I walk through the rain for something to do

I am bound to the bed

I have made in my head

it’s too warm and too small

not much comfort at all

but it’s here that I lie

as the day passes by

I’ve tried to get up

but I’ve tried’s not enough

so I watch the sun pass

through the curtains and glass

think of what makes a day

when I last felt okay

wonder why I’m still here

having nothing to say

the world is on fire

I’m a funeral pyre

looking out at the mess

from the edge of my nest

knowing I am not cursed

and it could be much worse

but I still want a match

and I still pray for rain

and when I fall asleep

I’ll still wake up again

a plastic bag of clothes

the morning comes. I don’t want to pull myself into another day of the charade. come tomorrow I will feel the same and still decide to play again. still looking for sense. I am the punchline they forgot to tell. 

the bed weighs heavy with a dream of being held: I fell in love asleep with someone stuck in my subconscious. they don’t exist now I’m awake and I have no one else to blame. more comfort is found in the lovers I dream than the worlf that I wake to each day. sleep is not enough to fuel the drive to look for more. I say things need to change. my bones are weak and worn. the body is a plastic bag of clothes I want to give away. 

on what you wrote about our will

and so I surrender

what I recall and all I am; 

(assortment of dreams and vital organs

screen time and shopping lists

and feelings I’ve forgotten

in a body I could live without)

waiting in the rain

for the doctor to call

on my knees by the lights like a dog

begging for a bone

or a spell to take my will

and wash away my name

tell me what it takes

and give me anything

I’ll swallow any anticurse

if you can’t fix me

with a blessing.

today can be a friend

the day can never disappoint without the aid of hope. if I can breathe and want no more, today can be a friend. there is a choice to greet tomorrow with nothing but a smile: with no agenda there is freedom from believing in the clock. to surrender faith in meaning is to transcend disappointment. what can hurt me if I choose to hope for nothing?

the thought is a print of a painting I love. I’ll hang it on my bedroom wall to push me closer to the world I want to live in. it watches me work to sleep to work again. there is irony in dreaming of the choice to never dream again. through the eyes of the mirror I claw at the privilege to play with this thought of never wanting. I can watch the world and children burn and still lose more sleep for myself and my thoughts of the doors I can’t reach. the reflection is repulsive and I moisturise his face.

numbers in the calendar weigh days as though they matter. there are photos of a face I miss and dreams I should abandon. I hope to never hope again and still I wonder where you are. we walked through the city in the rain one night. I don’t know how much you remember. letting go makes sense in a world that moves on. it is easy to miss. it is safer to forget. I have loved an idea for too long. a memory is a memory is a memory. 

strangers I’ll remember

there is life in the shell where I dream. every night spawns a new path forged for freedom from the blind climb by the stream of sardines through the subway to their desks. escape for a moment enough to forget. colour bleeds through sleep into stories I write for myself with words I can’t find. glimpses of people and places I’ve known give way to new worlds and foreign feelings. I crawl in unfamiliar skin. thinking costs less and I can move through space and moments unfatigued by hate or hurt. every night is something different and the tune can always change: I greet joy and fear as strangers I’ll remember when I wake. now is forever and suns never rise. there is life when I dream to forget where I’ve been and the mess of a self that I’ve left on my bed.

from the sidewalk

at the rally they talk about consequence and there is still faith in the belief that truth will triumph. the people fill the streets and shout in anger for the children we are killing with our taxes while we sleep. onlookers stare confused from the sidewalk. a child blocks her ears in the footsteps of her parents to the shops. we chant our way back to where we started and disperse until next time. tomorrow we will wake to more of the same: what was once outrageous is expected, and we carry on to work and sleep between the strikes and screams we have the choice to hear. I tune in when I can muster space and time for more than diseased thinking and myself. the bombs will rain regardless.

the train runs late. I stand with strangers on the platform under the city we share in common. we look at our phones and the billboards across the tracks. they’re selling holidays and smiles and ways to pay for them later. I scan the wall for answers and there is nothing I can buy to fuel the change I need. the tools are hiding somewhere but I am tired. every day weighs heavy with excuses and a weary helplessness within the world and my own skin. we make sense when we can between the dreams and how things are. I work to wake in the same bed and do it all again.

