if you were a jellyfish

in another world we’re jellyfish and I see through your faces. you can see my vital organs and choose to run or drift with me a little longer (as you please). jellyfish are dangerous. they're nice to look at but couldn't make sense if they tried. maybe you’re a jellyfish. if you were I’d keep you an aquarium beside my pillow. if you were we wouldn't need to talk or touch. we'd listen to our music and confuse each other less. but your voice is worth the hazards and there's thrill in chasing answers. jellyfish don't write riddles. despite the clouds I like the way we sing and dance around each other. I'm glad you're not a jellyfish. if you were I'd miss your fingers and the way they feel in mine.

doomsday or the night before

craving chocolate leaving someone else's home I ride against the wind up High Street searching for an uncharted supermarket. the only one still open glows over a carpark all but barren if not for overturned shopping trolleys. I tie my bike to the metal frame in place to keep them all in order. inside aisles are a mess with aliens and tall storage cages stacked with boxes of goods for restocking. shelves overflow onto the glossy plastic tiles. too much to sell not enough space.

characters of all genres glide round each corner on their own time. some move mechanical like robots others as though it's their first day on earth as though they're learning how to human. the spectrum echoes the feeling of a hotel lobby or some other kind of waiting room. a woman with dark violet shades the size of saucers marches like a funeral celebrant past the eggs. old workers young workers all workers grumble as another tower of non-perishables tumbles to the floor. customers crack open bottles of water milk bright fluorescent fuel to guzzle on their cycle from one aisle to the next.

unsettled radio static dangles hints of 80s nostalgia inherited through film. 'if you're lost you can look and you will find me...' the scene feels a little like a fever dream or vision maybe doomsday or the night before. a young man in black watches over the self-checkouts like his kingdom or a vulture knowing something that we don't. I escape with my soy milk and breakfast, followed by the lady with the violet saucers.

my toothbrush and my phone

and this half life I'm too tired for

that I wake to watch and eat my way through

blue light and natural gas

one plague or another

taking what I can

and Frankensteining everything I see and hear and long for

gasping for more

exhaling to inhale again

another meal

another cloud

another boulder on the freeway

fingernails keep growing

in my dreams

in which each day feels as real as breath

that is to say

enough until the hypnic myoclonus (thank my phone for the expression)

and another Monday comes

one hand on my toothbrush the other on my phone

scrolling my dystopia to life

cleaning my teeth I'm never alone

scrolling for affection

through my morning twilight zone.

identikit

closing autumn round the circle with a candle. what are you taking and what are you leaving behind?

we watch a movie about a lady losing herself on holiday in Rome. she spirals through department stores and ancient forums searching for someone she's not yet met but claims she'll know when she sees them. every possible candidate disappoints, chasing her affection. all she wants is their will to see things to their natural conclusion. the whole charade is offbeat. often unwillingly comedic in delivery and tone. Andy Warhol swings in to confuse us a little more. but there's something undeniably beautiful about the determination of this woman on her descent into psychosis. she dies under a blue moon at the foot of a mountain of a thousand picnic chairs. I don't know what it means but I'm happy she found what she wanted.

no more being coy. I blow the candle bring the lighter to the wick. a new pledge for the months to come: embracing the absurd for now.

wept to stone

I come home to reluctant traffic in a city of mist, on the cusp of winter. standing room only on every moving corridor. a little rain cold tile floors and lifeless supermarket flowers in a blue cup on my desk. I'll need to buy some slippers soon.

on the radio you talk about the childhood act we saw together. you know I'm listening and play my favourite song with others from our catalogue of psalms. I look at the tulips: wept to stone, petals long since fallen coiled into themselves, beyond ready for the compost. but I don't want to take them away. the drama of the scene they make's enough to keep them where they are for now. 

in my dreams I'm in our little village, joined by friends I thought I'd lost. we scour our former home, crumbling under the weight of our nostalgia and the ghosts it harbours for the benefit of none. dusty and blurry overcast sun screaming out through every window. up and down the corridors we can't find my old room. the current tenants don't seem to mind or notice the intruders. I start to cry into the carpet. they never look up from their phones.

a momentary testament

how many prophets came before? I read their names and parables scrawled down every wall. the courtyard harbours secret histories. fleeting technicolour chalk on red bricks ready to run with the rain when it comes. the momentary testament contains multitudes:

questions without answers

haikus from beyond the realm of consciousness

impossible numbers

demons screaming for release

flowers and handprints and curses

crucifix mutations

lists of names and medications

butterflies and bastards

Mr Gurns in striped pyjamas

impossible numbers

creeds and haunted omens

once legible dreams

and warnings of the end of days to come. a secret vault unprotected from the elements, exposed only for the oracles in residence on ward. the courtyard becomes some kind of church, our sacred escape from clinical lights and surveillance. I seek refuge from what sense I can draw from the writing on the walls, wishing my heart was open, my mind not bound by parasites and the confines of convention, that I might slip into the prophecy myself. kneeling on the astroturf I touch the walls with both hands. what happened to this mind that once believed? how might it learn to dream again? I bid the prophets reach me through my fingers. please tell me what to do.

running for parasites

taking therapy on my computer: the fairy godmother tells me to listen to my body. when we are low / upset / breaking it is not up to our brain but our body as it does its best to sustain the fuel it has. getting better is many things. when energy depletes we can't force ourselves to be anything more for others: we need the fuel / the drive / the battery to be before we start to move again.

she asks me what made the parasite and why. I want a good life. the parasite does not / has not / will never want this for me. it has strength when I am weak and I am strong when it is frail. both cannot have power / take the throne together. she tells me to think about the science. when we are depleted our brains change and we cannot trust ourselves. the state of our body changes that of the brain. the body tells the brain what we need. when our body is fragile, no doubt our brain will feel the same.

we talk about my brain, which has developed new neural pathways. some have been paved by the parasite. maybe it's time to try rescripting these things. 'when you see someone else running what do you think? how can you stay focused on your own scene?' she asks me to cast the runner, write a reason for their running without bringing up the parasite. expel it from the wings. conjure another scene partner. make this a 'yes and?' create a better neural freeway. we don't all run for parasites.