some kind of power

waiting in the wings at your whim. I tell myself I'd like to see you in my dreams. it's true and I do until I wake up.

cold toes and fingers for thoughts to pass through to the keys. some kind of power lingers.

pulse drawn every dawn to fight the disconnect into the next. there's always tomorrow forever. but maybe I'll find the rhythm with my feet someday soon. for now we ache into the rumbling traffic through the day. I think about bombs and greater evils to dwarf guilt felt for my own. wash away the blame for every breath that shapes the day. how much more would a mirror do?

like it matters

I wake to another day of disconnect between the body and the mind. both should be mine and under control, though the imbalance dictates every morning. the day is no more than an effort to tie the two back together. between the commute and conversation through screens and vibration I read the blueprints, left no choice but to surrender to the recipe of pleasantries and movement.

in bed on the pillow my dreams spend the effort on painting days I'll never see. some I'd love to spend with you. without fail the effort counts for nought; waking to the same frame of limbs and absent thoughts that doesn't move or want to. I sigh into tomorrow and the headlines only write themselves more dire. dreaming less of the apocalypse in light of just how fast we're caving in.

a hemisphere of suits gasp as the curtain falls for the plan they've known since the beginning. Gaza will be fully occupied. watch the men play dumb and clamber into clusters to denounce the sudden transparency from the machine they built themselves. the people rally in the streets; I spend my time on something else.

we're in an ice age. I keep thinking about the fact I stole from a friend. we are in an ice age, and mean something less than nothing to the rock we live on. our silly little project will pass millions of years before the sun decides to die. a thorn in my thoughts between tasks and expectations. I drift and try to picture what the place will look like when we're gone. how long will trains keep running? is life below enough to puncture through the asphalt, all the pavement? what happens to the things we built? what of everything that mattered? will the Louvre outlive the supermarket? nowhere to take questions but the fridge. I leave them with the monster. he's eager for new friends and always waits for more to come.

crawl back into the shell intact and only wake to leave again. let's talk more about our feelings. I'll listen like it matters like the graveyards on my phone.

maybe you visit when I'm asked about what happened or maybe I just miss you

you visited me again last night. it's nice to spend time, though I wish you'd give me warning. we were hiding from the group of whoever we were with in the corridor. never somewhere still - you always catch me in the liminal. but you wanted me like we had wanted each other on the way home at the start. we swayed into a slow dance and you kissed me. it felt like the first time, as though this was always where we were going, as though you always knew. and we are home for each other for a moment. you hold on as though I'm something you can't lose. all I need is to be held until we hear them crash the bus.

space for more

taking life too seriously. every day ticks on and moves into the next like clockwork. no roses around to stop and smell. I watch the man laugh at his journal on the tram. scribbles pouring over lines: handwriting or hieroglyphs? the key to joy is left behind in someone else’s language.

I hug my brother through his jacket and loathe every day that comes between us. we learn lines for different people and try our best to make more time. he sends me what he writes from dreams he doesn’t want. I would live through his eyes if I could. if only we were closer.

I read from a real book for the first time in weeks. power and human sacrifice for the sake of the stock market. you can watch it play out on my phone. new footage from the planes passing over the mess we’ve made: dystopic destruction we’ve bought with our silence and streaming subscriptions. what’s next for the humans? what more can we take? will we see the end of days or will the times move on without us? the weather woman says we’re in an ice age. humanity stays for a blip; still billions of years for the sun. a world without taxes and worship. we’ll leave so much space for more.

odds and even dreams

we've seen this film before and stay to watch the search continue. you keep your eyes wide open in the face of odds and even dreams that scare you back to bed. do you write about them too?

poetry is at our feet. paths are always more than asphalt and the leaves wept from the wind. poetry is on the screen; behind layers of paint on the walls of some other building somewhere else. the right words are always there in hiding, waiting patient for your voice. tell me when you find them (if you want).

paint the wall

sunday. for my first twenty years I spent every seventh morning praying with my parents at an altar. we'd sing songs and hold hands, making silent apologies to a judge we couldn't see. mum would give me coins to light candles for the people we worried about most. I'd list my wishes and send them wrapped in thanks and pleas for forgiveness to the clouds. since leaving home my days look different, and every seventh morning is a little much. though I still slide into the shroud of nighttime prayers, I can't quite shake the guilt for leaving empty pews and expectation on the phone. the house of prayer watches over tram tracks: I disappoint and race to someplace else to spend my time.

my costar makes me laugh without opening her mouth. she asks me what I think about the dying marriage between the characters we're creating. I think he wants her back. we both agree he's far too proud to apologise or ask. she's better off without him, though she might miss what they thought it was. you can paint the wall white again and again: it won't change what's underneath.

a holocaust continues. some hundred thousand say enough and cross the bridge through a city I gave up on. will this change what happens next? feeling far from where I am and want to be. I fix the chain back on my bike and wipe the grease onto a tree. 

I wear my gloves to school

passing a rally on the tram between battles and a book I won't finish: kaffirs with pots and pans scream for justice by the library. I hadn't known I'd missed it til the chants came through the windows. all too late and tied to discount dinner plans. with a schedule of new places to be I'll be missing almost every chance to join the demonstrations. no choice but to do my best on my own and watch the bombs drop on my phone.

I breathe clouds into new neighbourhoods. ride my bike down tram lines, sing for passing cars. reading street signs for directions to something more than just the places I can be. I chew on stories sold by billboards by the path. the incinerator gallery hosts a playground project for kids on the way to the park. metaphors and nothing more than names this far from all the blood.

we fill the abandoned room with pillows and potential. the mystic says it means something, a strange time in her life, etc. the cat yawns and pouts for quiet. just happy to have somewhere else to sleep.

nights are cold without you or the cat; hands and lips can only do so much in dreams. we miss the bus and hide in the bathroom. you wear my clothes and they fit much better round your limbs. your laugh is poison to tomorrow in your absence. mornings are ice and I wear my gloves to school. have you swam since Tallow Beach?