forgetting

but another day is just another day. and nothing needs to matter with my eyes closed. I lie on the grass in the sun and listen to a score of so much more than me. the clouds roll off into forever without waiting for permission. I think about joy and forgetting myself on the path to her door.

ink

every day gives way to a little more room in the dark; time and sleep to waste. I wait on my pillow for dreams to hide behind (for now). losing the words I used to think. another pen runs out of ink. and night is never long enough.

into a bird

another day is just another day. the cars keep moving into Christmas with the calendar. I count the years that disappear like clouds I can't remember. time runs through windows on forever and a decade leaves little more than frozen feelings. words don't mean much and nothing stops the sun.

and we fall further from the sound of your voice. attention is demanded by more pressing matters. we do what we must to keep going, making what we can from what we have; no more sense from today than the day that you left. the sun sets and we're still here clawing for answers from the dark. I fold the thought of you into a bird.

tomorrow

and we are only ever dreams away from waking up again.

tissue pyramid

and hope is futile as a phone call. bad news makes a pyramid of tear scrunched tissues. I watch her stack them on the dining table.

she cries out for arms that can't reach her and nobody knows what to say. the parents weep back through the screen into their pillows. we box the board game she laid out for the night that could have been before the call. I think about impermanence and what gets left behind. there's still some dinner in the pan to save for later in the fridge. I lock it up in plastic as quiet as I can.

dishwasher sounds

I close the book with a few pages left, unready to find somewhere else to be understood. we lay together on different pillows on our own sides of the bed, falling asleep to dishwasher sounds. I close my eyes and listen. spinning sounds like little whirlwinds look. I run in circles just like them, slipping further from my thoughts than you. at least the day can’t reach me through the windows in my dreams.

another stream

the day is a march against the stream. I stumble on rocks or expectations into fears that know I am easy to find. the water is cold and I can't seem to forge a path through the reeds lapping at my ankles. thoughts pass with fallen leaves on the surface. I watch them drift out of sight and reach like reason or whatever once meant the world. in another stream they don't. in another stream I fight harder for the things that matter, to keep the language that connects me to the pulse of every teardrop borne from our primordial soup. in another stream I swim. but I am tired and this stream knows where it wants to go.

when I wake I find myself in the same stream and as far from my thoughts as before. a little less familiar every day. I feel the clench of the claws in my skull wring my brain in disbelief. desperation lingers from their grip into my pillow. I admire the ceiling fan for knowing what to do. 

pretending to read

my thoughts are tired and never quick enough. the right words never come and I flail in feelings I've no language for. I dream of drifting with the clouds and pray for rain. pretending to read on the red chair in the waiting room. I hide from myself until they call my name. 

using my legs

if I kick the wall it doesn’t fall

and when I run into the ocean

it only wants to spit me out.

like winter

the first day of summer rains like winter. I can choose to draw some kind of comfort here: the lack of heat I can't quite handle or the company of other disappointments. but the rain is cold on my face and choice demands a reason I've forgotten. my glasses fog like thoughts I can't land, every other resolution lost to traffic at the lights. other people read the forecast and I never learn.

the water on the window

the cat wants to run out into the rain. I close the window and tell her there's nothing good out there, evidence dripping from my every end into the carpet. of course she doesn't understand and I can do nothing to make her. she stalks across the keyboard, sulking louder than the kettle. if I ignore her long enough she'll give up and I can listen to the water on the window. I do and she does, taking vigil on my pillow as I relish what I can through the glass. for a moment there is no more running. I sit and breathe without thought or expectation. some kind of stillness between demons and receipts, strong enough to keep them waiting in the hall. words rear like ghosts to spoil the present all too quick. I forget where I was until I lose myself again.

cabin crew smile

the safety instructions sound more deflated than usual, as though they too aren’t so certain anymore. cabin crew smile louder to compensate, though the passengers still won’t want to lift their window shades. the baby in the row behind plays with my hair over the headrest. her mother says it looks like her father’s. she laughs at my face and cries on our descent into the city.

black friday sales

the children want to reach the moon. growing up is knowing it’s too far, like life beyond the ego or the grave. the children want to change the world. we watch the news and wait for something good that never comes. neglecting dreams for what? I check the time and settle for black friday sales.

growing out

when I come home I forget every other place I’ve been. some kind of amnesia or just another excuse for the ongoing decline I watch from the passenger seat. not even the faintest murmurs of growth are retained, every hint of newness discarded like sins with shoes at the door.

the clothes I wear all feel too loose and I’m left no choice but to sulk for respite from the bedroom. I built my problems here out of little more than idle time and privilege. letting loneliness and boredom play til they’re holding the cards and telling me which ones to burn. I say less than I should and take the good for granted. listening to other people talk and reading what they write. I hide from the news and myself like a child. what am I if not the ungrateful son of worried parents?

my toes press against the board at the end of the bed. I think about growing out of what I know and a lot of things I wish I’d done. a bug taps on the glass to the tick of a clock I can’t see. I open the curtain and ask the window to wake me with the sun.

every boulder

and the laundry never ends: another breath for every boulder waiting at the door. I’d leave if the window would let me and open. what good is a hill I can’t die on?

monetised

the pink clouds pass like dreams. mine for a moment, gone quicker than the midnight tram. I'd pay to keep them but I can't. if only memory could be monetised. who needs clouds anyway?

where have all the flowers gone?

but the bees keep coming back. I want to ask them why. all drains lead to the ocean. trains terminate and every theatre empties. what are we future proofing for? the flowers only grow to wilt. when will we ever learn?

wake happy

remember life beyond the monster in the mirror. there's a ticket to a brain that works if only he could stomach what it costs. if only the frame wasn't fixed. the sign at the end of the platform says he can't leave. to exit is to disobey the law. they promise heavy penalties with threats of prosecution. find somewhere to sit and wait for lightning.

and so I hold myself hostage. with nowhere to spill I swallow thoughts that don’t belong. lungs heave for more time from a world behind the fog. get out of bed and over the self: open door, wash face, pay tax and eat. eat and read and listen. consume every pixel and fuel another day. believe in something bigger than the self and softer than the headlines, some fertile ground for hope. believe in change and eat accordingly. sleep well and pray the flowers grow. ‘go placidly’ etc. take every breath with gratitude and watch for passing traffic. don't think. dispose of doubt and plastic. strive to wake happy.

love and oxygen

every breath pleads for the next and there is nowhere left to scream. dread dilutes my dreams to days. I choke on truths like knives that can’t be used. so much that can’t be said and so little I can do. the nights give way to more that I can only take for granted: love and oxygen to waste with my potential. I rot through static into screens that steal whatever will that lingers. 

the crow on the bench in the park

I want to be the crow on the bench in the park. he watches people fight and kiss and falling through their phones. to him they couldn’t matter less. he doesn’t think about the news or where he’s meant to be. clouds pass and he can follow. on the bench or the branch he sits in total freedom from language and thought. neither serve or harm him more than fences he can fly through. without taxes his wings take him anywhere he wants. I want to be the crow in the park. I want to fly away.

they light another pyre

tonight they light another pyre with flaming arrows. one night every year for centuries, in a place I used to know. locals board their windows. some don torches for procession down the high street. the masses gather to watch, as we had; somewhere between curious and drunk on clueless disregard of where we were and the fragility of present tense. we followed the crowds to a field beyond the lampposts and our maps. I remember the heat of the pyre on my cheeks, the amber washing out the dark and over every face I learnt to miss. we wrote our fears and burnt them to ash, like you between me and the water.

the mythology of memory persists; a silent cyclone spirals in the sink. and a date on my screen reflects another lifetime for a moment: when the world felt bigger and the distance between who we were and wanted seemed a little less than endless. now our limits only tighten and the pyres burn without us. I hope our ghosts enjoy the view.

my old religion

the fall is gradual: claws retract, friends pull back, eyes hang a little lower. truths shift slowly, losing faces like marble to the winds at the end of the world. alarms last longer, I ask for more sleep. and the words keep blurring out of reach. my grip slips and what I knew of language seems to matter less with every monstrous thought. what once was a weapon now crafts a cage. nesting in a sleepy trap of toys I used to own.

