watching theatre in a foreign language

my brother treads the streets of old America. he is breathing air none of us have ever known, writing me from eleven thousand feet above the sea. this is the first time he's been alone in months. he says he's feeling strange. loneliness has been patient and I think they're shy to reunite. it's been a while.

we miss each other more when we're apart. to miss each other is a gift. I ask for his thoughts, receiving love and photos from his window in the clouds. he watches theatre in a foreign language. he had no idea what any of the players said or what the action meant. we both think it's kind of wonderful. anything can be absurd to ears that cannot understand. 

before we take away the poison

we talk about coping. there is no cure and so we're left to choose to live. the doctor asks me to consider what I do to try to keep control of myself and every day that beckons I voyage further. I think about the tools I use to manage, the tools that often have sharp edges. how much of this makes sense in words beyond the realms of my cerebrum?

we write the words together: exercise has been a form of self medication. this has been the case for over half a lifetime. I still indulge and this makes sense. even in illusion control can keep me warm. in the long term this needs changing but with grace and calculation. before we take away the poison we should find out why it was needed in the first place.

‘one way to avoid emotions we can’t deal with is to make our body lack the energy to hold them’. I think about the proverb from the pixels on my window. is physical exhaustion a plea from the subconscious for protection from the self? was the exercise for exorcising anger from my bones, releasing out into the wind from which it came? this is more than just a habit. this is how I build my armour. wringing anger / growing / needing more with every push. and the snake sinks her teeth into her tail. her scales are greedy and she knows no moderation.

in the commons

there are things we share

often without choosing

common currents in our coding on the runway straight to hell

being as we are

unconsenting shards of stars compounded into breath and taxes

we wake into the day at someone else’s whim

in the light

in the morning

we are screaming for the cradle

of the matrix

for our mother

weeping for a shell

the dark and quiet of the being before breathing

but there are archangels and fates

to pacify

to cut the cord

measuring the thread

they sew our costumes in the patterns and the colours we will want

as our screams are tamed with sense

to ask for milk

to say hello 

we learn to move

rolling like the trolleys over asphalt to the shops

we learn to listen

to the radio and wisdom

taller people tell us all the things we need to know

what is wrong and what is less

news and stories

which ones matter

what we think

they talk about the day

and all the ways it can be spent

and so we work

and so we pray

all the king’s horses and men

to be a little older

to grow up into someone

before too long we find our reasons

strong enough to dull our demons

making use of precious hours dancing for some other powers

milking purpose from a treadmill

as we learn to love the boulder we can only move so far

stop to eat and shit and listen to the people on the screen

between static and our dreams

watching doomsday from the sofa

or the spring/summer collection

sirens singing us to sleep

because the day is long

and needs our energy to run

I dream of sardines in a box

trapped like heroes in a trick that didn’t work

screaming silently to gods that never cared

the joke was on us

I dream of eyes I never kissed

and an angel on the subway goes to work and takes the stairs 

when I wake I greet the ceiling of a day I never chose

I brush my teeth and wash my face and spit my dreams into the sink

find the path back to my boulder

like a goldfish in the mirror

silent

smiling without thinking

and tomorrow and tomorrow

with the clouds

and breath and taxes

on and on

until the sun decides to set

and the day begins to end

and the fates sharpen their scissors

and it’s time to scream again.

waiting for brambletyne

before I wake we're hiding from the rain under an awning on the doorstep of a hotel. we came here to listen to an author once. your dad is with us incognito (without his guitar) and I can't tell if we're kids again but we're waiting for a poetry reading from our favourite of his bandmates. Murray Street runs a river against traffic shooting for the green light out of town. across the road your brother emerges from the arch of the cathedral by the financial planners. he waves and manages to reach us dry.

the sky cries louder. your father yawns and leaves to take a smoke. in his absence your brother bets you can't beat him down to Collins and back. I hold your coat and watch you run into the rain. he's bigger and faster and I want you to win.

in the Arizona desert

the artist talks about exit culture. this idea is new to me. already confused by his sculptures I open my ears a little wider. he paints a picture of communities emerging across the globe committing to another way of doing things / rejecting death and taxes / our Western capitalist / consumer-minded existence. there are people cultivating new shapes and shades of civilisation under stones and glass domes in the desert. new states forging different futures. some grow rainforests and harvest their own goods. others are not yet manifest, existing in theory and chat rooms filled with strangers willed to feel like-minded in resentment for a world they can't escape.

prompted by the curator, the artist talks about the tasks facing those that choose to leave and build a new world out of nothing. though he indulges in the optimism and excitement of the worlds he traces (all fixed on improving current ways of being), he refrains from painting newness any which colour or way. I sense his doubt in the words he bites on his tongue. how can anybody guarantee that an attempt to improve won't echo the mistakes they wish to run from? can anything new be anything more than a frankensteined shard of the past?

after the talk before looking at his work again I ask what led him to think about the exit. he tells me he visited some of the new worlds himself. we look at photos on his phone of vast abandoned boulevards. rows of roads curated with hedges and sculptures. grey walls glistening with patterns and stories like some dystopic vision / Cold War Sistine Chapel. there is a glass pyramid cradling an aquarium in the Arizona desert. he tells me I should visit. they love to show the old world what they're building.

his paintings trace passing light like sunset through kaleidoscopic frames abstracting into nonsense. strange shapes, colours soft and layered in oil. stained-glass glimpses of a church for some future religion. hidden electronics spin lazer cut gingham shapes in plastic lifetime tables. I watch them moving through holes framed through plastic painter's palettes.

our odyssey

our odyssey is void

or time between one dream and the next

our odyssey is playing out in every scream and breath

your odyssey is mythical

my odyssey's the same

getting lost inside the supermarket

forgetting why I came.

some dreams disappear

some nights are for sleep. some nights are for dreaming. some dreams disappear though some are worth keeping. in the morning we ask and tell each other all about the ones we want to and remember. you tell yours with excitement and precision, like adventures from a children's book of cautionary tales. I tell mine vague like clouds, only able to recall the general shapes and movements as they pass into the morning.

without you I dream of plagues and monsters I can only run so far from. the nightmares scare me back to limbo in the darkness between bedtime and another dawn. I reach for former friends and family through endless airport terminals and cyclones. running from a madman that can only be my future I lose all sense to Christmas on the beach. the songs sound alien and I want to go home.

on my phone you ask how I slept. without wanting to worry I tell you I woke a few times from nightmares. you say that's very troubling but dreams aren't real (although we are). I pinch myself and know you're wrong. if only you could see this something / your spell through my eyes.

one is bigger than the other

and I don't recognise the part of me that you draw out without trying. though this body is his puppet he moves and sounds in different ways, lacking reason and patience with an ear only for you. you don't seem to mind the company. you dance with him so well.

I wish I had the words for all the worlds I want to give you. exposed by lack of language I am shaking, unprotected from the elements and feeling. being where we are is all it takes to spit me deeper into danger. through the eye of your storm I sink into the sea orbiting the pupils staring back. in the well I breathe some secret sort of spell I tell myself I shouldn't see or think about: some remnant of the stars from which you came before the clay and taxes. I tell you I don't understand your eyes. you tell me one is bigger than the other.

dolphins in the fountain

in my room you want to explore the pictures on my walls. I start to notice more and fall a little further. when we open ourselves to each other / where we are the moment feels like home. in the feeling I start to melt again under your orchestra and we are all that matters for a moment. when I open my eyes I fall into yours without a say in the matter, pulled into a dream by the ankles. we move like sound. we sound like finding dolphins in the fountain.

in the back seat I watch the lights of traffic pass over your face. the night casts you holy in new colours like a moving painting. I can't wait to learn you better.

the ceiling starts to rain

somewhere between tomorrow and my vat of swimming memories I find myself under stage lights for the finale of a musical or opera. though I seem to know my cues and movements I don't remember how it's going to end. the whole ensemble dons long robes flowing heavy with the movement of our limbs. they cover almost every inch of skin below the neck. a dramatic score rumbles from the pit to conjure spirits or the fall of man; a friend nudges me to move upstage to catch my stone. with the looming brass crescendo the ceiling starts to rain rocks: pebbles precede bigger bricks of granite threatening much worse than scratches or bruises on unexpectant eyes. my rock is heavy and nearly sinks me with my knuckles to the floor.

