls tear down?
note: stop diggin' holes, stop runnin' away.
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