I plug at the keys and perform understanding. losing sense I play my best to save face. their thought counts for something. the pixels glaze my spirit, costing every other second. focus is a shelf I lost the shoes to reach. the same can be said for former concerns beyond the body I bear. attention can't be held; I watch compassion melt like ice in my hands. I cry my prayers into the payphone with nobody on the other end. someone's dog barks at the ocean. do I miss my old religion?

last night I felt your laugh against my neck. we dance and play like we did at the start; warm and lacking any space between. you say you miss me. I ask you to let me dream forever.

headphones on

our taxes dwarf cathedrals in the city. cranes pierce clouds forever, only never high enough. but the people come and go regardless; husks of empty eyes and screens queuing for coffee from machines. ghosts in waiting without stories. on my phone I’m just the same as everyone I see. I check my pulse and pass the dead parade with headphones on.

another plastic coffin

the cat leaves a mouse outside my bedroom window. I watch the flies convening on the corpse like corporates. rain comes to scare them off. leave the dead alone. they scramble and the warning lingers, outlasting showers into another plastic coffin they can't reach.

red balloons grow through sewer grates. I'd follow them to hell if not for current affairs. between mirrors and headlines I can't look away. do we still need Halloween? is the nightmare not enough?

early morning news

I read the early morning news for fuel:

my perverted alarm

stronger than coffee and dark as the past

deepening the shadow of the conscience I neglect

they pause the peace to kill more kids

learning to hope in the shell of a lie that we care

their blood paints the streets

I wash my face

clear the sting of SPF tears

somewhere between dreams and demands

safe from taxes

and the bombs they build

just a nightmare for my phone I choose to witness when I want

like the monster in the mirror

or tomorrow

waking for another one

the lights are on

other people talk

and I am spitting on a house fire.

crawling back

some kind of phantom solace: resignation to excuse the day without loathing where it leads me. growing up or giving in? we make the same bed either way. every trial takes the carriage to the pillow or the grave.

we stop by the beach on the way to the airport. you live in a jar just over the hill with a view of the bridge between strangers. I've not visited all year and maybe this is growth, though I think I've just found other gods to blame for how I am. Dad asks me to tell him what he can do to help. I don't have an answer and feel embarrassed by my dependence on problems I draw somewhere between my apathy and privilege. my parents watch and wait for word on what I need. I waste their love on metrics I can't meet: a prodigal parasite crawling back for more.

clouds open for flying. I spy five parrots from the passenger seat. the driver talks to someone else.

snow and dreams

I wait for change behind the wheel: saving for a rainy day and hiding when it comes. tears whinge down the windscreen. guilt and laundry perpetual as oxygen I breathe through gritted teeth. my words fall out of order into empty dishes. I can't stand the sound of their weight on my voice. eyes close for birdsongs through the rain to cleanse a rotting soul. aching through the static just to end where we begin; a broken puppet twitching on a pillow. tomorrow waiting in the wings for more. I beg the night for snow and dreams too beautiful to wake from.

clocks I can’t see

and all we do is fill the empty spaces as they come. doors and open mirrors. your bed, my grave, an outlet mall. playing house forever in between.

the words flood every room, bursting pipes and spoiling any hope for making sense. I stare at the ceiling with a will too weak to open the door or my eyes to anything other than this. the world feels further every breath and death bought with my apathy and taxes. feelings blur like vision underwater; clocks I can’t see ticking in the walls. no more meaning than the motion pictures. I wish I knew my lines.

books

can I exist beyond the pile of books you'll never read?

sinking

the realm of possibility shrinks. I sink further into myself with the rain on the window and a headache. enough damage without the headlines. 'what a miserable day'.

when I come home the rooms feel empty despite every memory's ghost and pictures on the walls. the cat doesn't remember me. I feel too long and lonely in the bed that's held me more than any other ever will. what has become of my refuge? where do I turn now? I blame the brain I can't think beyond for every loss and damage. I miss my openness and hope. maybe it's just another day. stars shift behind curtains and forecasts change. there's always more tomorrow.

the cage only tightens. blue light screams through empty shells and words that never end. I don’t understand anything.

bedlam

attachment wounds scar to be seen and understood. vulnerability opens doors to more. shutting down and disconnecting; just a dream or two of respite from the shame of being who I am. the scenic route leads nowhere different. some kind of fear that lingers irrespective of the day. 

I bring what I can to the table. something stolen from mum or the internet - whatever I fit in my bag. other people eat and I can serve a purpose. tanks leave less empty on my fuel. I wash dishes and feel a little better: my time went somewhere other than the drain. 

another school burns through the night on my phone. I wash my face and wish I wasn't watching from the cheap seats. let the sirens mind themselves for now. just keep yourself clean. donate blood and do what you can to keep the bedlam going.

my minimum core

do we need cages to make animals? I draw a case of absent thinking at my minimum core. with everything essential satisfied, I keep the surface clean and fears contained. the sun surfaces to settle: we play along and even in debt do our best to keep up. I dress for other people, stopping and starting on traffic light time. the roads pulse urgency, currents of consumption on the way to something more. I follow the signs and relish their direction. gaps in reason can't be filled with words. diversion is a gift.

in the house I wash dishes and clothes in different machines, leaving nothing to show for my mess or what I've done. the performance prevails, claiming some sort of clean if I try hard enough. I tend to virtual gardens and sustain another day, moving silent through the evening on patterns serving no one. their webs tighten and I suffocate on solace. when I brush my teeth I remember to pray, though the language evades and I fall further from fluent each night. how much can one beg for a world they don't believe in?

you tell me you scream in your car to stay calm. I wish you'd let me listen.

from fiction

dreams only agitate the conscience. can any good be drawn from fiction? stories to shadows to blurs under eyelids, never quite enough to fill my empty hands and heart. I lose my way and faith in maps. how far can I run til I start coming back?

friends

last night we pitched your tent outside a warehouse for a party. the air was warm enough for short sleeves even after sundown. you like the summer and I like to see you smile. everybody wants you; you just want to make some friends.

at some point we break for air to the beach by the exit. gentle waves rolling blankets under stars. we swim and freeze our bones before I lose you in the dark. wandering the warehouse blind as though I've lost my head. I stir to sense some hours on in someone else's tent. crawling back to ours I find you sleeping on my pillow. and I had thought you'd left.

by your side I lie and wonder what you're dreaming. the party dies to lullabies. I wake to no alarm.

vacuum-sealed

my neighbour in the library writes in a different alphabet. I can barely string another sentence in my own. sitting among lawyers and teachers and doctors, all with functions and something to bring to the table. professions with purpose. vacuum-sealed skills from shelves I can't reach. I rake the sand over a mind with nothing more to show than fears. what am I beyond this feeling? we learn about children and the world we've said we owe them. everything is grown up. I do my best to play along and speak their language. every second closer to lost balance. why did I leave myself behind? I look for someone else to blame down stairs that never end.

looking back at boulders

I wake past my alarm and lose the time to fold and fixate on the things I shouldn't. in the shower I try to remember when last I felt good at something. in the mirror my teeth are still crooked. you still have all your limbs. knowing what I know I wash my face and carry on.

time pours through other people's thoughts and dialogue. I ride between desks listening to conversations I pay to be prescribed. there's talk of getting better, growing out and into health. looking back at boulders to give them names. I keep an ear out for my voice; ruled by ego even in disorder. 

a crow picks at worms from gaps in the lawn. the wattle bird drains life from the flowers. I join the waiting room to renew my diagnosis. they check I'm sick enough before they give me what I need. they do. I pay by card and don't want a receipt.

shoes or Sisyphus

at the rally the city stops to listen for a pulse. the cameras watch a mass of mammals mourn the loss of human conscience. cardboard prophecies and faces of children lost to ash or rubble. mantras to keep the faith and abstain from checking our phones. the voice of history calls for the fall of Rome to reckon with the scales of justice. headlines call to burn the witch tomorrow. trudging tram lines under flags a retiree lectures empty spirits on collective freedom and responsibility. he asks me why the masses can't mobilise well enough to make change or actions that matter. I blame apathy and the mirror. 'we can't get over ourselves', etc. he insists we're better than that. I envy his remaining faith.

time turns beyond every breath. every breath is only ever just enough for now. the days last longer and I envy another hemisphere slipping slowly into cold. the billboard says the reward for running is more running. I can't tell if they're selling shoes or Sisyphus.

time turns beyond the end of days. in the dark I hear her laughing at tomorrow's mushroom cloud. I crawl through the dark and claw for popcorn left behind. she's staying for the credits. I hope they finish soon.

clean again

when do we start telling stories? every breath a moment further from the clear blue conscience. there was a time before. we were happy in the dark and soap was enough for sleeping. edges blur with headlines passing, only ever harder to remember how it felt. the water runs red to stain everything I touch. when can I be clean again?

bandaids

what good are arms or words? I don’t need your bandaids. no one holds me like the midnight tram.

headlines and the mirror

cats howl for love beyond the window through the witching hour and dreams. their pleas are unsuccessful, underscoring parties trashing mansions in my head. my fingers trace the pathways down your forearms for a moment. you laugh with someone else against the doorframe, watch me move their furniture. violet velvet armchairs, ugly lamps. the bed frame feels too light and your smile isn't enough to drown the questions I can't ask. are you even there? do you want to leave with me?

sun and birdsong. the buffer lasts longer with summer in the wings. time and effort stretched through webcams and corridors of other people's words. screams from video games make more sense than the current state of things. I dwarf my own potential with more headlines and the mirror. 

'use by' stamp

I keep paying people to listen. they ask questions and I talk my way around answers. what must we do when we run out of fuel? the woman on my screen says she found me at the bottom of a well. things can and have been worse. at the very least I sound a little lighter than before.

'performance requires high-level processing'. the stage isn't a tram ride. I confess I expected more from my body and brain. she adjusts her tone to teach: when deprived the body dictates where the fuel is needed to keep running. the body never hopes to change - hope is for the heart and disappointment. the body does not want to change, and will only renovate with consistent fuel.