an invisible audience spectates. I hear their gasps in shock as we the players struggle with our falling sky. some of us miss our moment and cannot find our marks. I watch bigger stones and boulders land on heads and shoulders. a chorus of chanting gives way to screams clawing to release the sudden pain of injury and anger. the rocks keep falling. the players start to join them stagnant on the stage and I lose my war against the urge to fly out into the dark. leaping offstage I run through the audience, none of whom can look away from such captivating theatre. the foyer folds into a similarly neon-lit supermarket I don't know but crave escape from into the night. once familiar discopop grates through overhead speakers against my ears to the stomp and howl of some other monster in the labyrinth that cannot help but take my money.

when I escape the minotaur the night is cold and I need to find my way home. passing by the creek instead of bed I wind up looking for a fish. between what I want and what I need I find an ingénue from home knelt at the foot of the stream. her once blonde hair died a dark dirt brown splays a pool around her figure as she talks to the river. I sense there's magic in her gaze and rush away to not be cursed. on the way I hear the water dancing softly to her spells. I wake before I find you.

fish boy

there is something in your eyes

I didn't see until I did

if words would work I'd find the one that this belongs to

though they don't and so I won't

and I am captive to this something

in the waters of the irides

aquamarine

or some other kind of blue

cursed to change a little with the light

the dark

and sensations of your skin (on mine)

fingertips and open lips

your laugh

and other sounds that seas would part for

there is something in your eyes

I think you see it too

if words would work would we will them to our waters?

cast a net into the sea?

are words worth wasting precious time spared for this something and your arms?

I breathe the air between us

you hold my face as though it matters

let me melt into my cotton

rise and fall and melt the same

and I don't know where you came from

but I think I like this fish.

 

to lose my ears

sneaking through forbidden archives in blue light on the plane. I read the texts / our words we trusted time to take. there are curses conjured by the shapes of your name alone. feelings still stir from even the briefest exposure to your pixels. it's a silly kind of poison. your shadow is only ever fingerprints away.

the child in the seat behind me cries on our descent through the clouds. his mother tries to keep him quiet. I hear myself and remember how it felt to lose my ears.

shapes and sounds we teach our children

and I can let the days run over me like water. without stopping to catch a moment / tie it to a page with ink the current is quite capable of taking everything that matters. my pen and paper are my only defenses in the face of forgetting and being forgotten by the spaces between being and not. but sometimes I am too tired. and sometimes the words don't come, or what is / has been remains beyond definition / the scope of any shape or symbol drawn from our lexicon.

words are strings of symbols. we spit them into air and ears and paper in pleas to make sense of a moment / feeling / ourselves. we try to agree about what they mean. but even when they work they are rarely enough. they only matter when we want them to. words are shapes and sounds we teach our children.  feelings are evasive as the clouds. cameras and pens are fickle tools. our minds aren't any better. 

laughter and spit

if I open my eyes to see through the mirror

there are beautiful things in beautiful rooms

when I open my hands to the sky or tomorrow

there is light and dark

dreams open with doors and laughter and spit

then I open my mouth

to taste something new

and remember these songs were never about you

(dream, be, dream again).

floating in the dark

floating on the water off the island in the dark. looking up into the glitter of stars between the gentle leak of city lights I remember I am small and momentary as the ripples passing from my feet and fingers and the algae I can't see. the water is warm and laps over my ears. I look into the night as best I can without my glasses. each dying sun blurs between the mist of artificial counterparts and eyes that fail me in the dark.

I float alone on the mass of movement connecting me to every person on this and every other island on or under water. held between the ocean and another passing night I forget where I am. for a moment I relish my momentary breath of fidelity with our primordial mess. asteroids and waiting rooms and jellyfish and you; new facts and faces every day. how wonderful it is to leave the shore.

too many mirrors

at the bar there are too many mirrors downstairs. every wall is covered in reflection. every shard is dressed in pretty frames that should be housing paintings. the masses stop in passing between bathrooms and another drink as our backstage becomes the epicentre of shared vanities / our apathy / performance. even at our best we can't compare to masterpiece or dream. even at our best can we ever look good enough?

nothing = everything

baby blue and mustard clouds pass under letters stencilled blood red coal and poison green:
nothing
is
real
so
nothing
is
wrong (acrylic on canvas on doorstep of op shop). this truth could be yours for no more than five dollars. I take a photo for later / to remember a glass half full.

of course to flip the coin we find another side. everything is real so everything is wrong. a little like the last line of the chorus from the song. would you live in a hologram with me?

Isaiah and Tom talk about dreams

once I woke up thinking 'I wonder how AI and AI slop has influenced dreams'
yeah
anyway
wait because your dream felt like that?
it felt like kind of AI yeah I don’t know
did the monster look AI?
I mean hard to tell cause it was dark and the monster was like half the time a wolf and occasionally it was a man then it was like a big ant thing
a big ant?
weird
I’ve had that before in dreams
a big ant?
being chased by a big ant
yeah it wasn’t fun
it sucks
did you find the treasure?
no
did you forget about the treasure?
yeah

the ones you wore when we were

the rooftop is open to the moon. radiators hang like palm trees over every other table so we sit outside in the shadow of the skyline. the few buildings tall enough to scrape the sky look silly amidst more modest friends. from this distance it's hard to tell which ones are used for what. but it doesn't really matter. what really can from such a distance?

across the table a stranger twirls his hair like I would as a child. sangria and ambiguity for two. he talks about returning from another world to feel alien in his own home. I try to understand and think I can a little, thinking of chapters closed in transit between one life and another. we laugh about the city and being the way we are / timid / proud / precious in the face of our decay. he seems nice enough and we seem to enjoy our time under the radiators. but he has your nose and hair and his glasses look too much like the ones you wore when we were for a moment. if I look too close his eyes might also belong to you. he wants to find something to eat. I want to hear you say my name again.

after dinner we decide to surrender to the cold. I leave him waiting for the tram. do you remember how it felt to lose and win each other back between our planes and trains? you kissed me at the station for both of our goodbyes. I ride down streets you'll never see and wonder when you last thought of me.

sushi and seagulls

world war three is seagulls shrieking / tearing sushi airborne through the lunch crowds in fed square. 'some animals are much more palatable than others'. cats or dogs or condensation? we come for one reason and stay for another. I laugh a little much until I leave forgetting why. you linger like a curse on every other second question.

Helicon's lament

and I could not give you the moon

though I see her every night

looking back at me through glass

crying stars into the dark

if words would work I’d ask her why

but words mean less to giants

I wonder what she thinks

looking down on us to death

condemned to witness every fault and flame

silent and lonely

undersung after the sun

almost beyond utility

a truth-knowing god without hands

left to spectate our decline into the clay from which we came

a little closer every day

a matter of patience

she waits with little else to do

sick of pulling tides and glowing

watch us dance

watch us spinning out of reason

through the veils of vice and virtue

making tombs of our tomorrows

at night

judgement day on the horizon

she would laugh if she could

if the moon had a mouth.

death with flowers

death walks beside a girl with flowers. the petals fall for no one in particular. but you’re still here. how did you become my burning hill? I swear the last one never died. the coals still glow sometimes.

some other kind of prison

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

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

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

to Eden

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

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

civic people

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

ocean of dreams

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

my inner feral

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

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

elektra

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

you count the floors we climb past ghosts and strangers

I count the sleeps before you go

people pose in shades by headless angels

partners take their portraits

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

I list the things that make the chamber

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

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

penguins and robots

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

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

just another corner

we walk around the corner where something happened once. only we remember what and why it matters. I remind myself that every corner matters to someone, that this is just another corner to anyone else. it's a funny thought passing over the spot we stopped and started tying knots into each other. I passed you and turned back three times before coming back. you waited where you were with the flashing green man. we pass him now a little less clear / free / impish than before, however many months since falling into orbit, dragging heads and hearts of however much uncertainty of what it means and why.

