Cult popularism overtakes my brain
Conformity rushing unwillingly, stiflingly, down my throat

The literature of the mind taken from me
By my own devices
The lure of the cliched mass' is oblivion
Fufillment of an expected mold
Individuality of thought drains away

May my overthinking of all be lost
In this teenage stereotype

For instance, recall daisies,
or if you have not seen one, so much the better.
Paint me a crass picture and sleep
on the shallow crevasse. Stilt through
the orchard and search there: nothing still.
Even the nothingness is form-fitting, and thus,
your vestigial image of daisies. Mold something
out of the vacuity, and there a retrograde sculpture
will wind back to clay. Cornerstones have your name,
and your name even so, has taciturnly placed stones.

Stones. These tiny bodies that lay, undemanding,
scourged by the rapid passage of a carriage.
I wait there, with them, still thinking of daisies.
I know of a child, cylindrically obtuse, in front of the mirror.
Have you seen yourself in the hazy windows
of the Metro? What do you see? I still see daisies.
Or people with heads of daisies. But remember your
forethought of daisies? They are nothing. I am a beheaded daisy
in the lackadaisical wind of Summer. There is nothing to gain
here but the sadness of cold passing. And the child that I am speaking
of, his name, Magno. Sturdy like the rucksack he’s carrying,
lovelessly trundling altogether with the pipes and the
handrails, almost signaling the alarm without warning.

This uncared-for sultry evening decides to splinter
itself against the masses. Again, the daisies appear to me,
this time, in heady form rogue with peripatetic fragrance.
Magno used to unearth daisies and give them to her
mother when he was stiflingly young – he hustled through
the carefully placed furniture. Whatever happened to him,
I know not. And just like the daisies we have come to know now,
trains that do not belong to anyone, and the daisies too, that go
unheard of and unknown to the behest of the city,
have gone into the subtle beginning of everything
that once started in itself, the form of splendor. Nothing.

the black night is stiflingly humid, eliciting
a glistening sheen of beaded sweat on the
tanned faces of any being who dares to
enter the boiling summer evening.
a thick smattering of clouds create a
downy blanket, the foreground to
hundreds of intermittent stars and
the round, glowing face of the full moon.
i seat myself on the stair closest to the ground,
and as it is passed around between us four,
i light one long, chemical cigarette and place
it carefully between my lips, cracked
by the harsh rays of the summer sun.
jagged, angular faces grin and laugh
at us, formed by the gaps and holes in
the beautiful, intricate cloud cover.

suddenly, a summer breeze softer than
than the winged seeds of a dandelion
caresses frizzy hairs and cools the dew
drops upon our moist foreheads.
a split-second shift in the clouds creates
the most resplendent sight my eyeballs have
ever encountered in their twenty-one years.
like an imposing rock formation, or the
billows of smoke from a great forest fire,
the fluffed gray structures have aligned
themselves with the radiant orb in the sky,
and her face casts beams of light through
them, projecting long, fragile arms of
brilliance through the dull backyard.

with our four faces stretched upward as
far as our craning necks will allow, we
absorb the sublime, pure moonlight.
i lock this picture in my mind, certain
that this moment, trapped in infinity like
a mosquito trapped in amber, could be
the refreshing breeze or the hurried gulp
of ice-cold oxygen imperative to survival.
as she shines her vibrant headlight through
the cloudy fog, i breathe slowly and allow my
cigarette to extinguish itself, and i think that
this must be how it feels to really, truly be alive.

For me, paradise is the sight of a soft
sunset, when the sky just above the tree
line is blushed with pink and swept with
clouds so fine and wispy I think that
they must have been painted by a hand
the size of Asia or a small galaxy.

It is the end of a day so stiflingly hot
and humid that my skin still steams
after hours reclining in artificially
cooled air, and when I venture to the
red chairs on the front porch, their
metal no longer sizzles, but, like me,
relishes in the tickle of a gentle breeze.

It is the conniving but stalwart beagle
who lies on the fourth step, squishing
his face against the end of the banister
so that the skin of his black lips are pulled
into an easy, familiar grin, his speckled
tail thumping against the cerulean carpet.

It is the joyous surprise of catching a
beloved and long-forgotten tune on the
fickle radio—humming the haunting
melodies and crooning the words
imprinted upon my soul elicits a face-
splitting smile, and a steady swelling of
bliss and glee deep within my chest cavity.

It is the comfort of my childhood home,
every inch so recognized I could navigate
its rooms in pitch black, locate a fork or
a heavy blanket with ease. It is the serene
beckoning of my bed after an arduous
day, its sheets always warm in the winter
and cool in the summer. It is the
imbibing of my favorite beer, expertly
cooled, while sharing company with my
favorite people. It is a firm and caring
embrace, the selfless and boundless
love of parents, the first lick of an ice
cream cone, the middle drags of a
cigarette, and the smell of the pavement
as summer rains begin to fall. It is

finding contentment, oozing self-confidence
growing acceptance of the things one cannot
control, the letting go of grudges, the start of
a new friendship and the simplicity of an old
one. It is the stubborn pride that lingers
after one has created something new and
beautiful, and the satisfaction drawn from
finding something thought to be irrevocably
lost.

Paradise is
subjective,
imperfect,
straightforward.
I only wish I
had recognized
this sooner.

These butterflies in my stomach,
They're starting to kick.
These emotions are hard to swim through,
The waters far to foggy and stiflingly deep.

I travel recklessly from A to B, neither from you nor to you. Emptiness in all mirrors, I am truly isolated - growing evermore envious of the faceless others making journeys by your side. In the dramatic epic where I played the rock so many years, I realise now that you were the ground itself. I was unwittingly the follower. The white dawn light has dragged the veil from my proud resolve until finally exposed, wavering in the heady winds of recent weeks.

    I cast my mind over the weather of a lifetime. Electric air at birth - every light and shadow offering intrigue. Atmosphere thickening to a sterile breeze, gently directing an impressionable child. The summer rains of teenage confusion, clouds of constraints closing in. Those lightning storms of pupilage, and the stagnation of post-graduate life. What weather is the perfect for endings, I wonder? Will it penetrate the stubborn folds of these clothes? Will it be satisfyingly visceral?

    I reach my notional destination, deep in thought against the background noise of these thousand faceless pedestrians. Only watching with outside eyes can I now see the primitive swinging of their arms, the futile waddles of their torsos, as if in perpetual motion towards the end of the rainbow.

    Finally, like Moses, I part the crowd with an agitated flick of the wrist. The attention of each now upon me, the sickening taste of celebrity in my mouth too bitter to bear, I announce myself as I had rehearsed. As we ascend, double file, up the staircase of this glass tower, each window offers us a different perspective of the world.

    Lately, I've frantically cast a haggard net over each escaping thought - seeming now such a tragedy to let worthy ones float away in vein. My memories have become but mirrored pools, flickering their borrowed light after every post-apocalyptic tremor. But when did these memories and thoughts lose their courage, lean away from the incline of experience, step back from the platform of action? I fear it is then that so stiflingly precious they grew.

    We reach the sky, overlooking the sprawl of the city, the attack and decay of the distant tide. My gaze traverses the crowd of strangers, desparately seeking the concerned gaze of my supposéd lovers. You and I fell simultaneous, indeed, but only one stumbled back to their feet to tell new tales. But with this final fall, amongst indifferent spectators guilty only by association, the poetry of my own tale will rush past the perfectly repeating pattern of mullions and transoms until carved one final time, indelibly.