to kick the cage

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

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

ants and sugar

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

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

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

like you

fulfil me with a kiss

or don’t

you could just use your words

like armour

or the tools they used to make the statues

before the bible didn’t matter

when people would pray

and dream

they knelt and wrote psalms

without checking their phones for something else

they made love in stone and paintings

angels sang

and everything was beautiful

like you

or the memory

of a feeling

lips or nose or fingertips

laughter

in the space before I wake

violent reign

of every night that should be mine

as though I could be what you want

in the dark

when you’re here but you’re not

and I reach

and you’re gone

but I still hear your voice

and you’re still on my phone. 

three aliens who brought their own lunch

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

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

livestock

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

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

in the shade of Vogue

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

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

last night's cup of tea

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

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

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