I take notes to work on later. you need to make it as easy as possible (there is nothing easy about it). why am I so scared of the only way back? the cure is a nightmare in the fridge (without a 'use by' stamp). she says I should make it about maths.

I skipped the vigil

and I whinge and I whinge and I whinge. to be silent is to be left with myself or the world, and I cannot seem to stomach either. I breathe with my eyes closed to wait for sleep again. when it comes it ends and all I want is more.

privilege poisons everything. I watch the credits run and loath the day that's soon to come. knowing what I know I sleep and dream. in the morning I fold and wash myself through gritted teeth. when I sit to read the news it's for myself, to test the pulse and what's still working. I've watched children dying on my phone every morning for two years now. still the ego persists: my own trials and simulations colonise the first and final thoughts of every day. a year ago I wept on the steps of town hall for the loss of human conscience. tonight I skipped the vigil for a bedtime I won't make.

words don't mean much anymore. I listen to people who still know how to use them. sometimes I think about the thoughts they choose not to say. more often I think of myself. when prodded for attention I feel my own words spill out in uncertain breaths. they do so without meaning. I don't recognise the voice. the words are stolen from places I can't remember. I don't know what I'm saying and don't really care. words don't mean much anymore. how much can they matter in an age of apathy?

my taxes have been killing kids since the first time I claimed pay. I’ve known better for two years now and I still wake up for more.

my openness

words are fickle homes for thoughts and feelings. they're heavy and too tight and my frame can't hold them all. I want to leave them somewhere else. wash my hands, make room for something more that matters. I remember my heart. when we were kids I couldn't pass the people on the street begging for food. now I see them in the city and turn the other way. what happened to my openness?

I cried in the bath under the water last week. not for the world I wake to lose faith in, or the children I watch limping in and out of death on loop. my tears spoiled the bathwater for myself alone. the boy in the mirror can't hear his heart. he'll sooner watch the world burn than turn on the lights. I wish I lay there longer.

rainbow fish

I sleep through the alarm into the afternoon. by time I wake the rally's running through the streets, too far forward for my catching up to headlines in a rush. I dream of wasting time with someone beautiful. science says we can't draw new faces asleep but I can't place yours. we sneak out of our dorms into the library past curfew, finding secret spots to kiss. you show me rooms I've never thought to open. I relish the feeling of your smile against mine. it's been a while now. we spin through the night like kids, kissing through hallways and scheming dreams to treasure til I wake. when I do I think of where I've been and what I've spoiled. I know joy can strike like missiles and some footprints last forever. you hang over every thought until the winds change and you don't.

we drove an hour over tramlines just to buy a vacuum cleaner. the pot plants wait another week. I listen to the rain outside and draw the rainbow fish.

eyes that can't see

vanity makes nomads of the masses. exceptions hide their faces from their phones. watch the currents of the rest of us chase attention through the bardo in and out of dreams to death. waiting in every hall, holding out for breath to wrangle audience from shadows. please witness me. scream louder at mirrors than bombs with peace enough to only fear the former. lost in ourselves in spite of funeral pyres of children. what good are eyes that can't see? 

graduation cap

I see your face on my phone for the first time in months

graduation cap and gown

a smile and glasses like mine

you look tired

and a moment omits the worlds between us

if I could forget

I remember my name on your voice in the dark

not wanting to sleep

to keep the dream safe from the sun

logic

and decay

like it meant more than chance

a string of tears and chemical reactions

like it mattered in the face of today

who we were and left behind

misremembered circumstance

adored in absence

through the screen

did we mean what we said?

do you want to forget? 

mourned in silence

on my phone

until you haunt my dreams again.

I pour myself a bath

in my new home I can leave the boulder at the door to wait with headlines til the morning. before bedtime I pour myself a bath. when I pinch my nose and sink under I leave my thoughts on the surface. concealed, the water holds me still. for as long as I can hold my breath I'm free. no demands or breathing. for a moment I forget myself and smile into abstraction. lost until forever ends. underwater; I can hide and not be found.

the microwave keeps ringing

every day wants to matter. we wake to meet demands as though they won't be back tomorrow. dreams all ending so (the same). eyes open just to close again. still I read the headlines like they'll tell me something different.

every day wants more. I just want to go to sleep.

the walls fold

without warning I'm rushed to leave my home by forces I don't understand. it all happens very fast. the walls fold out into empty plains before I look up from my phone. I sit in the grey, scrolling for places to go. squatters with bad teeth in windowless mansions, ghosts in rooms on your old street. my life slides neat into a suitcase just big enough to wrap myself in. I drag everything I own to foreign doors to find a home.

when I wake to yawns I'm running late for someone else's birthday. forfeit folding and the shower to find my suitcase stolen. I spiral in the hallway under epics on the ceiling. painted angels watch me weep. the loss feels monumental: anthology of scribbles, second-hand synthetics, every book I never read, my silver swan and armour, a mood ring. I cry by the piano for myself and nothing else.

the sky is grey and dry in the morning. I count the pictures on the wall until they matter less. 

another kind of kindness

after dinner

I close my eyes

excused from the day and the way things are

the traffic continues

dusk to death of darkness

with the morning

sometimes sunshine

always oxygen and sound to tear me out of dreams

from arms I can't reach

worlds that aren't

through days we'll never spend

forgotten for taxes

and other monsters in the fridge

allowances made

for promises that mattered once

to someone in the mirror

between films I forgot

and the war on my phone

apathy

or another kind of kindness

the kettle boils

I wait for rain and reason

pixels through windows

never here for long enough to warrant where we're going:

one foot in the stream

uphill

boulders and the empire pave tomorrow

into nothing

through the death of every dream.

science fiction

the rulers creep out of the shadows to wash their hands with words. we watch our idols do the same, rallying behind crowds as they trend. far safer for them now. heads of state pledge to recognise a country they bomb into oblivion. don't ask them where their money's going. it's a little soon, and isn't this enough? thank god they stand for peace. let the minutes note morality and pleas for gentle play. I watch my taxes decimate another hundred childhoods from my pillow. we scroll through the children's screams and carry on. always more to say about ourselves and other stuff. who needs science fiction now?

men talking

I start to spiral again in cinema five (row D). we're watching a shark movie in high resolution, returning to the big screen fifty years later. my friend bought tickets to take a girl but called things off a few days ago. I take her place though I'd rather watch something else. the film is easy enough to drift in and out of. men talking about and in the ocean, shark attacks at the beach, etc. I laugh at heavy accents and paper-thin diction.

at some point I lose track or will to follow the boat on the screen. there's a thought of life beyond the pictures and I remember the tasks that left me here. I take stock of expectations waiting at the door, ready to drown me like dreams I can't wake up from. and though I don't like the film I don't want to leave. would I be more willing with the sense to give the day less weight? I tell myself to watch the news and count the stars. try to get out of the way. the curse of self-importance can surely be unlearnt. who doesn't die waiting for proof that they matter?

another

ten years ago we celebrated your coming of age at the sushi train. it had been a school day. I think it rained on and off until the evening. someone would have made a cake, and we would have sang you happy birthday in the undercroft at recess. the girls would have given you jewellery or alcohol, something that would've cost money. most of them had part time jobs. I'd saved money cleaning the house for a copy of the new record from an artist we both liked. the album released on the same day. I remember running down into town at the sound of the bell, ahead of the rest of the group to follow through. you would have thanked me for the gift and given me a hug. but I don't remember that. I just remember rushing into the store, worried they'd have sold out by time I arrived. as though the music really mattered. 

we liked the one about the lady from the bible teaching how to dance. I think we spoke about dancing along in the audience. you passed before she came back to the antipodes. I saw her sing with other friends. they miss you too.

six years ago I took a train from London into a world I still remember. my heart leapt louder than my thoughts. I hauled my bag up an ancient lane to High Street and into a nightmare hotel. the lady at reception said she'd spent time in my home town. I found my room on the top floor of a crumbling afterthought that became home. twin single beds and a salmon pink ensuite. maroon carpet and a mini-fridge. a view of the new world from my balcony. maybe I washed my face. I definitely thought about staying inside. but I had no food and they were serving free pizza in the function room. I can't remember who I first saw or spoke to. the pizza tasted like cardboard. my head was spinning, the most anxious I had felt in years. but we took to High Street, down into the village centre for drinks. and though my roommate never showed, I woke to friends to share a home with.

today you turned twenty-eight. I think about ten years ago and wonder where you'd be if not for the car. would you have moved north as planned? would I still know you now? today I woke much older than we were back then. I shaved my face and checked the news. my rhythm is different now, and I worry what you'd think. I carry ghosts you bore before me, though I lack your drive to change. it rains a little on the ride home from rehearsals. another day further from the sound of your voice and the sushi restaurant. another year on the other side of a dream I still remember. a ribbon of cloud on the stream with some kind of meaning between.

ebb and flow

spinning into knots. I stand and leave my books for fresh air and some kind of space between headlines and expectations. the clouds tease rain they can't deliver. trees weep their final blossoms with the wind. every branch in full bloom once upon a week ago. leaves sprout to weigh them even lower. nothing for more than a moment. ebb and flow forever.