out of reach

the day starts late. I choose to sleep with no alarm and dream. when I rise and shower the house is too warm and I am alone with nowhere to be. I take out the bins and boil the kettle and look for any chance to fill the storm of empty moments to protect them from my thinking. there is time spent in the store and the cafe for coffee to bring to a friend selling clothes across the road. we talk about missing and misunderstanding people out of reach. she asks if I’ve been writing. I tell her I still try. back in my room I draw my brother sleeping on the couch. the afternoon lingers with the heat on the light through the curtain. an hour reading on my bed about the death of self and ego: I see myself and hear my voice and want to crawl into the pages.

when the sun descends I leave the house again to fill the pause and feel the breeze. on my run I pass the foyer of a play that didn’t want me and a party on a hill a friend had said I should attend. I feel inadequate in every sense and way I am despite the space I try to make for what should matter more. on the edge of potential I can’t reach any further. knowing all I’ve learnt and hate about the world and how I am I still wind up tangled in myself and what I lack. the camera rolls and pans although the script is out of reach. control is an illusion: I surrender and wait for the rain in the dark.

 

the pause

the pause is charged and heavy

I can hear it in the dark

when airplanes stop and sirens die

and all we have is silence

no more static on the screen

or programs we don’t want

to keep us changing channels

to find something to watch

the pause is loud and heavy

too much at once to face alone

I hear my breaths and nothing else

ignore the thoughts left on the shelf

with spiders and their webs

and piles of books I haven’t read

I play with pixels on the phone

and beg my thoughts leave me alone

the colours flash and do their best

to keep me from the sleep before

I live and die through dreams until

another day of more

the pause is there in every room

hanging by the window

like a painting or mosquito

or the mirror in the hall

the pause is always waiting

and I’m never hard to find

lying on the floors of rooms potential left behind

and there is always something more

and I will never run away

the pause is waiting at the door

that I will open anyway.

control

my parents ask me what I need to fix. I don’t know where to start but their thinking is clearer and helpful than any of my own. my fixation with the worst weighs heavy on their hearts though they do what they can to prove nothing is too much for them to hear. we reduce every problem to a shopping list and the words do well to make them look so small. when we say goodnight I have to scan and take my items and I want to leave the trolley at the check-out.

I wake to singing birds and another hundred martyrs on my phone. there is nowhere to scream and nothing to do with the guilt and resentment I harbour for all I have and take for granted. the therapist tells me not to blame myself for choices I could change. I jump on the excuse. the last thing I thought I could control is now controlling me. we give the problem a name and invite him to the table. he looks and sounds too much like me and I want him to leave. I laugh and see myself in everything that needs to change.

different flavours

a stranger emails me about my grandmother’s estate. I read her last will and testament in her second language. there is a clean allocation for every asset that survives her and it all fits easy on one page: whatever was her own is left to those she left behind. it’s strange to read a life reduced to a delegation of material possessions. the language is sterile and complex and I can’t move past the point of wondering how much of it she would have understood. the last time I saw her she couldn’t remember my name, though she knew how to laugh and dance and that she loved me more than I could understand. she leaves her grandchildren a gift and I feel helpless with no choice but to accept the ending of her chapter rolling on into my own. guilt comes in different flavours. I wish I called her more.

someone I love holds me close on the phone. we listen to each other and do our best to close the distance with concern and words we mean. we talk about where we’re going and why we want to change. she cries and I wish my words could be more than a bandaid. off the phone I try to focus on tomorrow. my eyes are always heavy but I need to work and learn to think again. the thoughts are knots I never learnt in school that might have kept the boat from sinking. I tell myself to get more sleep and drink less tea tonight.

in the mountains

they ask me to fill a gap in the team of a project no one seems to want. I smile and say I’m happy to help where they need. the rain clears between meetings and soon the glare is too much even through the curtain. the lens is worn and no distraction is enough. I stop reading the news and take my guilt out for a run.

