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?