I think about the corner being just another corner. before something happened I'd cross that pavement every day without a thought. how many Babels did I pass today? how much can truly matter without being there to care?

how I'd like to know the end

I want to kiss you as we watch the world disintegrate through someone’s big glass window

with a view of the city

we can see the flames and mushroom clouds

and listen to the sirens

as you hold me in the last light

your fingers in my hair like flowers

your scent and my lips in the curve of your neck

we sing and we sway to the thunder of hooves

the sky as it falls

and the beast at the door

when not a boulder remains

in the moment we choose to be as we are without question or doubt

the heavens descend

and there’s no better way

to waste precious breath

to greet judgement day.

steer or stop

in my dream I'm riding a bike without handlebars or any way to steer or stop. rolling down the hill the only thing to do is sit and pedal. I speed through once familiar streets washing over me like water. the sky is blue if not for translucent clouds on the horizon. my natural conclusion races to meet me. wind on my face through my ears drawing tears to icicles. hurtling towards my final boulder I think of you and laugh.

we sing to each other

and we sing to each other. our songs write a testament: a subtle score, fleeting and secret and sacred only for a moment / to us. an amalgamation of misremembered tunes from childhoods never shared apart. together weaving something palpable from and into songs that seem to say what we should and won't.

we sing in the car / as we walk / drift with trolleys down the aisle for fresh and processed produce. we sing by the kitchen sink / across the table / through the walls to one another. we sing in secret / each other's ears / arms / on the floor by the fire in the dark.

each night is a song / has a pulse we share and keep until we can't. you're as constant as you like. I'm there whenever you want. how many more songs can we write this way? friendship can only be so much.

dead end

another winter night in red: the masses colonise the city / split the bones of a former department store for fun. mum used to buy her cotton here. you lose your scarf on the floor at the rave, where once they cut our curtains. lights and smoke and music to forget to. caring less every breath I’m still wearing your shirt. a dead end is a vision of the only way we’ll ever go. we dance between strangers I’d like to get lost in. you pull me back closer. for what?

anthems for a sapphic friendship

fidelity

thinking about you

touching yourself

the louvre

everything is romantic

human being

dreams

summer in the city

current affairs

futile devices

fly to you

hard feelings / loveless

we'll never have sex

ever again

illicit affairs

Samson or Eugene or Alan

all too well

heart's a mess

a case of you

parachute

you're losing me

I know things now

I know the end

chewing cotton wool

safeandsound

galore

gods you make yourself

what makes this what it is? your words and the wants they claim do little to write away the way we are. and yet they try, lacking sense beyond the laws you draw from tablets scribed by gods you make yourself.

on paper you extinguish ambiguity with the candles. I resign to the bed you've made me. but I turn off the lights and you're there: warm and soft and reaching for me in the dark. in my arms you heat my blood like secrets or the songs we sing each other. ambiguity prevails. you hold me through my dreams. I melt into your compromise once more.

the fly in the wax

we clear the table in the dark, washing dishes and our hands of whatever games we've played / shreds of clarity we've forged from second guesses. candles are extinguished and the water runs to cover over everything. from the door I watch you hunch over your camera and the table. some kind of fly caught in the wax of a dying tea light. who could blame your pause to take a photo? we live for spectacle to keep us from the mirror / doubt / ourselves. but I think about the scene in the candle through your lens / the way we are.

I am the fly and you are the wax. you make of me a funeral pyre. I'm trapped and slowly burning at your whim. your flame is warm and beautiful.

like holy wine

on the back of a Kiefer postcard

of a painting you said you liked

I drew a map of home

Tasmania

with your face sketched on it twice

penning your name

thank you > sorry

as constant as whatever you like

my name

I hide it in the book you read all week

you’ll find it on the plane

we’re being grown up when it matters

saying goodbye in the rain.

our favourite toys

watching robots telling stories and their makers wash their hands. 'over the past year AI models have learnt to self regulate'. we don't know where we're heading but we probably can't keep up. convenience is dangerous and keeps us on the couch. the brain becomes redundant with the cuts in cost and layoffs. less spending and thinking. more hypnosis and dictation / bluelit oracles online.

what happens when we lose control of our favourite toys? 'ask the apes the risk of humans really taking off'. the tea leaves say extinction isn't off the cards. it hasn't ever been. the only question is which mess we've made will bring us to our knees.

in my dream I follow a friend downhill towards a playground. we are riding our bikes / laughing like kids with nowhere else to be. I want to dream like this forever. if I could wake without my phone...

looking for America

after church we walk down the rivulet. the platypus are hiding but there's at least a little wonder in knowing they're around. the mountain looms over everything in sight: monolithic and defiant to the elements of change. we follow the path through one of many valleys absorbed in our own significance and the current moment. I feel winter on my nose and think of the fire. 

sun fights through the clouds and trees. the leaves of one glow tall and golden against the mountain and the grey of rain to come. we talk about the fall of empire and how it's going to end. there's a good podcast I should listen to about tech giants / the spread of the digital plague / humanity and critical thought slipping down the drain. I think about my ignorance and this privilege to sit back and watch the it all burn. our ancestors went looking for America to forge a new world. they did so with poison, we reap what was sown. the masses choke and splutter. we keep scrolling while we can.

the theatre after death

in my dream dream I wake at 2 am to sterile sunshine streaming through lounge room window. a housemate lies horizontal on the couch a mask covers his eyes headphones in singing himself lullabies. the sky must have fallen whilst I slept. the world outside the house is silent like the theatre after death. not even the trams can be heard. am I the first to wake to see that night’s been stolen? I sit on my bed wondering what to do about the fall. without the stars without the dark how can I ever reach the moon? I think about the tides and hope they’re going to be okay.

the barking continues

a dog tied to the bus stop barks at passing traffic. we've nothing much in common but I think we both want answers. the current rushes on unbothered. I wish I could help. the barking continues.

deluge

the sky weeps rivers through the city. every road becomes a current spilling down each lane threatening to claim the floors of every store. we scatter like ants under colourful synthetic sheets, disorder at the whim of clouds. the rain does something to our systems: we all move faster a little more frantic any sense of direction lost to the elemental threat. as though we've never seen this. as though we don't know what to do when the sky starts to cry. strange to experience, funny to watch.

the masses lose their minds in water. the trams keep running. we see the rain so often in this city. watch us revert to animals even under umbrellas. maybe there's a reason. some kind of stunted survival instinct. we could be preconditioned to run from water when it comes. did the great flood really happen? did we ever change for good? or are our bodies all still waiting for the sky to swell and cleanse the earth? could we be beyond saving? I could never build an ark.

if you were a jellyfish

in another world we’re jellyfish and I see through your faces. you can see my vital organs and choose to run or drift with me a little longer (as you please). jellyfish are dangerous. they're nice to look at but couldn't make sense if they tried. maybe you’re a jellyfish. if you were I’d keep you an aquarium beside my pillow. if you were we wouldn't need to talk or touch. we'd listen to our music and confuse each other less. but your voice is worth the hazards and there's thrill in chasing answers. jellyfish don't write riddles. despite the clouds I like the way we sing and dance around each other. I'm glad you're not a jellyfish. if you were I'd miss your fingers and the way they feel in mine.

doomsday or the night before

craving chocolate leaving someone else's home I ride against the wind up High Street searching for an uncharted supermarket. the only one still open glows over a carpark all but barren if not for overturned shopping trolleys. I tie my bike to the metal frame in place to keep them all in order. inside aisles are a mess with aliens and tall storage cages stacked with boxes of goods for restocking. shelves overflow onto the glossy plastic tiles. too much to sell not enough space.

characters of all genres glide round each corner on their own time. some move mechanical like robots others as though it's their first day on earth as though they're learning how to human. the spectrum echoes the feeling of a hotel lobby or some other kind of waiting room. a woman with dark violet shades the size of saucers marches like a funeral celebrant past the eggs. old workers young workers all workers grumble as another tower of non-perishables tumbles to the floor. customers crack open bottles of water milk bright fluorescent fuel to guzzle on their cycle from one aisle to the next.