after dinner we watch a film about a troupe of actors hired to fill the gaps left by loved ones no longer around. they ask questions of their contractors about those they mourn to prepare for performance. did they have a favourite sport or actor? how would they start conversation? the actors assume the role of ghosts and do their best to entertain the illusions of those they’re paid to haunt. sometimes they’re fed lines or told to drink more water. sometimes they forget it’s all performance. I think about the job and what I’d make of it. already every day is danced to someone else’s choice of song. I am running out of steam but I know what people want to see and how much we wish for what we can never have again. would wearing someone else’s grief protect me from my own? I think of being more than who I am and freedom from myself as a canvas for anyone with pain and time to hide from. how long could I make it last? the thought is poison and a dream on a shelf I can’t reach. I would love to act again.

do you watch many movies?

every early night is a lie. the morning is a call I want to ignore no matter how well I sleep or dream. I remember being carried on a couch through the woods in a parade of torches at dusk. we were heading somewhere but there’s no knowing where or why when the bell rings through the trees to pull me out of bed. the mirror is a joke I can’t help but keep telling. I tie my hair back to see better and look worse.

the work is where I left it. I press some keys and then some more and answer questions with notes I made and can’t remember without reference. it’s enough to keep them happy and I smile and say thank you.

the man with the beard guards the chemist on his mattress with his dog. he doesn’t have shoes and seems to have lost the will to ask for change tonight. I make him a ghost and hide from his smile. his presence is a needle of guilt I’ll feel heavy in my veins until I check my phone. a woman asks a man if he watches many movies as they leave the cinema. his eyes are on the road and their unsaid agreement to never meet again.

smarties

in an unfamiliar room I spill my medication on the floor. I hear the pills bounce across the tiles and roll under foreign furniture. my movements have fallen out of rhythm with the thoughts that charge them and the body is slow to respond. when I reach for the tablets under the table and chairs I can only find smarties. I shake my head and wonder where I am. my friend on the couch asks if I need a hand. within seconds he offers up the chocolates from the floor. I rub my eyes and nothing changes: the tablets are coloured chocolates and he’s telling me to take them. he asks if I need water to help swallow and I know he isn’t joking: he sees pills where I see sweets and the difference makes no difference.

when I wake I fight the empty hours with more sleep than I had planned. I run later in the morning and resent the choice and heat that weighs me hopeless for the months to come. in the shower I wash my hair and feel the familiar sting of shampoo in my eyes. I remember the feeling from baths as a child when there was nothing worse to cry about.

I make time to write and wring myself hopeless and dry to nothing I would want to read. disappointment harbours over every choice and I can only ever pray for a break from myself. at the rally I curse every second wasted on myself and the life I spoil with hate and fear of my reflection. the hate only grows in the face of my freedom to dance between guilt and distraction. we shout through the streets of the city and the people have nothing to say.

the couple on the bus dissects the crossword on the phone. I miss wanting to do things and being more than how I am.

never dead forever

the day starts later than it should with the privilege of not being needed. I open the door to an empty house and tend to chores to compensate for daytime lost to sleep. after the shower I shrug through the backlog of conversations I let down with inconsistency each week. in the midst of the mess on my shoulders I protect myself with disconnect I cloak as preservation. so many ways to fall short. I laugh in the face of another excuse made for my unwillingness to claim responsibility for who and how I am: absent and inconsistent til there’s a chance to cry and play my violin.

I take an old friend to a cafe near the station. we order coffee and sit by the window. I ask her how she is. life hasn’t been gentle, though she looks and laughs just the same as I remember. since I last saw her she’s written and read the eulogies at funerals for four of her close friends. her brother has lost the strength to walk, though he’s certain he’s still here for something. she talks about realising how old she is when she sees the toll of time in the death and decay of those she’s known and love. the nuns meet to plan for the future with the order dying out, some less at peace with this than her. turning eighty this week, she tells me she is happy doing nothing. I try to imagine pulling on the breaks after a life of spending every breath on others. she’s started listening to herself and admits that she is tired. she asks if I’ve been acting and the answer disappoints us both. she’s been writing and learning more about who and where she’s been. I tell her she inspires me and I mean it.

the songs in my ears ward off thoughts on the periphery. from the station I keep walking to escape today's potential. on the street a man by the lights wears a shirt that reads ‘never dead forever’. I make dinner plans to hide from empty time and where it leads.

eight minutes

when I wake the mind won’t let my body move. I listen to the keys and tell my phone to let me sleep some more. eight minutes is never enough and I keep asking for quiet though the longer it wards off the day the worse I wind up feeling about myself and where I should be by now. the kettle boils and I wash and dry and tell myself to get more done today. the tasks are as I left them: unfinished and devoid of any shred of something that could mean that they could matter. every day passes knowing things will never be more than how they are. I write plans for meetings to make sense of tasks that wind up more confusing after every conversation. in another tab I watch them blow up buildings by the airport of another city under siege. the spreadsheet expands and feels a lot less important with every cell I fill.