you catch me dreaming between cups of milk and the machine. I like it when you smile because I thank you with your name. you remembered mine today. momentary triumph and beautiful eyes I don't know. something less than madness from the time between my screens. a boy with a name like a bird.

other kids

I dream about my old school. it's the first day of the year and I've been assigned a class without any friends. I hear them laughing in the class next door. my teacher is a stranger. I guard my eyes from hers and give her nothing more to work with. the other kids sit still in silence. looking to the front, dolls waiting for play. I want to leave but know I can't until I tune into the static. my friends laugh louder through the wall. I want to knock it over with my plastic desk or chair.

a child lies open on a table. charred like coal and bleeding. his skin is torn, organs unconcealed and pulsing through the blood. vital systems I have only seen in diagrams. the child is still and silent as the nurses hold his hands; white gloves not knowing what to do. I watch them fix the mask to keep him there a little longer. what words warrant moving forward? how do we rationalise the day? I sleep in peace afforded by the mass slaughter of children. nights pass as though I never knew. I wake to watch the livestream on my phone until I can't. wash my hands until I'm ready to keep watching til the end.

crying wolf too late

I lead my plastic lungs to mirrors when they need to laugh. face the stranger's crooked teeth: horror movie monster or unwanted frame with a name. this is who you wake for. follow blueprints with a pulse that scares away my dreams. in crossing cardboard bridges I only pray for rain. when it comes I fall like snow in silence into water. cold and safe, in gentle motion. cradled by the river between now and then forever.

the algorithm drags me face down through the Styx. I'll scout new lows from the surface: missed calls and quiet masochism, fear of life or dentists. watch the future burn and men in suits start crying wolf too late. there's always more to run from and check out of present tense. I'll show you on my phone.

department store candle

your memory stirs to haunt me: long forgotten scent on a candle from the department store. how many lives since sharing pillows? still I catch you on a plastic fragrance. did you sell your soul to homewares? held captive in some factory, caged and wrung apart to colour vats of boiling wax with your aroma?

it's silly to remember you - or who you were to me - so clearly in a smell. once upon a spiral I'd have lost the night to mourning. return to archives and the relics of the time that was. I had so many questions then. collecting dust with memories. now left by the candle, between now and then in the space I can't explain. and though I wonder where you went, the wheels keep turning without knowing, to sleep and dream of other lifetimes. I hope you're happy where you are.

someone else's errands

they play a cooking show in the waiting room. old televisions hang from wires in the ceiling. the housewives make a meringue, watching over impatient coughing and clicking of keys. I close my eyes and let their directions colonise my thinking: two-fifty degrees for one and three quarter hours. crisp and ready to melt in my mouth. 

the doctor draws the patterns from the blood they took to tell me I'm alright. a shopping list of chemicals in order. praise for balance beyond my control. big words that might make sense with more attention. apparently the bloods say everything is mostly looking good. she scribes out vitamins I need to take to keep up with the sun. I can't quite read her writing. she wishes me good luck.

we fix our hair and watch the city crumble into clouds of smoke. call for reruns of tears and words that can only mean less. pathetic global conceit veiled with cellophane as conscience. I laugh at myself through my phone. waiting long enough to grow beyond the feeling, if it mattered. brace the traffic to get home between the wind and time for someone else's errands.

alien

whose future are we building in the breathing between dreams? the aliens will always keep us waiting. I’m only ever drifting to or from the supermarket. 

traffic island disk

sometimes I wonder what you’re thinking. clueless with no signal to dial or palm to read. I’m in the dark, you’re out of reach. far beyond the night and little more than words. I draw what I can from the futile remains of the day: traffic island somewhere in the stream between dreams and what you mean. forget the spinning plates and that it doesn’t really matter. a thought is a thought. the city burns regardless.

deficit or numbers

I claw for refuge from the screen. only free between forgotten dreams and water. everything in pixels if not deficit or numbers. the body aches for lack of sleep, compassion wanes to rising tallies of dead children on my phone. I look up from myself to a future of potential lost to screentime and self-interest. are we meant to keep this up? I want to shake myself awake but can I really face the day? too much to take account of. too hard to care to change. just enough to blame the headlines and scroll on to other stuff.

I only stir to how I feel through someone else's questions. my faith in the absurd is just enough to blunt the thoughts. dance a rhythm I can keep asleep. don't wake me up again.

amended

the master's tools may never dismantle the master's house. but they can be used against him. and the laws he draws with others' blood may someday spill his own.

smiling practice

I salvage cuttings from a highlight real of days between my waking. out of luck and breath: chasing a bus of old friends from a school I never attended. they're off to the city and there wasn't room left for me. some wave back and others laugh. I can't keep up but run until my knees lock. they turn onto the freeway. I cry and watch them disappear; a bird into a cloud.

pre-show in the spine of a playhouse I once haunted. the green room is full of theatre folk I was never good enough to really know. they exchange praise and contour each other's faces. the ingenue forgets my name and asks if I can hold her flowers. I watch her practice smiling in the mirror.

they bomb another capital with tools I work to fund. too little to raise eyebrows anymore. I watch the missiles strike apartment blocks whilst waiting for my coffee. outside the students gather in protest and shout into overcast skies. you can hear them from inside the library. hysterical, distracting. I hope for rain and do my best to think of something else.

I missed the lunar eclipse

the seconds pass regardless of my wants or where I am. blossoms and leaves grown to wilt. sun and moon forever. the sky could fall and you'll still hear ticking in the hallway. someone gives me a silver watch in my dream. the last I owned was left abroad. a Christmas gift from an amusement park, forgotten by a bed in the shell of a world I'll never see again. at the time it seemed to matter for a moment. we're over it, until we aren't, until we are again.

on tram lines

I read to lessen certainty. my little case of what I know is humbled by a lack of answers in the dark. I sit on the platform and laugh into the fog. if everything is temporary how much can the moment matter? present tense is futile as the rain. you say you see the humour too.

monuments mean as much as the dreams we can't remember. pigeons on tram lines. adjacent strangers fixing faces in the library bathroom mirror. free samples and a funeral pyre of children on my phone. outlet malls or Sistine Chapel ceilings. your hand on my face. the laundry. will the asteroid care to read the difference? no history book can dwarf tomorrow. here and there are only ever words to fill the dark.

we were swimming

a neighbourhood in mourning for a convenience store closing. rental increase aligning stars to fuel the rising cost of living. patrons thank two decades of service with a billboard down the road. I watch the legacy collapse into a moving van on my ride home.

stirred from where I was by someone's sobs around the corner. an international student cries into the telephone. a stranger at my table leaves her books to offer hugs and a want to understand. her boyfriend shakes his disapproval and gestures to his watch. they were talking about party plans before the upset. he was making demands. she was trying to focus. I pass her drying tears on my way out.

we were swimming in my dream last night. there was a lot of laughter, colours like the blossoms on the trees we cut for power lines. underwater you bewilder like a story they'll tell for generations. we leave our clothes and words where they belong. you leave me behind or maybe I just can't keep up. 

the lady in pink

the lady in pink grins at oncoming traffic, teeth white as broken promises. she skips through her rope in the middle of the road. her smile widens when the lights turn green, eager to confuse and for the thrill of horns to come. I worry she won't move or they won't break or swerve in time. what does she know or want that we don't?

zombies

I dream of zombies. we learn about the plague and how it fuels their hunger in a rhyming picture book, like the ones that taught us how to read. cartoon blood down cartoon walls. I check the locks and think we're safe unless we leave the house. but my brother does and I don't know what to do. the rest of the family wants to walk to the cliffs to swim. I tell them it's not safe but they won't listen. and so I watch them from the open door: an exodus of SPF and genes in common hauling hopes for summer holidays down cul de sacs to death. the zombies rear their ugly heads from potholes and flowerbeds to follow from behind. I scream too loud to be heard in the race to sunset. alone and waiting for the party to return more hungry than before.

progress is another day

the man on my computer asks about my habits. I hate to tell the truth, knowing the picture it paints and that some people have real problems. he tells me what I need, knowing how far he's reaching from my triangle of wants and where I am. we both know he's right and I need to listen through the screams in subtext. what did I think this would look like? his patience makes a child of my disorder: at least I'm showing up. progress is another day in the same shoes.

liberty etc.

the news washes over blind eyes ogling after dreams: waiting out the rise and fall of Rome from the comfort of my phone. walls topple before the kettle boils. each and every brick laid for naught. totality dissolved to nothing more than dust and absence. the brains insist it's all partial. everything is dangerous and nothing gives you everything. there is a time for every rung of the ladder. even supermarkets close.

liberty weeps into the sea, her tears connecting every mass of land and mess of fears and vital organs. she wants to leave but statues cannot move. she cries for us tomorrow, knowing what we could have been. the people pose for photos, climbing up her frame for fun. pay for keyrings of her torch and crown and magnets for the fridge. she sees it all, sometimes forgetting it's her they're here for. so much pride in appearance above the ideal. she cannot close her eyes: watching bombs on the horizon, wishing someone would say something. sometimes forgetting what she means or what they said she stood for. bombs sent with love from her shore to yours. how might this make sense when the skies decide to fall? she thinks about her name and the days it used to matter. the clouds still hang for now.

