the lady wearing Kafka's cockroach

the lady wearing Kafka’s cockroach is reading Eckhart Tole: the power of the current moment to lead us to nirvana. I tried to read the same book on mum’s orders however many summers ago. she’s lounging on the couch by the courtyard door. arm stretched out along the back for some invisible companion. I say I like her shirt. she says we should be reading him in school. we talk about Camus and what we think of the absurd. have I read The Fall? She says these stories make her think a lot about the cross and martyrdom for show. how can we not debate if anything we do is truly good? she bares her confessions for any passing nurse or consumer, that even in helping others she draws out self gratification. we cannot escape the ego or the cage in which we feed it. she says she couldn’t stand being a narcissist, can’t understand people drawing joy from other people’s pain. slurring shrieks and a door slams down the hall. she’s worked for her fair share of narcissists in her time. there is no way to win. the best you can do is lay low and plan your escape.

a little more chalant

another goodbye

a little more chalant

preempting unasked questions

rearing heads like the undead

monsters in the fridge with which we know not what to do

the spaces between

questions about chemicals

answers needing something more than words

chemicals of mischief

our momentary fidelity 

fluid like the nights washing over what we thought we knew

sensations of the skin

some kind of electricity too sensitive to name

kids under covers

fingertips and favourite songs

a sacred ambiguity

unconcealed by explanation

awaiting diagnosis

you hold my hand in the dark

until the sun

and voices on the radio

to read the news

the leaves

and wake us up again.

whatever it is

tangled limbs and garments. we were playing dress up with new fits we found you for birthday parties with your other people. my favourite is your favourite is the twee: oversized shortsleeved soft green beige checkered button up tucked into silly brown woollen something between a skirt or shorts. my back is hurting and I lie on your bed in these clothes.

you play the CD I told you to buy at the second-hand sale on King St before lunch. it's one of my favourites but new to you. you join me on the other pillow, reacting to every track like a gift or revelation from a time capsule. rain finds the windows with the dusk as it dawns. the album is followed by the Russian doll. we've sung her together before.

there is a beauty to this simple scene, a beauty that is frightening. a stillness in your room and arms. my pictures on your wall. the same psalm on our tongues. as we are, once more without any expectation, held by each other and whatever meaning we want to embellish the moment. you ask what it might be. I tell you I don't know, that you can call it what you want, that I like whatever it is. you agree with a smile and that's enough for now.

the wedding at the ward

I wake up in my cell. sun screams through overcast skies and frosted windows. my head is heavy when I try to stand and steer myself the basket on my bike too full with supermarket goods in the rain on the ride home. I need to shower and a nurse to come unlock my bathroom door. plucking guitar through the walls from outside, soundcheck for my older brother's wedding. I am running late and dreaming.

the suit is hanging in the open closet over drawers locked with my power cords. they were too long to be safe for me to use inside. I dress before the paper-covered mirror, unable to remember where it came from what it costed how it looked when we tried it at the store. but none of this is important. I am still running late.

when I leave my room I cross through the safety doors between our dorm and the commons to realise I've forgotten my tie and the card that let's me back in. I call the nurse and return to do the same, forgetting my shoes next, my glasses, and soon it seems a large part of my brain. through the window I hear the gradual arrival of guests. excited chatter laughter an assortment of voices from childhoods nightmares fairytales of Christmas past. each time I return to my cell the crowd has grown. I imagine my older brother pacing as he does when he waits and stresses to exorcise anxiety. the thought only flusters me more as I forget my speech, my pants, how to leave the building. I don't want to let him down.

by time I break out of the ward the ceremony has begun. embarrassed, I hide behind a centaur manikin, glossy white on wheels I steer around the congregation to meet the other groomsmen by reception. my brothers look confused. their suits are black and I know I have not worn what I should have. I can't face anyone else, wrap my arms around the centaur's torso, lean my face into his waist. the choir sings and I realise I still have sirens chanting Berghain in my ears. on my knees one of my airpods falls into the stream. it comes out of the water black.

on rain

rain on tiles

on leaves

on windows

rain in clouds

in dreams

til morning

rain on plans

rain drowns the land

rain runs away on holiday

comes back again to wake me up

from who I think I was / I am

the sociology and philosophy of tomorrow

at the table on the second landing fossicking coherent thought from someone else's jargon. I try to focus without closing my ears. the sounds of the passage between assorted lectures coffees expectations. fingers tapping over footsteps keys and marble. laughter through the glass outside.

familiar strangers across the table exchange news just loud enough for prying ears. the one on the right has just returned from my island, wanted to escape the city for a change of pace maybe a breath of fresh air. ten days on a silent retreat in the woods. bland food no words only guided meditation to keep you from your thoughts. my brother tried this once. the other asks questions between sips from her clear plastic cup. she is catching up on her studies: a unit on the sociology and philosophy of AI. I wonder what this means think of the dystopia how much we can really say or know about tomorrow.

Prometheus bared

I feel my shape changing

writing something

angel listens to the news

volcano

crying etc.

angel eyes

after the therapy

mum on her phone

Prometheus bared

scream

sight or touch or

not ready to see myself

plastic bench with trees

flowers

at the bottom of the cliff

crochets in the courtyard

drowning

post dinner in the purple room

treading water

I am still alive