unsettled radio static dangles hints of 80s nostalgia inherited through film. 'if you're lost you can look and you will find me...' the scene feels a little like a fever dream or vision maybe doomsday or the night before. a young man in black watches over the self-checkouts like his kingdom or a vulture knowing something that we don't. I escape with my soy milk and breakfast, followed by the lady with the violet saucers.

my toothbrush and my phone

and this half life I'm too tired for

that I wake to watch and eat my way through

blue light and natural gas

one plague or another

taking what I can

and Frankensteining everything I see and hear and long for

gasping for more

exhaling to inhale again

another meal

another cloud

another boulder on the freeway

fingernails keep growing

in my dreams

in which each day feels as real as breath

that is to say

enough until the hypnic myoclonus (thank my phone for the expression)

and another Monday comes

one hand on my toothbrush the other on my phone

scrolling my dystopia to life

cleaning my teeth I'm never alone

scrolling for affection

through my morning twilight zone.

identikit

closing autumn round the circle with a candle. what are you taking and what are you leaving behind?

we watch a movie about a lady losing herself on holiday in Rome. she spirals through department stores and ancient forums searching for someone she's not yet met but claims she'll know when she sees them. every possible candidate disappoints, chasing her affection. all she wants is their will to see things to their natural conclusion. the whole charade is offbeat. often unwillingly comedic in delivery and tone. Andy Warhol swings in to confuse us a little more. but there's something undeniably beautiful about the determination of this woman on her descent into psychosis. she dies under a blue moon at the foot of a mountain of a thousand picnic chairs. I don't know what it means but I'm happy she found what she wanted.

no more being coy. I blow the candle bring the lighter to the wick. a new pledge for the months to come: embracing the absurd for now.

wept to stone

I come home to reluctant traffic in a city of mist, on the cusp of winter. standing room only on every moving corridor. a little rain cold tile floors and lifeless supermarket flowers in a blue cup on my desk. I'll need to buy some slippers soon.

on the radio you talk about the childhood act we saw together. you know I'm listening and play my favourite song with others from our catalogue of psalms. I look at the tulips: wept to stone, petals long since fallen coiled into themselves, beyond ready for the compost. but I don't want to take them away. the drama of the scene they make's enough to keep them where they are for now. 

in my dreams I'm in our little village, joined by friends I thought I'd lost. we scour our former home, crumbling under the weight of our nostalgia and the ghosts it harbours for the benefit of none. dusty and blurry overcast sun screaming out through every window. up and down the corridors we can't find my old room. the current tenants don't seem to mind or notice the intruders. I start to cry into the carpet. they never look up from their phones.

a momentary testament

how many prophets came before? I read their names and parables scrawled down every wall. the courtyard harbours secret histories. fleeting technicolour chalk on red bricks ready to run with the rain when it comes. the momentary testament contains multitudes:

questions without answers

haikus from beyond the realm of consciousness

impossible numbers

demons screaming for release

flowers and handprints and curses

crucifix mutations

lists of names and medications

butterflies and bastards

Mr Gurns in striped pyjamas

impossible numbers

creeds and haunted omens

once legible dreams

and warnings of the end of days to come. a secret vault unprotected from the elements, exposed only for the oracles in residence on ward. the courtyard becomes some kind of church, our sacred escape from clinical lights and surveillance. I seek refuge in what sense I can draw from the writing on the walls, wishing my heart was open, my mind not bound by parasites and the confines of convention, that I might slip into the prophecy myself. kneeling on the astroturf I touch the walls with both hands. what happened to this mind that once believed? how might it learn to dream again? I bid the prophets reach me through my fingers. please tell me what to do.

running for parasites

taking therapy on my computer: the fairy godmother tells me to listen to my body. when we are low / upset / breaking it is not up to our brain but our body as it does its best to sustain the fuel it has. getting better is many things. when energy depletes we can't force ourselves to be anything more for others: we need the fuel / the drive / the battery to be before we start to move again.

she asks me what made the parasite and why. I want a good life. the parasite does not / has not / will never want this for me. it has strength when I am weak and I am strong when it is frail. both cannot have power / take the throne together. she tells me to think about the science. when we are depleted our brains change and we cannot trust ourselves. the state of our body changes that of the brain. the body tells the brain what we need. when our body is fragile, no doubt our brain will feel the same.

we talk about my brain, which has developed new neural pathways. some have been paved by the parasite. maybe it's time to try rescripting these things. 'when you see someone else running what do you think? how can you stay focused on your own scene?' she asks me to cast the runner, write a reason for their running without bringing up the parasite. expel it from the wings. conjure another scene partner. make this a 'yes and?' create a better neural freeway. we don't all run for parasites.

did you have any dreams?

in the morning the day pours through the cracks under the blinds. if only we could hold the night a little longer. the radio stirs on command to talk about the weather. morning eyes and ‘did you have any dreams?’ I don’t say it feels as though I’m yet to wake up from them.

we take our time to spoil the scene. without words we honour the fragility of whatever we are doing. a slow rise into the day, reluctant, soft and gentle. once the frame has been dismantled we surrender to the in between. I hug you on your doorstep and thank you for your time. you thank me for blessing these halls. another silly goodbye, never using words enough or well. we leave ours ghosts with questions in the wings for us to catch another time.

in waiting for the Louvre

and I start to think of you again

and it's as though you never left

since I found you this has been your home

the silence in the dark

heavy in my head

my favourite ambiguity

bringing blood to boil to blossom

new flowers

your scent

and the sounds of the moments between being different people apart

when we can sit or lie together

coiling limbs like ribbons

letting truth lie sleeping

hesitation

keeping dreams at bay

like the night before Christmas without bells and neon lights

a present we can't open yet

my favourite gift-wrapped marble cryptid

next-in-waiting for the Louvre.

the lady wearing Kafka's cockroach

the lady wearing Kafka’s cockroach is reading Eckhart Tole: the power of the current moment to lead us to nirvana. I tried to read the same book on mum’s orders however many summers ago. she’s lounging on the couch by the courtyard door. arm stretched out along the back for some invisible companion. I say I like her shirt. she says we should be reading him in school. we talk about Camus and what we think of the absurd. have I read The Fall? She says these stories make her think a lot about the cross and martyrdom for show. how can we not debate if anything we do is truly good? she bares her confessions for any passing nurse or consumer, that even in helping others she draws out self gratification. we cannot escape the ego or the cage in which we feed it. she says she couldn’t stand being a narcissist, can’t understand people drawing joy from other people’s pain. slurring shrieks and a door slams down the hall. she’s worked for her fair share of narcissists in her time. there is no way to win. the best you can do is lay low and plan your escape.

a little more chalant

another goodbye

a little more chalant

preempting unasked questions

rearing heads like the undead

monsters in the fridge with which we know not what to do

the spaces between

questions about chemicals

answers needing something more than words

chemicals of mischief

our momentary fidelity 

fluid like the nights washing over what we thought we knew

sensations of the skin

some kind of electricity too sensitive to name

kids under covers

fingertips and favourite songs

a sacred ambiguity

unconcealed by explanation

awaiting diagnosis

you hold my hand in the dark

until the sun

and voices on the radio

to read the news

the leaves

and wake us up again.

whatever it is

tangled limbs and garments. we were playing dress up with new fits we found you for birthday parties with your other people. my favourite is your favourite is the twee: oversized shortsleeved soft green beige checkered button up tucked into silly brown woollen something between a skirt or shorts. my back is hurting and I lie on your bed in these clothes.

you play the CD I told you to buy at the second-hand sale on King St before lunch. it's one of my favourites but new to you. you join me on the other pillow, reacting to every track like a gift or revelation from a time capsule. rain finds the windows with the dusk as it dawns. the album is followed by the Russian doll. we've sung her together before.