someone else's fall

a welcome smile behind the til: a name like a bird I wasn't meant to ask for. my first day of spring in someone else’s fall. blossoms in the roundabout, fascists in the mall. the city plagued by nightmares and the suffocating stench of blood beneath the asphalt. shame stops trams. a sea of flags reflects the past that paves the present crisis. glimpses of the future of our beautiful dystopia.

something else: your face through my lens, our fears up in flames. my back to the camera and pictures of places we hid from the world and all our answers. subliminal pledge or just another surprise on my phone. do I indulge the cameo? affection complicates the gesture. should I bother with the struggle to discern sincerity from ego? between dreams and scheming you’re no help at all. writing tomorrow in invisible ink. I watch you dance on the coals of the fire we built. will you teach me how to balance when you learn?

every dream a little hard to reach. our choices write performances we can’t foresee (for now). the trains keep moving regardless of the steps we take. at least I get to ride my bike.

the meadow

I wake to hail on my window and laundry to hang. the tasks stack by my pillow. I keep track with my phone, resisting the urge to feed it to the fishes or the tram tracks. patterns emerge in the empty space between the work that should be kept for rest. never short of plants to tend to or roles to play. I show up when I’m called and do my best to care despite the headlines. anything at all to stunt the risk of stillness.

my parents visit me in the city that used to be theirs. we cross the bridge and pay to see the pretty paintings flown from Boston. I think about the world in which my taxes fund our fancy art exchange and bombs to drop on schools. the same world I pay for, that watches children burn and goes to work and sleep each day. I think about the way we are although I’m safer to not think at all. so many people taking pictures. so little left unseen.

my favourite is a painting of another space between. early afternoon sun washing autumn leave shadows through the meadow. golds and greens to long for in the dark. I’d take your hand and show you if it opened and I could.

the end of days

tomorrow comes and all we do is talk about ourselves.

happy hour

what’s left of me beyond the screen? self and subjectivity half price for happy hour (while stocks last). an ache for love or sleep under my eyes. I’ll do better tomorrow, or wait to tell myself the same again. growth in iteration or patterns in repeat.

a nightmare on a rock

new magnets and electrical solutions in an envelope from Mark.

strangers using the same pen. particular places at the table by the window. silent and still breathing behind screens.

the building next to the library is currently being removed: this means that noise may be heard on and off during the day.

much louder headlines for the flowers. I hear more about billionaire weddings than the millions under siege. love and diamonds over constant blood and tears on my phone. I do my best to keep my undue judgements to myself. look in the mirror. if you can't say something nice...

whistles and strangers screeching at a ball. I tremble like a child again. dull and far too serious for a nightmare on a rock. I wait to see your pictures. you always take your time.

waiting for the doctor (2pm news)

black trousers, black jeans, black tee.

when was that last test?

Friday, but like early, like seven am.

did I tell you they don't work there anymore? I have to go tomorrow in the afternoon.

they've said the same thing three times.

yeah its cause they don't have anything to say.

[a lot of the local businesses are in lockdown, they say the town is on edge.]

which town?

[they're trying to keep the kids as calm as possible. you can imagine the panic across the town, lots of the community don't know what's going on or if they can even leave their houses-]

the girls have gone against Chloe about Christmas this year.

how so?

I mean it's a bit presumptuous of her to think we want her to host every year.

that's true.

she's mad. read this. I didn't think she was worried about losing it.

why I want to scream

we take the tram to catch a movie about today and self indulgence. front row leaves within a minute of not seeing who they want onscreen. cackles of laughter on their return from those of us more patient. the beautiful Americans have perfect teeth and problems we couldn't imagine. how are they to live if they can't tell who they're meant to love? one hour fifty seven and another twenty million for a dance around the edges of our egos. ticking every box to house a morgue of lonely husks. was it a train wreck or a mirror? do I really want to know?

I leave the credits angry at how we are or the glassy veiled reflection of the modern leper that can't stop crying out for more. we laugh about the surface and having wanted something else to happen. I open my phone to watch a bomb drop on a hospital fire escape. journalists and nurses disintegrate to clouds of dust. I think about their kids and what they might have thought about the movie. too bad she had to settle for the waiter with the housemates. at what point do we escape ourselves? am I drowning in the mirror all the way down to the grave?

the kettle boils and waits for pouring til the water's cold. tomorrow I forget the clouds and why I want to scream. 

zero dollar day

eyes open and close through paper days. a body on a pillow. some nights pass quicker through static and silence in the sheets. others fill with colour.

dreams build doors that never actualise beyond the bardo. familiar faces take the stage to gloat ambitions for the demons to scratching claws and howls. a pantomime of what if, all of little consequence. at the time it all feels real from the cheap seats to the wings.

sometimes there's excitement like I haven't known in years. I chew on fantasies I'd never have the nerve to chase. watch them forge a path into the inbetween. hope is less dangerous behind closed eyes. I see you and you want to see me too. sometimes there's only joy and warmth without an urge to read the news. your closeness is enough to keep me where I am. content for a moment; cycling circles in my head.

the theatre empties for tomorrow. I spoil a zero dollar day on account of lack of sleep. 

418 in white on black

a clearing in the clouds fills the green between the paths. I sit on the wall and watch the faces pass, leaves in a stream from the library out into their own forevers. the branches dance above: gentle breeze, warmer in a sense of spring to come. a magpie sings across the pavement, yellow tag around his ankle. 418 in white on black. I don't know what it means or why his other friends fly free unnumbered.

somewhere on the cusp of consciousness. I stream the days through empty screens and doomsday groceries. on my phone I read your name and hope to see you when I sleep. sometimes you say mine in response. sometimes I wish I could forget. wake to tasks and masks to keep the wheel spinning. a dollar and a dream taxed to fuel the war machine. the headlines hang in shame - another word for hell on earth in place of action. another word enough to aid our guilt and apathy for now.

my chain slips in motion off the cobblestone. I brake to fix my bike somewhere between the cemetery and bed. the mishap paints my fingers and I seek salvation from the telegraph pole. blossoms weep over the curb to make me think of home. a little too cold and too early this year. I'd send a picture if only I could ask myself to stop and take the time.

the fish swim through

sacrifice tomorrow’s face to chance. nothing worth your time. the ink might as well spill from the pen into the fire. I buy nothing with another day. time down the drain, the wine we didn’t finish. the fish swim through and it’s all air to them.

geyser

contemplating pulp or the news. another death in high definition, turtles bleeding from their eyes. mine are tired from lack of dreams and we can only watch so much. the cat keeps me captive, in bed, from reaching my potential, etc. something else to blame today. I wring myself dry of thought until I'm drifting to the moon on the ghosts of passing cars. wait in supermarket traffic and the chemist for a friend. always safer between places I should be. the chain comes off but I'm a geyser and get back on the road again.

failure and the dark

grow up and listen to the notes you paid to take. book a time to see the doctor. maybe there's more that could explain why I feel the way I do? her eyes are kinder than yours and this is nothing new: she's seen this film before and has her ways to change the end. 

change like the ice on the window overnight. sometimes there are easy fixes. sometimes things are harder. medical monitoring to catch the changes if and when they come. what will make me take the steps to stand and board the train again? am I driven by reward or fear of failure and the dark?

every day a phone call down the emergency escape. never quite hearing you over the steps of my descent. never more than late or out of touch. I still need to book my flights.

mirrors etc.

we make mirrors when the reflection in the pond isn’t clear enough. there was a time before we drew the face. now the feed is full. I know how I look and it matters. were we ever really meant to see so much of ourselves? at least we’re drowning less (for now).

a burning tree

somewhere between sleep and sense: a sun sets on the coals of a birthday I can’t face. from the kitchen sink I watch old ghosts laugh and dance around a burning tree in the garden. I could leave the house and join them but it’s getting dark and I need an early night for school tomorrow. someone runs through the flames for fun. I wave behind the window.

in the morning on the bus I listen to boys I don’t know share excitement for retirement on the way to work. ‘the cushion is going to feel so good when I get there…’ someone’s baby screams like I might have years ago. the boys in suits keep talking til the tunnel spits us out.

I think about water

a couple hundred patrons haunt the city's oldest screen: directorial debut of the vampire ingenue. she's written about childhood and the strings it pulls on how we try to grow. the film is a dagger to the senses: sharp sounds and shadows, glances from scary men to run from. fragments of memories, glimpses of beautiful bodies. blood in the shower and streams to which we always return. I think about water and how it runs in ways the harm and hurt we carry can't. shouting and tears over ashes poured into the sea. I sip the drink I didn't need and listen to the breathing in the dark. is it wrong to join the laughing when we want to fill the silence? how often am I watching someone else's trauma just for something else to do?

the second baby screams with questions I'll never leave alone. all born screaming; why were we ever woken up? the babies cry for answers: we feed pacifiers and hope that soon they'll leave the beast alone. at some point they forget or learn to look around the cloud that can't make sense or be escaped. we do our best to give them less to think about.

