wake happy

remember life beyond the monster in the mirror. there's a ticket to a brain that works if only he could stomach what it costs. if only the frame wasn't fixed. the sign at the end of the platform says he can't leave. to exit is to disobey the law. they promise heavy penalties with threats of prosecution. find somewhere to sit and wait for lightning.

and so I hold myself hostage. with nowhere to spill I swallow thoughts that don’t belong. lungs heave for more time from a world behind the fog. get out of bed and over the self: open door, wash face, pay tax and eat. eat and read and listen. consume every pixel and fuel another day. believe in something bigger than the self and softer than the headlines, some fertile ground for hope. believe in change and eat accordingly. sleep well and pray the flowers grow. ‘go placidly’ etc. take every breath with gratitude and watch for passing traffic. don't think. dispose of doubt and plastic. strive to wake happy.

love and oxygen

every breath pleads for the next and there is nowhere left to scream. dread dilutes my dreams to days. I choke on truths like knives that can’t be used. so much that can’t be said and so little I can do. the nights give way to more that I can only take for granted: love and oxygen to waste with my potential. I rot through static into screens that steal whatever will that lingers. 

the crow on the bench in the park

I want to be the crow on the bench in the park. he watches people fight and kiss and falling through their phones. to him they couldn’t matter less. he doesn’t think about the news or where he’s meant to be. clouds pass and he can follow. on the bench or the branch he sits in total freedom from language and thought. neither serve or harm him more than fences he can fly through. without taxes his wings take him anywhere he wants. I want to be the crow in the park. I want to fly away.

they light another pyre

tonight they light another pyre with flaming arrows. one night every year for centuries, in a place I used to know. locals board their windows. some don torches for procession down the high street. the masses gather to watch, as we had; somewhere between curious and drunk on clueless disregard of where we were and the fragility of present tense. we followed the crowds to a field beyond the lampposts and our maps. I remember the heat of the pyre on my cheeks, the amber washing out the dark and over every face I learnt to miss. we wrote our fears and burnt them to ash, like you between me and the water.

the mythology of memory persists; a silent cyclone spirals in the sink. and a date on my screen reflects another lifetime for a moment: when the world felt bigger and the distance between who we were and wanted seemed a little less than endless. now our limits only tighten and the pyres burn without us. I hope our ghosts enjoy the view.

my old religion

the fall is gradual: claws retract, friends pull back, eyes hang a little lower. truths shift slowly, losing faces like marble to the winds at the end of the world. alarms last longer, I ask for more sleep. and the words keep blurring out of reach. my grip slips and what I knew of language seems to matter less with every monstrous thought. what once was a weapon now crafts a cage. nesting in a sleepy trap of toys I used to own.

I plug at the keys and perform understanding. losing sense I play my best to save face. their thought counts for something. the pixels glaze my spirit, costing every other second. focus is a shelf I lost the shoes to reach. the same can be said for former concerns beyond the body I bear. attention can't be held; I watch compassion melt like ice in my hands. I cry my prayers into the payphone with nobody on the other end. someone's dog barks at the ocean. do I miss my old religion?

last night I felt your laugh against my neck. we dance and play like we did at the start; warm and lacking any space between. you say you miss me. I ask you to let me dream forever.

headphones on

our taxes dwarf cathedrals in the city. cranes pierce clouds forever, only never high enough. but the people come and go regardless; husks of empty eyes and screens queuing for coffee from machines. ghosts in waiting without stories. on my phone I’m just the same as everyone I see. I check my pulse and pass the dead parade with headphones on.

another plastic coffin

the cat leaves a mouse outside my bedroom window. I watch the flies convening on the corpse like corporates. rain comes to scare them off. leave the dead alone. they scramble and the warning lingers, outlasting showers into another plastic coffin they can't reach.

red balloons grow through sewer grates. I'd follow them to hell if not for current affairs. between mirrors and headlines I can't look away. do we still need Halloween? is the nightmare not enough?