there is a beauty to this simple scene, a beauty that is frightening. a stillness in your room and arms. my pictures on your wall. the same psalm on our tongues. as we are, once more without any expectation, held by each other and whatever meaning we want to embellish the moment. you ask what it might be. I tell you I don't know, that you can call it what you want, that I like whatever it is. you agree with a smile and that's enough for now.

the wedding at the ward

I wake up in my cell. sun screams through overcast skies and frosted windows. my head is heavy when I try to stand and steer myself the basket on my bike too full with supermarket goods in the rain on the ride home. I need to shower and a nurse to come unlock my bathroom door. plucking guitar through the walls from outside, soundcheck for my older brother's wedding. I am running late and dreaming.

the suit is hanging in the open closet over drawers locked with my power cords. they were too long to be safe for me to use inside. I dress before the paper-covered mirror, unable to remember where it came from what it costed how it looked when we tried it at the store. but none of this is important. I am still running late.

when I leave my room I cross through the safety doors between our dorm and the commons to realise I've forgotten my tie and the card that let's me back in. I call the nurse and return to do the same, forgetting my shoes next, my glasses, and soon it seems a large part of my brain. through the window I hear the gradual arrival of guests. excited chatter laughter an assortment of voices from childhoods nightmares fairytales of Christmas past. each time I return to my cell the crowd has grown. I imagine my older brother pacing as he does when he waits and stresses to exorcise anxiety. the thought only flusters me more as I forget my speech, my pants, how to leave the building. I don't want to let him down.

by time I break out of the ward the ceremony has begun. embarrassed, I hide behind a centaur manikin, glossy white on wheels I steer around the congregation to meet the other groomsmen by reception. my brothers look confused. their suits are black and I know I have not worn what I should have. I can't face anyone else, wrap my arms around the centaur's torso, lean my face into his waist. the choir sings and I realise I still have sirens chanting Berghain in my ears. on my knees one of my airpods falls into the stream. it comes out of the water black.

on rain

rain on tiles

on leaves

on windows

rain in clouds

in dreams

til morning

rain on plans

rain drowns the land

rain runs away on holiday

comes back again to wake me up

from who I think I was / I am

the sociology and philosophy of tomorrow

at the table on the second landing fossicking coherent thought from someone else's jargon. I try to focus without closing my ears. the sounds of the passage between assorted lectures coffees expectations. fingers tapping over footsteps keys and marble. laughter through the glass outside.

familiar strangers across the table exchange news just loud enough for prying ears. the one on the right has just returned from my island, wanted to escape the city for a change of pace maybe a breath of fresh air. ten days on a silent retreat in the woods. bland food no words only guided meditation to keep you from your thoughts. my brother tried this once. the other asks questions between sips from her clear plastic cup. she is catching up on her studies: a unit on the sociology and philosophy of AI. I wonder what this means think of the dystopia how much we can really say or know about tomorrow.

Prometheus bared

I feel my shape changing

writing something

angel listens to the news

volcano

crying etc.

angel eyes

after the therapy

mum on her phone

Prometheus bared

scream

sight or touch or

not ready to see myself

plastic bench with trees

flowers

at the bottom of the cliff

crochets in the courtyard

drowning

post dinner in the purple room

treading water

I am still alive

city of stars

second floor arts west hiding from the sun / crawling into my computer try to get some thinking done. someone plays the piano by the lift on the first landing. a tune twinged with saudade / spun from a film about choosing to lose art or love. we hummed the melody / an air we knew without knowing and danced in the kitchen at the end of our little life, twirling each other from different ends of the earth / swimming seamlessly in song. I think of you and every other ghost I've loved. questions laugh at any misplaced sense of certainty. I close my ears and watch the people living on my phone.

dental

the dentist covers the gap between their charge the chronicles between my last clean. a new consumer special. x-ray on a flimsy neon plastic frame to see my teeth a little clearer. photorecords with another camera in my mouth; they show me pictures on the television. calculus removed with water and a sharper metal rod.

I think about how much has past since last another person cleaned my teeth. they tell me to keep doing what I'm doing maybe floss at night instead of morning that my teeth haven't changed. if only we were so predictable. they ask me to come back in six months. I spit the mouthwash back into a plastic cup.

our momentary babel

they let me use a screwdriver to take apart the set. I feel like a boy like someone they want to rely on. I work on bolts in different places: fake office tables monitors and platforms. our little world forged for fun for a moment now vacated for good. we use pliers to pull out the staples in the back of the throne. our momentary babel is torn with our own hands to scraps they'll use for something else. I think about the boards that made the desk at which I played under synthetic light wonder what was torn to build it how they'll next be used to shape another scene or set a funeral pyre. returning to clay at the end of the day we leave our tools behind. how many lifetimes are held by a tree? why must this matter less than me?

we mop and cleanse the stage of demons on our way out of the theatre. my bucket fills the colour of our mess. I watch it cyclone make a whirlpool in the sink.

another lost thing

on the way home with guests without my bike waiting for the tram. we've had Chinese for dinner and mulled wine for the cold. a lady sways across the tracks casting spells in some other language. she drags along a plastic ziplock bag the size of a flatscreen cables and bathroom essentials inside. webs of tattoo run along her bones from ankles to fingertips. she stands in the lights of another closing bar calling out to oncoming traffic from the middle of the road I ride to school. I think she's lost but doubt she'd be any other way anywhere else.

by time our tram arrives she's crossed the road to board before us. we take the door at the other end of the carriage. from where we sit I hear her mumbling. the foreign tongue is nearly familiar, close enough to intelligible to retain concern to keep ears open. she is restless in her seat and stands crossing the tram to meet the window. she reaches stares provokes and wipes the tears of her reflection tracing veins in the glass masking faces with fog. she reminds me of ghosts from my dreams and prophets I met on ward. perhaps she's something in between. I know I am for now.

the office at the end of the world

choking smoke under tomorrow's silent detonation clawing through a cemetery of postmodern living manifest. clamber over office chairs toppled like tombstones in the dark. I reach for the files on the floor / unbinded forecasts / scattered forgotten children. the oracle legs crossed sitting on the desk under the last LED light. he scribes code like prophecy one hand eyes fixed on the void beyond the stage. my body scrambles cross the bureau for the scripture on all fours. my mind is out of office. I grasp his latest proverb let my eyes absorb the facts and figures characters that once I might have made some sense of. they store the data someplace else. post-digital we've lost the need for sense or comprehension.

his papers top the pile of files I pass on to the queen. she sits in the last chair spinning at the end of the world. she thanks me for the files. each is torn one at a time. I reach for their remains and crawl to claim another prophecy from the pen of the diviner.

the queen recounts her dreams into the shadows. the particles of sound pass through my skull, reverberating in an empty chamber pleading to mean more than bumps than rhythm. I fold the dregs of files left at my fingertips, stacking piles to unfold open when there's nothing left to file. soon she will run out of dreams to remember. soon she will want something more than mergers and the armour of surrender to the whim of something greater.

we watch her turn to the machine. a decision has been reached. murmurs of a pulse return with punches. fists first stilettos second to slam against the box. the force tears me to my knees the fiberoptic pressure choking long forgotten nerves. her rage continues pulling cables kicking panting trying to reclaim a dormant self from the computer we call home. every hit is a needle stirs my senses sober to the nightmare. they exorcise a scream of two millennia of fear of butchered bliss of ignorance of trust in progress of grief of what we thought we bought of how it ends of another great day in the office. then virus rattles through me / claims my body / makes a home in what remains. I scream into the vacuum without reason / waiting for the sky to fall.

hands in the sink

I find an old friend at a funeral. overcast mid-afternoon the church I grew my teeth in. we hold each other in the foyer between the water and the eulogies.

back home after the service I'm washing dishes embarrassed by the state the house is in with so many guests. they're here to be fed and talk about themselves. they eat and talk. like them I don't have time to listen: food to stuff, dishes to clean. but there's more guests than hands in the sink. no sooner is the kitchen clean the sink is filled with new dishes dirtied. despite my best efforts there's no keeping up the china starts to overflow I start to sweat. someone says something about the gratification of cleaning after other people like they're buying their excuse to not offer their hands as though their dirty dishes are a gift they should be thanked for. I want to be where I am when I wake: hidden in my room under the covers. when I wake I want to go to church.

the third day

no real answers no real tools no real self beyond this feeling all this plastic packaging the virus and her parasite. the body is the temple in the self help and Corinthians. Jesus split the temple open when they tore him off the cross. to leave they bid me do the same. I feel the changes my foundations shake waistline threatened with implosion. and so we break my temple open lacking tools for resurrection. I pray the third day never comes.

re: maybe I should keep this to myself

he's not real. your eyes are and you're good at painting pictures about what they see with words. and I think you're right. nobody will ever know you beyond yourself. I guess we're lucky you're a writer and you keep painting these still-lifes for us to try to understand.