I wake to fill another day without screams or a path beyond the tramlines. an aching frame and want to believe in the illusion of chronology. rain on the glass and someone's wedding day. I am nothing more than here and now forever all at once.

does poetry belong?

does poetry belong

when I wake up to the rain?

there are blankets and walls

to keep me still

and warm

(or where I am)

when I fold myself like laundry

or paint another face

to only sell my soul for silence

and a bed before the end

does poetry belong

when I lose you

even in dreaming

because I turned too soon

or you were never more than my reflection

in your eyes?

does poetry belong

when my groceries and breathing fuel the child-ending machine?

the bath runs blood

and I can watch the masses burn all night

and only ever think of you

does poetry belong

if I stop running to or from

and human conscience dies in Vogue

but the livestream isn't on?

exercise

objective: increase energy over time

invest in building social connections. how can we keep this going? consider sustainability. listen to yourself/the body to recharge the battery. you are making conscious choices for the long-term.

sleep. read (a book instead of headlines). less screen before bed. exercise discipline and put the phone away. the choice is for you in the morning. give yourself time (rather than taking).

find the fuel and movement balance. what gives and what takes energy? how much does it really matter?

reduce stress. find new windows for the breeze.

manage tension between productivity and boundaries. reconfigure expectations. close your eyes and start again.

getting cold

when I wake I feel further from him than ever. but the dream continues.

I sit third or fourth pew from the altar with my brother. the priest is a talkshow host and quick with jokes to draw us in and out of scripture with one-liners. I ascend to the lectern and read a passage for the faithful: some prophet's vision of the future when the earth decides to open and the cities all fall in. my brother leads the prayers of intercession between tears that won't stop smudging ink down the pages. I know it's because of the kids and death of human conscience, and take the stairs to hold his hand. groans from the congregation as children lead reluctant parents to leave. we sulk back to our pew and let the priest play his parade to rivers of blood at the door.

the clouds draws me a fool for fun. man of the year riding Sydney road in the rain. clothes on the window to dry into night. all out of questions and smoke to conceal. heavy for a moment long enough. the kettle's getting cold.

some kind of power

waiting in the wings at your whim. I tell myself I'd like to see you in my dreams. it's true and I do until I wake up.

cold toes and fingers for thoughts to pass through to the keys. some kind of power lingers.

pulse drawn every dawn to fight the disconnect into the next. there's always tomorrow forever. but maybe I'll find the rhythm with my feet someday soon. for now we ache into the rumbling traffic through the day. I think about bombs and greater evils to dwarf guilt felt for my own. wash away the blame for every breath that shapes the day. how much more would a mirror do?

like it matters

I wake to another day of disconnect between the body and the mind. both should be mine and under control, though the imbalance dictates every morning. the day is no more than an effort to tie the two back together. between the commute and conversation through screens and vibration I read the blueprints, left no choice but to surrender to the recipe of pleasantries and movement.

in bed on the pillow my dreams spend the effort on painting days I'll never see. some I'd love to spend with you. without fail the effort counts for nought; waking to the same frame of limbs and absent thoughts that doesn't move or want to. I sigh into tomorrow and the headlines only write themselves more dire. dreaming less of the apocalypse in light of just how fast we're caving in.

a hemisphere of suits gasp as the curtain falls for the plan they've known since the beginning. Gaza will be fully occupied. watch the men play dumb and clamber into clusters to denounce the sudden transparency from the machine they built themselves. the people rally in the streets; I spend my time on something else.

we're in an ice age. I keep thinking about the fact I stole from a friend. we are in an ice age, and mean something less than nothing to the rock we live on. our silly little project will pass millions of years before the sun decides to die. a thorn in my thoughts between tasks and expectations. I drift and try to picture what the place will look like when we're gone. how long will trains keep running? is life below enough to puncture through the asphalt, all the pavement? what happens to the things we built? what of everything that mattered? will the Louvre outlive the supermarket? nowhere to take questions but the fridge. I leave them with the monster. he's eager for new friends and always waits for more to come.

crawl back into the shell intact and only wake to leave again. let's talk more about our feelings. I'll listen like it matters like the graveyards on my phone.

maybe you visit when I'm asked about what happened or maybe I just miss you

you visited me again last night. it's nice to spend time, though I wish you'd give me warning. we were hiding from the group of whoever we were with in the corridor. never somewhere still - you always catch me in the liminal. but you wanted me like we had wanted each other on the way home at the start. we swayed into a slow dance and you kissed me. it felt like the first time, as though this was always where we were going, as though you always knew. and we are home for each other for a moment. you hold on as though I'm something you can't lose. all I need is to be held until we hear them crash the bus.

space for more

taking life too seriously. every day ticks on and moves into the next like clockwork. no roses around to stop and smell. I watch the man laugh at his journal on the tram. scribbles pouring over lines: handwriting or hieroglyphs? the key to joy is left behind in someone else’s language.

I hug my brother through his jacket and loathe every day that comes between us. we learn lines for different people and try our best to make more time. he sends me what he writes from dreams he doesn’t want. I would live through his eyes if I could. if only we were closer.

I read from a real book for the first time in weeks. power and human sacrifice for the sake of the stock market. you can watch it play out on my phone. new footage from the planes passing over the mess we’ve made: dystopic destruction we’ve bought with our silence and streaming subscriptions. what’s next for the humans? what more can we take? will we see the end of days or will the times move on without us? the weather woman says we’re in an ice age. humanity stays for a blip; still billions of years for the sun. a world without taxes and worship. we’ll leave so much space for more.

odds and even dreams

we've seen this film before and stay to watch the search continue. you keep your eyes wide open in the face of odds and even dreams that scare you back to bed. do you write about them too?

poetry is at our feet. paths are always more than asphalt and the leaves wept from the wind. poetry is on the screen; behind layers of paint on the walls of some other building somewhere else. the right words are always there in hiding, waiting patient for your voice. tell me when you find them (if you want).

paint the wall

sunday. for my first twenty years I spent every seventh morning praying with my parents at an altar. we'd sing songs and hold hands, making silent apologies to a judge we couldn't see. mum would give me coins to light candles for the people we worried about most. I'd list my wishes and send them wrapped in thanks and pleas for forgiveness to the clouds. since leaving home my days look different, and every seventh morning is a little much. though I still slide into the shroud of nighttime prayers, I can't quite shake the guilt for leaving empty pews and expectation on the phone. the house of prayer watches over tram tracks: I disappoint and race to someplace else to spend my time.

my costar makes me laugh without opening her mouth. she asks me what I think about the dying marriage between the characters we're creating. I think he wants her back. we both agree he's far too proud to apologise or ask. she's better off without him, though she might miss what they thought it was. you can paint the wall white again and again: it won't change what's underneath.

a holocaust continues. some hundred thousand say enough and cross the bridge through a city I gave up on. will this change what happens next? feeling far from where I am and want to be. I fix the chain back on my bike and wipe the grease onto a tree. 

I wear my gloves to school

passing a rally on the tram between battles and a book I won't finish: kaffirs with pots and pans scream for justice by the library. I hadn't known I'd missed it til the chants came through the windows. all too late and tied to discount dinner plans. with a schedule of new places to be I'll be missing almost every chance to join the demonstrations. no choice but to do my best on my own and watch the bombs drop on my phone.

I breathe clouds into new neighbourhoods. ride my bike down tram lines, sing for passing cars. reading street signs for directions to something more than just the places I can be. I chew on stories sold by billboards by the path. the incinerator gallery hosts a playground project for kids on the way to the park. metaphors and nothing more than names this far from all the blood.

we fill the abandoned room with pillows and potential. the mystic says it means something, a strange time in her life, etc. the cat yawns and pouts for quiet. just happy to have somewhere else to sleep.

nights are cold without you or the cat; hands and lips can only do so much in dreams. we miss the bus and hide in the bathroom. you wear my clothes and they fit much better round your limbs. your laugh is poison to tomorrow in your absence. mornings are ice and I wear my gloves to school. have you swam since Tallow Beach?

children feeding ducks

stumbling through questions beyond the phone. I keep seeing you in my dreams. you were visiting my island home, another adventure we had contoured for the future. we drift in a raft on the river, pass the children feeding ducks. a little like us; blissful and oblivious to the consequences of what we do and all the time we spend. you get a haircut and enjoy me when you want to. I can't tell if it's a disguise or more calculated; a spark to resuscitate the validation of half-buried infatuations. they never lie for long. I'd let them fly to you if only I knew.

but you escape around the corner in the afternoon sun. the river drains into dusk and you're gone. some new reason for distance and time. I swear at my uncle over dinner and upset the virgin Mary hanging in the hall. my parents are speechless and I too can't find the words to fit the shapes you've taken from the sense I need to make. the clouds aren't any clearer when I wake.

non-lethal

before common error: drifting like a storm past windows over tramlines. hunters and collectors drawing tears down the parade. familiar bells ring to stop with a friend on the way to school. eyes dry in a moment. I leave the song unfinished on the road.

eyes hang lower than the bar we dig the grave for. I remember when sleep was enough. seven of clubs at house of cards: regular and large with just as much inside. the screen is hostile to the lids that want to close. too much chatter in the basement, too cold sitting in the shade. we look out over the green for something else to laugh at. eyes shut city limits. playing mum for someone else's colonoscopy. I keep the car keys in the bag with empty books.

