from fiction

dreams only agitate the conscience. can any good be drawn from fiction? stories to shadows to blurs under eyelids, never quite enough to fill my empty hands and heart. I lose my way and faith in maps. how far can I run til I start coming back?

friends

last night we pitched your tent outside a warehouse for a party. the air was warm enough for short sleeves even after sundown. you like the summer and I like to see you smile. everybody wants you; you just want to make some friends.

at some point we break for air to the beach by the exit. gentle waves rolling blankets under stars. we swim and freeze our bones before I lose you in the dark. wandering the warehouse blind as though I've lost my head. I stir to sense some hours on in someone else's tent. crawling back to ours I find you sleeping on my pillow. and I had thought you'd left.

by your side I lie and wonder what you're dreaming. the party dies to lullabies. I wake to no alarm.

vacuum-sealed

my neighbour in the library writes in a different alphabet. I can barely string another sentence in my own. sitting among lawyers and teachers and doctors, all with functions and something to bring to the table. professions with purpose. vacuum-sealed skills from shelves I can't reach. I rake the sand over a mind with nothing more to show than fears. what am I beyond this feeling? we learn about children and the world we've said we owe them. everything is grown up. I do my best to play along and speak their language. every second closer to lost balance. why did I leave myself behind? I look for someone else to blame down stairs that never end.

looking back at boulders

I wake past my alarm and lose the time to fold and fixate on the things I shouldn't. in the shower I try to remember when last I felt good at something. in the mirror my teeth are still crooked. you still have all your limbs. knowing what I know I wash my face and carry on.

time pours through other people's thoughts and dialogue. I ride between desks listening to conversations I pay to be prescribed. there's talk of getting better, growing out and into health. looking back at boulders to give them names. I keep an ear out for my voice; ruled by ego even in disorder. 

a crow picks at worms from gaps in the lawn. the wattle bird drains life from the flowers. I join the waiting room to renew my diagnosis. they check I'm sick enough before they give me what I need. they do. I pay by card and don't want a receipt.

shoes or Sisyphus

at the rally the city stops to listen for a pulse. the cameras watch a mass of mammals mourn the loss of human conscience. cardboard prophecies and faces of children lost to ash or rubble. mantras to keep the faith and abstain from checking our phones. the voice of history calls for the fall of Rome to reckon with the scales of justice. headlines call to burn the witch tomorrow. trudging tram lines under flags a retiree lectures empty spirits on collective freedom and responsibility. he asks me why the masses can't mobilise well enough to make change or actions that matter. I blame apathy and the mirror. 'we can't get over ourselves', etc. he insists we're better than that. I envy his remaining faith.

time turns beyond every breath. every breath is only ever just enough for now. the days last longer and I envy another hemisphere slipping slowly into cold. the billboard says the reward for running is more running. I can't tell if they're selling shoes or Sisyphus.

time turns beyond the end of days. in the dark I hear her laughing at tomorrow's mushroom cloud. I crawl through the dark and claw for popcorn left behind. she's staying for the credits. I hope they finish soon.

clean again

when do we start telling stories? every breath a moment further from the clear blue conscience. there was a time before. we were happy in the dark and soap was enough for sleeping. edges blur with headlines passing, only ever harder to remember how it felt. the water runs red to stain everything I touch. when can I be clean again?

bandaids

what good are arms or words? I don’t need your bandaids. no one holds me like the midnight tram.