I love you. this is beautiful. no doubt you changed things for her. no doubt they've all been changed by you. it is a privilege to be on the fence to laugh to mourn sit with you and listen.

and you're not alone, no matter where. we are always only ever in between. we learn to distract ourselves with each other and reflections of desire whatever we project consume take away from things we see and hear and eat and shit. another day looks different for everyone. but we all sit on the same assembly line. all born screaming all take oxygen make carbon til we're spat back into the mud from which we grew. it's all a little silly. I'm just lucky to sit on the line next to you.

less time online

sitting in a circle defining addiction and other ways we play ourselves. the dialectical balances / opposing truths that won't see eye to eye. conflicting facts can both be true. consider the tensions draw lines between acceptance and change and try to believe in both.

the teacher scribes some more in green marker fading through reflection of the last day of sun. 'dialectical abstinence'. consider abstinence and harm reduction. both work for some less so for others. try to balance the two. commit to specific time-bound goals make them realistic start from where you are. reject the static praise the paradox on which we build our every breath fear crisis revelation vision unrequited infatuation merger supermarket morgue. let's see where it goes.

I take notes and lap the wisdom whilst I'm here / it's free / I can. the teacher asks us questions. I say I want to spend less time online.

selling sense

I dream in colours I can't keep. when I wake I reach for places for people far from who and where I am. the sun rolls through to poison dreams to take me where it must. my shoes do the walking. I think when I can if it helps. we make room for change for growth between dawn and final destinations. we do this blind, believing sense will lead us somewhere beautiful. if only I could buy more from the shops.

on metabolism

the body makes decisions for us. underfueling prompts a period of hibernation. we soon see that the cave brain is primal: any sustained lack of fuel is flagged a famine. metabolism is a fire / will fade to embers without fuel / slows to preserve what the body already has. the choice isn't ours to make. it's all just evolution.

the body conserves energy, restricting function not essential for survival. the body sources fuel by breaking itself and making its own. digestion slows cognition too with the pulse and drops in temperature and hormones. vital organs do the best they can but they belong to animals. we need fuel we pathetic meat machines prone to egomania and thinking we are different. ignorance is programmed we forget our sameness the world beyond ourselves the eternal charade we march from womb to tomb. we want so much more than body and breath. our will means little to the fire. the body takes what it needs and does what it can.

infection

reading on the tram filling every crack of time of space between one place and the next. someone's grandma by my side playing infection on her tablet tapping all the cities sends her plague across the map. she coughs into her tapping hand. I lose wherever I was on whichever page. the virus spreads. she nods and smiles and coughs again.

guinea pig

when they ask me how I feel I tell them 'like a guinea pig'. I follow doctors down corridors to sterile chairs for observation. they wrap their tools around me stick another in my ear set me on the scales to praise or shame whatever's changed. I nod to the tune of their orders. they tell me what to do and lay the law of what I can't. the parasite squirms and flounders in their petri dish. we watch the data dance / the loss / the gains from one week to the next / up and down / so much for us to learn. they take their notes and keep me dancing / crawling blind from one frame to the next. I think they're happy with my progress. I make a great experiment.

andromeda

a group of students gather round a telescope on south lawn at night. the library is about to close. they look to the sky as though there's something to be seen beyond the light pollution. they know the clouds can't change the fact that stars are there. the limit of our sight means nothing: andromeda will glow regardless.

I think about the surface / how little I know from what I can see / the worlds beyond my gaze and comprehension. no doubt the most important things cannot be seen; every bible says the same. if only I could trust the stars as much I do my eyes.

golden hour cemetery

somewhere between a lost mind and found feet. intermittent thinking ripples in and out of reach, closer than before but still not quite mine yet. I shake I quiver at the edge. I am a paper boat passing under the bridge. a new body I would never choose the same brain too stubborn to change. 

the lady at the pub says her dog is medicated. SSRIs for a few months. but she's been so fine today maybe it's time to take her off. on my phone I fall from this plane swim away through many a cause for medication. bombs and babies martyrs enough to fill a shopping mall face cards enough to care a little more. my ex housemate posting golden hour selfies from the cemetery. I hope she had a happy birthday.

never let me go

sometime between coffee and night school (nearly dusk). a boy in black sitting under a tree on south lawn. soft silver somethings dangle (both ears) long dark hair a little like mine shoes I own but never wear. he's reading the book I bought for your birthday. baggy pants I'd like to buy. I want to take his picture know his thoughts see you again. the story didn't move you but it still lives on your shelf. it was my favourite for a while.

sun starts to sink again. he marks his page zips his bag stands in his baggy pants to leave. the black birds swoop down round his waist from one tree to the next.

onions

how far can I fall into myself? the static is a bandaid only here to fill the gaps. skies change I should I don't I cannot outrun truth. what good are eyes that only cry for onions?

kids again today

I catch a school of fish from puddles in the backyard, filling the wheelbarrow in minutes. you emerge without warning, clambering over the fence on a branch from next door. maybe we are kids again today. I invite you to join us for dinner (we have fish enough for thousands). you don't respond, turning away to the rope swing or some other childhood relic half remembered. on the grass I'm twisting flowers to a crown for you to wear. you're transfixed by the garden. eyes wide deep breaths moving like an astronaut. I want to hold your hand but know to leave you be for now.

only neutral

we talk about radical acceptance / embracing the absurd / the unconditional positive regard. I want to understand and ask for help. the nurse clears the fog opens windows lets the light in. she's not a therapist but should be. radical acceptance: 'it is what is it is' but a little less passive ('what can we do about it?'). whatever reality / truth we face cannot be changed without acceptance. fact does not need forgiveness but acknowledgement to flow. truths can contradict and sit at the same table without spilling each other's guts.

the nurse gives us directions for play. first I must ask what I'm accepting and how it is has changed me. only then can I consider what can be done about the reality I don't want. truth awaits approval and will not shift without it. the words make sense but practice mutates madness far beyond the bounds of ink on paper. tentacles tighten home around the frontal lobe. I am asked to meet myself where I am / leave struggle and resistance at the door. with clear direction I still can't seem to give them up.

we're reminded on the cheat sheet happiness is just another signal. beware the chase that never ends. everything of value is to be mined from some transaction. our natural state is soft is less. only neutral ever lasts.

playing house

do we come from clay or stardust? what is truth and does it matter? regardless we are left to build our own alone. some draw a lot of meaning from the thought of being: 'we are the universe witnessing itself unfolding'. others say we're accidental. with will both can be true enough.

they teach us to dance around / hide from the logical conclusion / play dumb / keep playing house a little longer for forever. we reach for the moon and let ourselves dream from our silly cells of flesh.

one fish, two fish

learning to learn

how not to be wrong

bad kids

carry on

the line of beauty

where angels fear to tread

observatory mansions

hidden in the cave we forge of one another

cats cradle

a children's bible

where the mountain meets the moon

white noise

us

genesis

the nature of things

more happy than not

one fish, two fish

love and virtue

on the origins of species

sapiens

apocalypse of the alien god

under the dome

tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow

shadows to know

sleepless or lost in the fog. I hear the news but cannot see beyond myself. one step two steps somewhere drawn from dreams and my disgust. too many shadows to know. I reach for the moon like a child for the handle on the front door. in a few years maybe I'll be tall enough. for now we flounder in the thicket / where we are / coughing through the ashes of any map that might have lead us home.