my phone tells me what to do. take my meds, 'grow and flow'. I brush my teeth to sleep and greet another day of genocide. at least the arms we use to kill are non-lethal in nature.

neglected prayers

the writing on the facade tells me to go home and sit by the fire. I ride as fast as wheels will spin along to sirens or saints, passing pyramids and haunted homes I might have seen in movies. bricks and future funeral pyres I'll only know in passing. signs to places I will never go.

in my room the bed is how I left it and the washing hasn't dried. neglected prayers decorate the walls I can't quite cover. she scratches at the window and cries until the rain comes back again.

the cat will keep me warm

forgetting the time that was with wishful thinking that you might see a little more than through the glass to what you wanted. what did you tell your mother on the phone? remind myself to remember what matters and the rivers of blood spilt into forever by our taxes and silence. we play ignorant and draw each other blind on the train. I keep both pictures in the book. you already have one on the wall.

on the last page you insist on walking me to the bus, as though there's more to say or do. we stand where we first said goodbye and thank each other for spending time. you say something about de ja vu. there's also something different in your eyes, just for a moment. I can't read what it means and it's well and truly time to go. rays through fingerprints on lens? just a smudge or a passing thought to never see the light of words.

my brother wraps his head round new chemicals. we talk when we can and wish we could more. off the tram I lie in bed and fall into my phone. play house and watch a holocaust with cashews in my mouth. the kids are getting thinner. I spy the flames and feel the cold of a new home. maybe the cat will keep me warm tonight.

at this height

a dream in someone else's bed: escape the sweat of summer sun into a house I used to pay for. red brick walls and barred front windows in the shade of a chapel I've never prayed in. I'm running down the hall and losing rays of rest and relaxation to errands from a list that never ends. too much forever. a thousand failed attempts to clear the fridge into the bar across the road. I forget my clothes every time and return to a home swarming with masks of people I have loved. once familiar ghosts want to pitch a tent in the hanging gardens. others dance through the kitchen and our bedrooms with each other and children I have been. I see myself at different ages: confused, in search of flowers and new friends from the crowd of people I haven't yet loved or lost. flies on the wall for a moment of a life of time to come. the kitchen writhes in nighttime colours and the wine flows from the sink. well and truly past my bedtime. I can't reach my phone or the news from the bench at this height. we dance to laundry vibrations loud enough to shake the night.

like kids

they kill another thousand with the stuff from America. I sleep and dance into your orbit blind, back to chase a dream I'll never reach. arms around waists like a few times before. you laugh at all my baggage and let me wear your jacket. someone smiles at our packs in the city, insisting it's the best way to travel. wait with the black dog at the pier for the boat to take us someplace further from the city and our phones. when it comes we sit on the roof and choose future homes from our view of distant lands - forgotten village of sleepy dwellings without roads or cars. lost dog escorted back to her father by a neighbour.

we sing and twirl round questions in the sun like kids. sandcastles and confusions by the fire. you cook and I clean and we think of ourselves through days without signal or rosaries. we look out to the lights across the bay and maybe we could make a life inside the hologram. ice cream clouds and at least nine types of birds. sharing gentle light to at night for different books (same author). we don't really enjoy what we're reading but neither party surrenders. I forget to check the news or pray for change.

my portrait still hangs beside the office insect pleading you remember what you want. I wonder why my mark remains - if only the heart would open just as easy as your diary. I fix my hair in your mirror and you walk me to the bus. you’re looking out the window at tomorrow and the clouds. I call my brother on the way to somewhere that makes more sense. we sigh alone together, holding onto the leaf. forget the line of beauty and reach for nothing in particular. accidental theft of kitchen tools. take a shuttle to the cinema to watch the end of days with zombies. 

seek out something new to worship on the scenic route to hell. pray for perfect from the mirror, watch another hundred starve to death. the man on the bridge stands silent by the students with his sign: ‘christ will return’. the kids sing nursery rhymes at the departure gate. I watch the heavens roll the day to dusk over the tarmac. lights dim and babies scream into tomorrow. breathing fine at thirty thousand feet from home and truth and consequence. maybe it’s time to wake up.

not affected (Tallow Beach for two)

in your light

I can squeeze myself into any shape to only disappoint

as I am

not affected, etc., unless I hope

too close to the sun

or dumb enough to dream words

more than what they mean

on a dying star

of burning kids and Babels

the boy from the corner split open for you

around and around

bottomless combat in the sand

abandoned driftwood home

the stars, or what we didn't drink

(Tallow Beach for two)

we don't touch each other anymore

and subscribe to rules you've written

I light the fire with your matches and watch you dance like it makes sense

forget about the headlines

where we started, how it felt

polarise the night:

sing my favourite songs

and tell me everything you want about the boys I couldn't be

cast me hopeless on the edge

play friends

and take my picture

til we're waiting where we were

and it's time for me to leave.

close to the edge

sitting still on the cusp of potential. distracted from the screen: restless and unfocused. pixelated thoughts and familiar brushes of a feeling I once knew well. a current pierced through daydreams down my spine.

the lack of answers only invites further dreaming. I glide through pools of what could be and offer sleep as sacrifice to the wonders of perhaps. no eye hangs too heavy for the cloud of curiosity. you spin a score for my ears just in time for flying. I count the songs I showed you sewn within.

to kick the cage

I watch the new world order bursting open on my phone. the fat pig wants more and the little ones are still too fat and pathetic to even think of trying to kick the cage open. the mud reeks of death and I am covered to my neck, iced thick enough to confuse my own hands for hooves. we squeal and snort for something more than water from the fountain. they play silly movies on the ceiling to send us to sleep. the slaughterhouse speakers rattle with the laugh track and we forget about the other sounds outside. screeching of late night trams on the breaks or the scream of every child that should have lived to see tomorrow. we’ve heard it all before and only ever wake to more. armageddon in the name of progress.

I read the signs in the city for answers. flashing green man and ‘do not spit’ on the wall of the tunnel passing under the station. I ask the heart what it wants and play with hope. from the pillow I can watch the currents gushing over state lines into limbo. maybe they know where they’re going. maybe I should know a little more.

ants and sugar

white walls welcome me to sleep in a room I'm yet to make my own. I dream of Gaza under the weight of someone's cat. the skies change in flashing greys, static between telegraph poles. soldiers run amok like ants over spilt sugar in the pantry. I watch them scramble to shoot children in the street, at school, what might once have been a playground. some dash to hide behind crumbling corners of wall as though the blood won't stain unless they're caught. when I catch them they protest, claiming accident or misfire, sulking off like school-kids in the naughty corner.

the kids hiding in the diner want to go out to pet echidnas in the carpark. their parents won't let them risk getting shot. they play chess in a burning shell of childhood as I've known it. I spy them through a frame without a window. the bombs raise hell somewhere else, reduced to little more than ambience to shake the pawns on the board. the kids don't flinch or look beyond the game.

chasing the soldiers I stir to realise they are children too. they fidget with buttons on their guns and uniforms, sing crude songs through streams of blood. I follow them in and out of the smoking remains of hospitals they've bombed, skipping and laughing, school kids through the mall. another ordinary day of play through the grave of human conscience. despite my disgust I can't tell if I'm against them. regardless I am safe at their side to witness the terror. their weapons never point my way.

like you

fulfil me with a kiss

or don’t

you could just use your words

like armour

or the tools they used to make the statues

before the bible didn’t matter

when people would pray

and dream

they knelt and wrote psalms

without checking their phones for something else

they made love in stone and paintings

angels sang

and everything was beautiful

like you

or the memory

of a feeling

lips or nose or fingertips

laughter

in the space before I wake

violent reign

of every night that should be mine

as though I could be what you want

in the dark

when you’re here but you’re not

and I reach

and you’re gone

but I still hear your voice

and you’re still on my phone. 

three aliens who brought their own lunch

we find people to be to pass the time. I wait for the tram and scroll through faces on my phone. every smile matters to someone. sometimes they show teeth. I think about the tracks in the asphalt and the fact that almost everyone I’ve ever met I’ll never see again. everything is memory until we can’t remember. 

the days are light until they’re not. I wear a shroud of guilt for nothing in particular. premeditated tax for fare evasion or knowing where the money goes. conjure trials and tribulations just to give the mirror edge. I pass the aliens in suits frozen on their way to work. between briefcases and boulders we’re never anywhere for long. stoney eyes see more than most. stoney mouths stay shut although their secrets could be answers to my prayers. I wonder if they’d share them if they could.

livestock

the rhythm stops for sliding doors. an army of God's children waits for arguments outside. banners with photos of lifeless pigs hanging from bars in the slaughterhouse. I feel for the vegans fighting for converts with such a noble cause. haven't they heard? change is a daydream - there's no stopping the machine. what hope is there for livestock while we kill our kids in thousands? I want to tell them to watch the news. the men in suits have sold our souls: we're all just hanging meat. I settle on a nod instead. a smile of recognition spins me back into the sales.

