some other kind of prison

the apartment suite is white and round and inward facing. at the eleventh hour the place is soft and still if not for the trickle of fountains. streams pass down the white walls of one landing to the next in and out of plants hanging and crawling in latitudinal directions. each landing is a ring of rooms sheltered from natural light under the spire of a beige big top tent. you'd never know it's nearly midnight from inside. a soft stone courtyard below and stepping stones to cross the manmade streams. from our spot on the top landing we could see any other movement as it happened if it did. a zen panopticon or some other kind of prison. it reminds us both of a gallery in New York, though we don't say so til morning.

you sacrifice a Friday night to leave the silly city / see me acting in a play. the stars or moon give us our best run of the season. I bite my tongue in thanks. in the audience I see you sitting with my mother. after the show she tells me you bought her dinner. you play coy and laugh off her thanks. when we make it to our room we're as we were before. our limbs coil to comfort / close the space between the time since last we danced around our hearts. I find it funny that you came all this way to see me play pretend. have you not seen us in the mirror?

our last words into sleep are the same. when I wake it's dark before the cracks under the curtains. you're warm against my neck. I wear you like a coffin.

to Eden

because I cannot change like wind I lose another day in transit. leaving one bed for another to sleep alone again. most days trickle on like water / feel as though I live more in corridors than rooms. I pour time into keys into cells made of codes on liquid crystals I don't understand. passing by the sun at dusk makes shadows of the hills / over rich green fields rendered in periphery. the seat in front takes photographs of sheep. I should close the lid and watch some world pass through the window.

in the data from another world somebody praises God. when asked about their ideal state they bow their head to Eden. where others dream of change this one rejoices in the promise they believe in. there's a challenge to look at what we have / to cherish the given that's taken for granted. what more could we want than a whole life? who needs the moon? they say we should be grateful for fertile time crops. I'm more grateful for ambiguity. still, I agree to thank the sky today for the abundance of being and tomorrow. we can only pray for peaceful co-existence with the rest.

civic people

I overhear a breakup whilst I’m typing in the food court. she asks questions. when he doesn’t respond she starts to cry and speak quicker. a pigeon stirs to scraping chairs and flies into the ceiling. Mum falls asleep on her hands on the table. faux marble and laminated timber. man in green plaid shirt giggles like the joker into his phone across the hall. his laugh would give me nightmares. I wonder if my mum can hear him in her dreams.

ocean of dreams

how much living am I doing between my screens and dreams? last night I lost you in the ocean. I hope you made it home okay.

my inner feral

when we can't start the car we leave the house to meet the neighbours. the retired psychiatrist lives in an old convict hospital next door. in the kitchen we break bread between the shrink and a forest nymph, drinking his wine and listening to her stories. you hold my hand under the table. together we do well to keep them entertained into the afternoon. I could listen to you laugh forever.

the forest nymph asks about my inner feral. her own led her from straight lines in the academy to a lagoon at the end of the world. am I listening to mine?

elektra

trawling the panopticon they made for art / for fun / you didn't like until you did

you count the floors we climb past ghosts and strangers

I count the sleeps before you go

people pose in shades by headless angels

partners take their portraits

you feel in ways I can't explain from one container to the next

I list the things that make the chamber

wishing I could write your thoughts as clearly with my fingers.

Kiefer's prison: concrete, shipping containers, barbed wire, rolls of film on zinc, plaster, hay, reinforcing bars, timber, tin, glass floor, cables hanging lightbulbs, assorted sticks, old palms, dried sunflowers, water (stagnant), shards of glass, memory (perhaps).

penguins and robots

we ride bikes to keep afloat and circumnavigate the island. our peddling keeps us up above the water. and so we race the sun into the bay before it sets. you're laughing and I can't keep up. at dusk we pass the man at the end of the pebble beach with his hand open to heaven. a drone descends into his palm. our search for penguins only leads to robots.

after dinner you'll tell me to leave the dishes. on the floor by the fire you'll hold my hand and sing. maybe I'll scratch your back. either way I know you'll wrap my limbs up tight in yours.