worksheets 4, 4a

we all have a pattern we must understand before we break it. emotions shape our beliefs. they may not lie but can obscure the shapes we draw to form reality. other factors shaped by context predetermine vulnerability. note their weight and work on regulation.

there are secondary emotions underscored by effects after the fact. anger is vocal. anger is the most primal secondary emotion. anger will always surface at some point wanting to get things done. anger drives us to do things and asks to be left alone. if anger is not getting what it wants it will tell you.

notice biological changes neural firing rising heart rate temperature any other body sensations. make allowance for expression face and body language words and actions.

every urge is a child needing somewhere to go. can you break down these feelings to keep them from completing themselves?

bluelit

reaching again

from one bar to the next

none low enough from where I sit

bluelit in the backseat

the head on my neck between one mask and the next

another treat to chase

running from the work of tears to come

I make room for strangers in brittle boned arms

too weak to keep the score

fine enough for hanging fantasies

to scroll into decay

I am happy without thinking

with the masses

on my phone

I smile through every gap

the headlines bleed into my dreams

distraction

or some other kind of drug

diluting the subconscious just enough to keep the rain

something else to witness

cause enough to ghost the mirror

til I’m running out of laundry

and I find myself again 

about our bones

they teach us about our bones. when enduring extended periods of strain, the body does what it must to refuel and keep moving. without knowing we do anything we can to make the energy we need and won't otherwise find. without enough fuel we make our own from ourselves. the body milks the bones if it must. the marrow makes a bandaid til the body needs more fuel but the bones are getting too weak to do what they've been growing for.

I think about statues in the sand and in museums. mud or marble every one returns to dust with time. we're just the same just lacking stillness / acceptance / nerve to stop and wait for what's to come. we fool ourselves forever moving just to hide from what we know. with brittle bones how much more can we be than sticks or stone?

if only we remembered dreams like we remember shibboleth

this is just medicine.

it is the way it is and that way is okay.

I am only ever where I need to be.

adults

adults in suits. adults on trains. adults waiting for something to change.

adults not wanting to grow up and give in to convention. crawling screaming clawing at the carpet for a trapdoor out of the performance / expectations / death and taxes back to the merry-go-round. don't they know they're bound to dust no matter where / how far they run? from a distance it's clearer; we all are. sitting in seat C9 wondering just how much I've lost doing the same / not knowing how / wanting to let go. I've chopped the trees I used to climb myself. the nights are getting colder and it's well past time to use the timber. the pyre would dwarf the theatre but I can't quite find the exit.

he is risen

I run myself empty

out of breath

to stop on doctor's orders

he is risen

have I lost him?

not wanting to grow up

through the city to the cemetery

coughing possibility

a fairtyale psychosis

or maybe just regret

reaching for absurdity

disowning fact like innocence

I wash my hands

not wanting tomorrow / the headlines / thoughts I author

waking to face them anyway

'we miss you' waits for rain on marble

like the end of summer when it comes

unwanted with the rest

betrayed

she is weeping on the floor in the dust

cradling another doll

can you hear her pleading change away

a little longer?

how much difference can a little make?

the door is still ajar

raw data

they ask me to collect the raw data: what hides behind these urges? how am I actually feeling? what do I actually need? I hide from myself a little too well and can't cough back the answers they want. all I'm being asked is to witness the experience. all I can do is let it be.

off ward

my time off ward outlives my time inside. I fill every moment I can with something other than being where I am / listening to myself / feeling what I say. cleaning reading groceries etc. whatever I need / can keep me and my mind from the mirror. being outside in this body stirs forgotten childhood feelings I could do without; of embarrassment, not wanting to be seen. everywhere I go I am passed by people exercising - running and cycling and just out from the gym. I wonder what they're thinking / why they're doing what they're doing / how much is for them or others / how much are they like me?

I miss the quiet walk down the hall from my bedroom to breakfast. I miss the nurses / trivia at the table / beige walls and nothing out of place / the lack of expectation beyond eating enough. I miss the table under the awning in the courtyard / the meals that weren't so scary / the once or twice a day the others managed to laugh. I miss the paper on my mirrors and the dreams that gave me secret leave between the hourly checks at night.

there's a limitless out here / a lack of boundaries beyond the ward. rules and time fly fluid I can sway a little more / a lot depending on the forecast / time of day. surveillance is a memory / can only do so much to keep me spinning / captive to the rules that kept me there.

the same facade

on Wednesday I ride to school under overcast skies full of potential / promising rain / clouds unwilling to cry just yet. the office is empty I have worn my collared shirt for nothing but at least I made it to my desk / got out of bed to play another day. on the screens I flip between jargon and the news, both heavy with the same facade of duty: a responsibility to work and think about the world / to better comprehend my own insignificance / to reconnect with what once fuelled the heart / to remember compassion. the nurse suggests it could just be distraction. working well above her call she says there's something missing between how I am and knowing how I got here. she thinks I'm yet to process my emotions and prescribes a breakdown at my own discretion. if she were a witch she'd fix this all but she's not and she can't. I have to face the lions without divine intervention.

on air

I listen to you talk about me on the radio. silly breakfast segment in memoriam for those lost to the city that I moved to. you even use my name. the story sounds a little different in the studio. I like the way you change the plot to read the way you want. it's nice to hear your voice the way you want the world to hear it. did you want me to listen? did you know that I would? does it matter I still wonder what you really think and mean? so much between what we say and what we mean. I wear your carabiner; you keep my picture on your wall.

my window of tolerance

somewhere between the hyper and the hypo we can build a frame to water down the overwhelm. try to understand the feelings where they come from why they're here. ask yourself: how wide is my window of tolerance and what might it take to break it open let in a little more light? the window takes different shapes through the span of any given day shifting at the whim of hidden chemical agendas. I can only feign control of the panes as they change how much I can see of my own simulation. the plan is beyond my understanding I play puppet sitting at the table take directions from whichever voice outscreams the other over any given meal.

my window of tolerance never ceases to surprise, opening and closing at commands unheard from someone else. the view shrinks and expands each new aspect ratio a novelty to marvel from my front row seat to life beyond the skull. there is so much more to see.

still screaming on the floor

in my dream I’m running from the promises I've made. they show me photographs of all my different faces, each a little longer sadder worse for wear than the last. the final photo is a mirror. I scream at the monster I don’t want to recognise I throw him to the ground. he shatters into slices of the ceiling reflecting shards of sunlight still screaming on the floor. down the corridor I lock myself in my shower run the water too cold not loud enough to drown the embers the photos of the faces I have grown. rage. I scream without a sound ears to listen relief any reason to stop. someone knocking on the door. there are tasks needing tending dishes to wash to dirty again. I look for a trapdoor to only shrink the room. walls start closing ceiling lowers I think about the other ways that people spend their time beyond their cells and scheming torture for themselves. I remember being pulled by my brother tasked to take me back into the ward. he pulls me hands under arms dragging feet kicking limp he is gentle while I plead he listen to ignore the doctor’s orders let’s go home I’ll get better I promise just please don’t let them take me back. we both know that he can’t there is nothing he can do but listen to the doctors they only want to help to make things easier. I cry into his shoulder. he tells me it’s okay, this will pass, I am only ever where I’m meant to be.

the angels keep singing

the angels sing through the walls. consumers cover ears with blankets and headphones their eyes with slides or neon blue light projecting liquid crystal their minds with lunch and regret and themselves. maybe a little too early for trivia card games divine intervention. blankets work for three of five soft snoring, one quiet shaking leg over another. invisible ticking someone’s watch a little louder than sleep than breathing. the angels keep singing next door.

punchlines

and this will all become a story people ask about like a holiday or breakup as though it wasn't everything  a whole world for a moment in time that had no end until it did. I hear it all reduced to punchlines in my own voice and maybe surely because it is easier this way we can laugh about the ward the rules the characters the funny things they said. yes. so much better to laugh than think about what was and what wasn't the shapes and shadows of that world I never asked for til I dreaded leaving like a death. we are all a lot better at laughing thinking only takes us places we are better off without.