I cross the street to lose a sense of knowing who I am. in the fog I mean as much as gaps between the tiles that make the path.

in the shade of Vogue

a dream: I wake up on the island where he saw the end of days. they've made a luxury resort of the beach. money glitters between the tiles through every grain of sand. I watch the people squirm and dance about the remnants of a city we will never know, repurposed for our whims in excess: to drink and eat and look in the mirror. the young stay young forever, pose for photos from the cave. swing into the Mermaid Bar: you can drink your weight in Aperol where he spelt out the apocalypse. supermodels bask in the shade of Vogue outside. everything shines gold against the sun.

the hand of a child reaches through rubble, clawing at the sky for nothing. her blood stains the dusty stones under which she’s buried. I can’t tell if she’s alive and wonder if she'd want to be knowing this is how it goes. the people scramble like water to pull her out. walls and legs of chairs and more debris of former homes between the body and breathing til tomorrow. when they lift her from the dust her face is washed in blood and tears. a shell-shocked daughter in double denim. I close my phone and look away until I think of her again. motionless fingers reaching from the graveyard of our greed. a sight to cast in stone and haunt the new world of tomorrow. I wonder what she’d think about where all my money goes.

last night's cup of tea

the city passes through the window like a film. at the rally the writer sings a song about hiding from the bombs in her mother tongue. the melody is a knife to the heart, or a curse to haunt the streets of stolen land forever. she reads a passage translated from a play she's writing: ‘when the world burns we peel garlic and keep our souls fed’. no choice but to keep the rhythm through the nightmare. there are always empty plates to fill.

pedestrian lies on sidewalk at the feet of the preacher pleading the city to repent. he waves his hands and shouts something about salvation from our one true saviour. on his soapbox in his beard, animated fresco of a prophet from the bible. he holds the book to the sky with a judgement day warning. we pass with shopping bags and more important things to do. nobody stops walking. but the lady lies at his feet, closed eyes, open hands. maybe she believes.

the colours soften in my room. gentle beige and peace on mute. it's all quieter here. life happens outside; I return to fold and sleep. the silver swan watches over the bed I come to dream on, softer than the heating humming through the floorboards. I take a photo of the fly asleep in last night’s cup of tea. 

hell is here

a crow taunts the smaller birds from someone else's garden he laughs and I miss the comfort of the rain against the window. static I can live without but relish all the same. I turn to my screens and pour the hours into spirals leading back into myself.

some headlines claim that hell is here, some won't yet verify. yesterday they killed a hundred people. fifty were waiting for food. I hear it’s laced with poison now. the news is fixed; the audience depletes. we have emails to send, oxygen to carbonise. apathy is armour. my faith wilts like compassion. I follow doctor’s orders, dig for something else to hate. a monster in the mirror and the patterns that we share. no pleas through the ceiling change a single cell. at the edge of the bed I’m the same as my shadow: protected by my self obsession from the nightmare on my phone.

I vacate the spreadsheet to livestream a funeral. I learn about a life spent before I knew him old. he studied latin and recited Virgil as a child. collected wines and friends from all over. whilst enduring treatment he became a student of his own illness, researching the cancer that was bringing his breath to an end. his daughter-in-law reads for her mother, something about love and consistency. I spy the back of her head looking up between the lectern and the coffin. the words matter because they are hers and I want to hug her but I can't. I choose a shirt and close the lid. places to be and hours to upset.

in the kitchen someone makes a smoothie. the blender wails just loud enough to keep me safe from thinking.

adults in the igloo

lost in self obsession on the tram leave bed and go to market just for somewhere else to be

they make sculptures out of ice

and take cash or card they’re selling dog toys and old postcards from dead places candles and art made by computers you can buy on shirts or mugs there's a lady waving flames like ribbons from her knuckles passing smells of foods I used to love in a scarf somebody made me that I’ve never worn offstage join the queue for something warm a prop to hold or make me drowsy a ticket to permission for eavesdroping on the tourists or dj duk duk’s silent disco under fairy lights like Christmas with the couples and the wine I dip my tongue in by another tarot reader

and watch the adults in the igloo

dance and buy the imitation of some kitsch game we’re all outgrowing on the uphill hike to hell I drift within the stream make myself invisible in my scarf on my phone behind cinnamon and steam ears open for nothing at all the silver angel sways on stilts I stop and watch her pose for children’s photos while the sirens sing in spanish drawing cameras from the bar casting curses on the city I should know a little better spinning on my heels

I track the way home on my phone

modern leper of the year 

playing hide and seek alone. 

cutting clouds open

the cat jumps onto the bed as I’m taking off the sheets. he stomps into the duvet and curls up into his spiral. it’s the first I’ve seen him in my room since my arrival weeks ago. I scratch under his neck and he kisses my thumb. the sudden affection fools no one. he gets sulky when any of us leave, as though a packed suitcase threatens his reign of the house, or the doting of four others isn’t enough love to lap. I run my bedsheets through the wash with clothes I can leave at home, the right armour already bound tight by a zip. the prince stays put on the bare blankets until he wakes and wants to eat.

at the departure gate I wait between strangers and flights to and from the city I used to call home. uniforms rush in and out of doors I’ll never walk through. they call out unfamiliar names to board and I laugh at the idea of sneaking through onto the plane in their place. there’s a foreign mischief pulsing down into my fingers. I couldn’t tell you where it comes from, but tonight is a little different. I don’t dread the return as I would have had I left on time.

in seat 16c I rub my eyes and think about you. ready to make another mess without a single word. watch the lights dim and remember what you are. does any of it really matter? cutting clouds open in the dark at however many thousand feet. we’re in between at any height. I let the siren sing because she knows more (when I don’t). Virgin has teeth. eyes closed and it’s raining inside. the lady with the trolley gives me orange juice for free. 

who's afraid of primordial soup?

I cut myself shaving by mistake in the shower. diluted blood paints the water running down the plughole; weak reds that could be pinks. this used to happen every morning between the scales and brushing teeth. cuts assume familiar spots under the chin along my jaw. water stings the openings, passing down my neck into the sink. I dab them softly with a towel until they're less inclined to bleed and looking more like freckles. smile with teeth and count the red marks in the mirror. I think about the burning kids and want to smash the glass. curse myself for caring enough to even bother shaving. people only notice if they really want to see you.

blood dries on the towel and runs through pipes into the sea. everything returns: laughing and bleeding into the same queue for the flames. only ever somewhere between clay and the ashes. what are we still waiting for?

Goliath etc.

at the window waiting for the cat to come inside. I spy him by the driveway; frozen and staring at the convict-chipped stones of the garden wall. I wonder what he's thinking, if he ever thinks at all. there's a sadness to his stillness by the flowers and the bees. a sombre statue til the front door opens. bells and leaps up steps into the warmth. a silver dish of breakfast waiting on the kitchen floor.

the fruit bowl overflows. we think of making lemonade instead of progress. surrender what we shouldn't with excuses from the news. there are glimpses of clear between clouds. birds chirping through chatter and Uma Thurman's daughter. we talk about our therapists and compare back catalogues of dreams. sun reaches through gaps between branches to light your eyes. your laugh feels like a hug. maybe we’re learning each other again. half asleep on the precipice of peace before tomorrow's hammer.

I scrunch the paper for a fire and prolong finding my new home. we’re running out of matches. mum talks about the man of the shroud; carbon scans and photos on her phone. I think about Goliath and where we'd be if he had won. the actors on the TV cry through stories I won't follow. 'you really might want to think before you speak.' I fold my brother's laundry and keep hiding from my own.

paper pedestal

I imbue too much importance to the thoughts in spite of what I see and know about the world. fragile as forever, years of anger cast into a matchstick frame. the limb man stands to make the shadow of a statue he admires. we balance on a pedestal of headlines folded footsteps from the fire. carbon crackles into clouds. I listen to the psalms I wait too long for. sync my pulse up to the rhythm and shower in their anguish and confessions. all the while we ghost the mirror and read the numbers on the floor.

on the floor to make new shapes. I fold myself closed and open again; down on my back in obsessive compulsions, resculpting the flesh for a god I could never please. the ache wells, a familiar grip around my belly, scrunching smaller into a fist. caught between the unnamable; never being enough and a perennial unwillingness to relinquish the shred of potential I saw in a dream. I venerate the vision hanging on the walls of my sockets like a crucifix. repeat the rituals with toothpaste in my spit. 

Virgin in the sunroom

I cut the orange open: it bleeds a different colour though it all still tastes the same

six years of taking pills to fix my chemical imbalance

at best we water down the curse, dress the parasite in silks and sunny colours

when did I last fly a kite?

I want to be held

conceal my limbs in armour

or someone like you

I want to be well

to not need to make myself so small

or livestream holocausts to feel my pulse

I want a different body

from the boy movie or magazine

to be met at a different time in my life

saint Sebastian or someone on the sidewalk

we wrap our scars in bandages and each other’s arms

and talk about anything but tomorrow

I want to breathe alone

and live beyond my phone

when the nightmare ends

to start again

a new world order

with kids at school and not on fire

their paintings cover mirrors

less bombs and more thinking of you in the confectionary aisle

I want too much

and still pray for more

half asleep and knowing just how little I know

I want to play Virgin in the sunroom tonight.