I run from myself through the rain to the shops. the basket is light but I still need a bag to bring my winnings home.

less of the mirror

I listen to jazz in the basement of the church in the city where a friend used to sing as a cantor for the choir. sometimes he sang in latin. sometimes a group of us would fill a pew to cheer him on. I remember the excitement in the pastor’s voice when he’d see us from the lectern: young open minds searching for salvation he can serve up with a sermon. the more of us that came along, the harder he’d play to us in his preaching. one Sunday he even swore, dividing the congregation with gasps and stifled laughter. at the end of the service he would guard the exit and we could never dodge the handshake or the ‘will we see you next week?’ at the door. between jazz sets in the basement, he stumbles through jokes onstage and I see myself in the clown trying too hard to entertain and make a case for coming back.

the lights shine on someone I love on the stage. she makes the trumpet sing and leaves the crowd cheering for more. between songs she makes them laugh without trying and no one wants the set to end. they say she’s the real deal and ask me her name and I am lucky to have people to feel proud of. I sneak out the door when I see the pastor caught in talks with someone else.

in the morning my eye is delicate and heavy. a bump emerges on the lid to block out fractions of the day. I feel it grow through the tabs of tasks and cups of tea that make my day. online they tell me not to touch and wash my hands with soap. I tell myself it’s nice to see less of the mirror and think of something else.

moving soon

the man in the vest mops the steps from the platform to the street. for a moment they are clean and he continues his climb to the top. but the people need to work and take the train to somewhere else and I am no exception. I spoil his work and dirty the steps on my way down. he carries on despite the steady ebb of boots and heels in both directions, mopping over every footprint as he climbs. the current continues and his job will never end. I wonder when he’ll let the boulder roll and what he had for breakfast.

in the office I am asked for my opinion on things I know nothing about. I waste the day in emails and live updates on the news, slipping in and out of each to hide from the other. the richest man in the world secures a seat at the table with the buttons for the big boy bombs. my colleague says we’re doomed and we laugh in the face of the fact that there is nothing we can do to slow the carriage on the tracks.

I run late for plans I promised to a friend I should see more of. on the platform I listen to songs I used to love to forget where I am. the breeze through the tunnel says we’ll be moving soon. the billboards tell me to mind my step and buy a new phone.

another cup of tea

I feel time pass through the cracks in my cup into the moulds of the demands of every day and contract with my name. there are tools I can use to stop the flow though they are little more than bandaids and in no time the pools form at the base of the china on the bench. sometimes I slip on what I’ve spilt and lose my balance. I do my best to find my feet for those the fall has caused more pain than me.

my brother breaks the rhythm for a page or two. we eat somewhere new and take the bus to see someone we miss at the theatre. I scare a ghost in the foyer: in their domain they shrink into themselves when they see me, stepping back into a conversation they’d been hoping to abort. we walk past and they are smaller than they’ve ever looked. on the stage our friend shines like the strobe she had been when we knew her back home. the play doesn’t catch us and maybe we’re too lost in ourselves and patterns we should fix but it’s nice to watch and listen. after the show we say well done and she takes us through the school that’s been her home for a chapter we’ve not yet read. I hear my brother laugh and I wish he could more often. at the house we fall asleep on the couch to the sounds of a film we chose to watch for fun.

in the morning I take too long to wash and ruin someone else’s day. I bend for them and feel the weight of each apology I pen for harm I never thought to cause. the thoughts are bitter and I resent the gratitude I lack for what I have. the soldiers shout and open fire in a cafe. I leave my room and pour another cup of tea.