outside

outside is vast is loud is breeze on my face a return to expectation and beyond any control. variables dwarf the odds with eyes closed. I do my best to write myself into believing. 

in the fridge

a new consumer fills the empty chair at lunch directly from another ward. she knows the rules her bolus of choice she's seen this all before. her first night is my last is just another in the unit. twenty one sleeps in my room I feel as frightened and unsure as I had on my first night. white sheets beige walls alone I feared surrender to the goals and expectations of the program the doctors the losing all control. tonight I fear returning back to where I was to choice to filling the dishes pantry space and time to mirrors to myself. outside I am seen with no say no excuse no soft plastic veil of protection security bolus in the fridge. on the precipice of freedom I stop to turn to catch my shadow. kneeling falling weeping for my captor beg for certainty for locks for answers maybe just more time. the thoughts grow inside out into tomorrow. I wash my face and pray and maybe find my feet in dreams.

behind the paper

ward rounds on Tuesday morning. we talk about discharge maybe Friday afternoon in time for the weekend a cool change my bone density scan. they say I’ve done well and ask how I feel about going home. it’s a funny question in that I don’t know how I'm meant to answer. the truth might make them wonder if I’m ready. to tell the truth may buy more time here prolong my freedom from the rules and expectations of the ward. what was scary at the start now seems so much less than what brought me here. out there I stand on my own and fill the fridge myself. out there expectation reigns excuses do little. out there appearance matters the narrative matters we laugh and look at ourselves in the reflections of each other’s eyes and every uncovered mirror. in here I sleep and wake to eat and do the same. I sit and listen to the other people and their stories with no real need to think about my own. there is no real need to think about anything. I am here to be fixed. how do I feel about going home? the truth hides behind the paper on the mirrors in my room the parasite’s new face the scream I don’t want to be seen. is this some kind of Stockholm syndrome? how can I be ready for myself again?

breakfast in another room

we take breakfast in another room away from all the noise. the nurses are concerned about the impact of the unpredictable ambience on our will to do our job and eat. barricade opens we follow the trolley past the nurse’s station down the hall into an office on the left a few doors down. a board room table cushioned black faux leather chairs projector screen and whiteboards. our places at the table are chosen by the nurses. they lay our trays at particular positions, removing each instrument vessel item of food napkin juice box to place before each consumer. trays returned to the trolley timer rightly assuming head of the table. toaster sitting nervous on a chair by the wall. we all seem a little thrown. a new room a closed door the unfamiliar lack of noise. plastic packet sounds and knives in single portion spreads much heavier in silence.

sitting across the table from a nurse we haven’t seen in a while I ask about her week. she has been well and even better now her daughter is on her way home escaping airport closures bombs escalating tensions on a flight out of Dubai. a little relief but still waiting for her son to do the same. I look down at my food my problems my self embarrassed by how I am despite what I know. what would the children in the rubble in the flames hiding under headlines think? I watch the nurse smiling as she waits for us to eat, not knowing when if how her son will come back home. I drink from a straw and remember a world outside much bigger than the ward myself any of our problems. 

birds

birds bathing in gutters on the roof. birds sitting on the table looking closer at my breakfast. birds fed by another consumer with his breakfast from the bench. birds coming and going enjoying their wings. birds breathing like me but a little more free.

on our phones

we visit the courtyard on our way to bed. the forecast says the moon is due to glow blood red and disappear into our shadow. looking up for the eclipse we see little beyond unwanted light between the walls of other wards. nothing worth a wish or staying outside any longer. we can't have the moon tonight. at least we can still watch it on our phones. 

whatever I think of the drink

fresh air today and rain. they say I can leave for an hour. I walk up over the hill across the road into a cafe recommended by the nurses. between new movement and colour I sit inside and I am just another patron, free to order coffee, sit and laugh a while. the coffee is too strong or my taste is too weak but this is much more about the play and the props than whatever I think of the drink. soon they'll have me back onstage to do this every day. I wasn't ready to stop when I surrendered. will I be ready to start when they call me back again?

tomorrow et al.

letting go to be where I am. I write to myself on the last day of summer. there are dreams I can't remember and mistakes I drag into every day like shadows. they monitor my vitals and all is well for now. as I'm told I do my best to listen to their voices more so than my own, to see that this is where I need to be, that whatever else can wait and doesn't matter quite as much. I read the news and think about the world beyond the ward and what it means to be where I am and letting go to do so. and so we sleep and dream through bombs birthday cakes massacres mardi gras white cliffs waiting rooms another string another season until tomorrow et al.

red voices

read away red voices

listen to tick of

starlight

tissue for consumer shakes

slipping blankets and

vitals

waiting in purple

think of other sounds and places

colours

outside soon

incidental

I dream of days beyond myself and love and clothes that never fit. cures and curses all return to dust. I am the spear and I am the scar and I am incidental.

seeing myself

someone else takes the reigns to lead me through another puzzle in the bardo. I follow their tracks as best I can: reaching in the dark, trying to hide healthily. they cover my mirrors with paper and tape. I wash my face and think about drawing a smile.

the sunrise and my innocence

when I was where I was

I was who I am without knowing

the not knowing was peaceful and quiet

like the house before I left for school in the last couple of years

sixteen and seventeen

catching the bus before anyone else's alarm

in winter some mornings were dark

I would first see the sun through the bus window

I would listen to music and close my eyes and the sun

would kiss me softly through the glass

my cheek was warm

and I could be where I was

closed in myself beside strangers forever

between here and there

not needing or knowing any better

or wanting more than the bus to keep going

to stay in the sunrise and my innocence for good.

my science fiction

the illusion falters and we find that we were never in control. so many silly choices between desire and laundry - plenty more to fuel my science fiction. the crowds follow tramlines and the clouds roll thick and heavy. I watch my dreams on the horizon fall yet a little further out of reach. maybe they’ll come back tomorrow. maybe I’ll be ready then.

another sentence

I remember something more than now: waking up to lightness and feeling less unwilling. hope. a new day was a chance before it was a sentence. maybe it can be that way again.

another bridge

let the phone ring out. I am trying to remember how to build words for thoughts to land on. they all pass like water now. maybe all we need is another bridge to fall to make a dam.

unfinished in the library

my brain is not my friend again. we’re both fed up with one another, close encounters in such close quarters for too long. I leave thoughts unfinished in the library to lie under a tree.

when I close my eyes I could be sleeping. when I sleep I’m only fractured dreams from waking up.

no standing sign

the supermarket swarms a little after dinner time. I tie my bike to the pole with the no standing sign. pigeons mind their own business on the sidewalk, a couple dozen or maybe more. someone thought to leave them a bowl of water, though they don't seem to care. I watch them peck the ground and under their wings. I wonder what I'd do in their place. they take to the sky and I take out my phone. 

rolling over

I stop and hold the boulder for the other ones to pass. sidestepping or rolling over? out of sight and focus either way. I let the other cyclists overtake, watch them speed through amber lights into the setting sun.

you call a little later from a room on the street I used to live. something else to miss and help commiserate my choices. I take you to the creek and let the stream surround your voice. time is water only ever passing out of reach. 

echoes

tides take time but everything returns. the cat comes back to bed. my thoughts come back to you. are we only ever always on our way home? waves with dreams torn from seas now rolling back to sleep. can we hope for more than echoes? I can’t hear much more right now.

coughing

clocks keep coughing up days and demands I can’t meet. clouds cry and I need to wake up.

tea and doubt and fear

we wait for my brain to start working again. patience wanes a little more with every thought. I move slowly between tasks and expectations, slipping back into a childhood haunt to hide behind. outside the clouds keep moving with the headlines I don’t read. time spoils in cups of tea and doubt and fear. I think about regret and lose another day in limbo. I brush my teeth and hope for dreams of being someone else.

compost

I watch my taxes explode into the sky

different colours

golden rain that sings

beautiful and brighter than the stars

the people cheer for time’s passage out of every open window

holding hands

crying for more

I decompose slowly

and take a photo with my phone.