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.