somewhere safe and far

patience is lost. I blame the sleep that should be longer, knowing it is up to me to change and claim the days I spend however I am told. the spiral is a snake that squirms and chokes reason breathless and the wires need rerouting but the space is never big enough to cradle more than how I am. on the phone I stalk the aisles and fall apart in the supermarket. outside the sun is swallowed by the skyline of a city I give up on every day. at the machine I scan my winnings and watch the numbers crunch to losses as the basket empties. life costs more every week but they thank me for shopping in the same voice.  always leave with something I don’t need.

when I wake I haven’t dreamt and want to sleep again. one eye is heavier and less prepared for another day of being open. the other does the work to get us out of bed. I find my armour in the shower and fall into another week of circles. I find new reasons to apologise between dread and dreaming on the train.

through the office window all I see is sky. the day is a cloud I waste in ghostwritten emails somewhere safe and far from the dystopic nightmare I fuel with my taxes and watch on my phone when I want to wake up. I spill coffee on my desk but not enough for anyone to notice. the screen is a welcome escape and I lose enough of myself in the pixels to tick boxes and prove I deserve a seat at the table. tasks spawn like dead fish and I am an open net.

another cost

I scream for reason from the storm

she says there’s been none all along

and though the headlines never cease

at least in ignorance there’s peace

I scream for reason but she’s gone

don’t cry but keep the cameras on

theres so much content to be made

you’re looking too good for the grave

perhaps my sense of self is lost; just how much might another cost?

what can I do for anyone if I despise what I’ve become?

take the reins

the train is delayed and I sit dormant on the tracks. on the speaker they blame the complication on another train and assure us we’ll be moving soon. I hear the frustrated shouting and the thuds of kicking from a child too old to be causing such a scene in public. the carriage is deaf to the tantrum. we scroll on our phones and look empty out the windows in clothes we chose for others to admire. I watch a video of a child explaining why he sleeps on the grave of his mother in a land stolen by those who killed her in an air strike. on a city of tents they dropped bombs made just a few stations down the line. the boy says he visits the grave every day because he misses her so much and to be near her is to feel safe. 

at the store I listen to a lady talk about cocktails and how much she misses the emerald dress she wore through summer when she was young. on the street someone asks for change and I have no coins to give. guilt is a weight I can’t shrug off. I walk unchanged into tomorrow: breathing and unwilling to take the reins. at night I pray for change and maybe something else to say.

a painting from a sad day

my brother paints a picture of a photo of a painting from a sad day between routines among an assortment of future relics from his current life. in just a few months he’s learnt to paint with oils and once more I’m amazed at the different ways he finds to grow even in the dark. I congratulate him on his work. he wishes it looked better.

I leave the curtain closed to keep the room cool. the fabric is light and thin and does little to stop the heat from weighing down the day. I find new words to say the same things in emails and documents I wouldn’t want to read. sometimes there are replies with questions I can’t answer. I explain a spreadsheet in a meeting and they make sense of what I have to say. on my phone I scroll through days on the beach and lifeless frames of children pulled from the remains of flattened cities as I wait for the kettle to boil. the headlines promise darker days for those already living nightmares. my fridge is full and I feel the grip of guilt tighten til the tea gets cold. I find new ways to pull apart my privilege into problems I don’t want.

there is time spent wishing I knew how to move myself. I try and can’t remember how it feels to believe in the potential of another day. I wonder if I really want to. there are songs I want to live in: words and sounds and souls that make me want to scream. I jump and reach for the reminder that I can still be moved by something.

bringing back the bone

in my dream I’m sitting in the second row of the only theatre I know how to play in. the stage is lit like the lounge of an old manor in a movie on a stormy night. unfamiliar actors emerge from different doors in period costume. their diction is sharp as the dialogue and the tension between the characters is tangible. I think I’m watching a murder mystery or thriller until one of them descends into the audience, none of whom seem to notice or care. she approaches me as the rest of the cast play on and I realise I’ve seen her before in a play that had her possessed by a ghost and dancing on the dining table. she takes my hand and I follow her through a door. once we’re offstage she asks for my clothes. taking them for herself, she dons me in her costume before leaving to sit in the second row.

