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 from 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 glad 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.