not knowing what to do, I creep slowly through the door onto the stage, hoping I might go unnoticed. I am called on by the actors I’ve never met, and play along as best I can. they have me dusting the set and clearing tables. I dash round the stage and feel exposed in the unfamiliar dress despite the stockings. the lights are warm and I’m treading water but I catch the current quick. they throw me offers and I jump for laughs and I’m a dog bringing back the bone for more. I hear the gasps and laughter from the dark and we play the rhythm well. it works until the point I reach too far. the corpse is revealed and I can’t contain my shock, throwing up into a cup that overflows a toxic green. my costars turn my way in shock and the strangers in the dark go silent. all eyes are fixed on me and my mistake. I shirk into myself and shed the dress I’ve dirtied but they’re all still looking. the stage is mine and I have nothing to say.

when I wake I relish the thought of a story to tell and a part to play. the air is heavy with the hangover of another disappointment. I rush my shower to clock in on time.

feeding pigeons and a seagull

in a town I used to live the streets swarm: a procession of masks and torches singing and shouting at the looming winter. I catch the train to work as they gather round towers of timber. an arrow lights the flame that rolls into a scream that washes out the stars. the fires reach higher than any assemblage brick and love I’ve called home. the people stand speechless at the death of darkness and I was one of them once.

outside the station a man sits on the bench feeding pigeons and a seagull. they don’t know where he came from and it couldn’t matter less. at my desk I track the destruction of one country and the election of another with more care than I can muster for my frustration. as the figures roll in I think of what I’ve learnt to remember they’ll keep dropping bombs no matter who holds the cards. emails carry thinly veiled frustration between parties unwilling to acknowledge the work means nothing beyond business hours. the team receives good news about more money for more projects. we congratulate each other and I do my best to mask my fatigue with the expectation to always want to jump for more. 

on the way home I lean on the window with the weight of where I’ve been. I listen to strangers talk about the weather and what they’ll do tomorrow. they can’t wait to wake up and do it all again.

lilac blossoms

the bags are heavy and the screen is too busy. I work longer than I should and it’s as though the time between was nothing more than an answer to questions exchanged while we wait for the meeting to start. the deadline waits at the end of the day and I pool what energy I can scrape from the wax already spilt to fuel the engine. by time I shut the lid and leave the house the air is cool.

I run to the park and along the path I’ve mapped through another year of holding space without reason. there is a woman on the slope by the second oval posing for her closeup before the lilac blossoms raining from the trees by the path. the colour makes me think of a friend I’ll never see again and a long sleeve I never wear anymore.

once I’ve brought in the washing I bring my list to the shops. by closing time I haven’t found what I want or need and decide to make a salad. my missed calls return when I can’t take them. I try to remember the last time I felt capable of doing something well, and conjure the familiar spell of self pity and rage at my lost potential. I didn’t read the news today and I loath myself and the privilege that cushions me safe enough to sulk and hide while my taxes burn cities to hell. when I wash my face I wonder why without stopping to follow the thought.

a gift

everything can be okay when there’s enough sound and moving parts between where I am and the constant hum of the knowledge that none of it lasts or matters. in the company of strangers or others I love the claws lose their grip on the thinking that leaves me helpless on the bench. we laugh and often it’s enough to drown out the prayers of the parasite in my skull. I can forget who and how I am for a while and this is a gift.

I dread boarding the plane to retreat into the shell of myself waiting in a house that isn’t home. a hollow routine of tasks and grocery lists hanging from plastic coat hangers ready to snap. tomorrow when I wake I will sober to the space and time I occupy and tend to the screen on my desk. I am faithful to the contract that keeps me fed and safe at night. when I count the days til something else it is behind closed doors and never loud enough to wake the neighbours.

there will always be time on the horizon for hiding or running away from myself. there will always be facts and figures about people and places I am not to make me wish I wasn’t here. even good days are spoiled by diseased thinking about the shape and space I take in a frame that shouldn’t mean anything to anyone. beyond my mind and the poison it harbours there is always the news and the knowledge I cannot change anything. they make bombs near my house and there is no way of knowing how many they’ve dropped since I last stopped to think.

at the birthday party I meet someone from the bus I used to take to the city after school. I remember their smile without ever having spoken. I’m glad they don’t remember mine.