the meadow

I wake to hail on my window and laundry to hang. the tasks stack by my pillow. I keep track with my phone, resisting the urge to feed it to the fishes or the tram tracks. patterns emerge in the empty space between the work that should be kept for rest. never short of plants to tend to or roles to play. I show up when I’m called and do my best to care despite the headlines. anything at all to stunt the risk of stillness.

my parents visit me in the city that used to be theirs. we cross the bridge and pay to see the pretty paintings flown from Boston. I think about the world in which my taxes fund our fancy art exchange and bombs to drop on schools. the same world I pay for, that watches children burn and goes to work and sleep each day. I think about the way we are although I’m safer to not think at all. so many people taking pictures. so little left unseen.

my favourite is a painting of another space between. early afternoon sun washing autumn leave shadows through the meadow. golds and greens to long for in the dark. I’d take your hand and show you if it opened and I could.

the end of days

tomorrow comes and all we do is talk about ourselves.

happy hour

what’s left of me beyond the screen? self and subjectivity half price for happy hour (while stocks last). an ache for love or sleep under my eyes. I’ll do better tomorrow, or wait to tell myself the same again. growth in iteration or patterns in repeat.

a nightmare on a rock

new magnets and electrical solutions in an envelope from Mark.

strangers using the same pen. particular places at the table by the window. silent and still breathing behind screens.

the building next to the library is currently being removed: this means that noise may be heard on and off during the day.

much louder headlines for the flowers. I hear more about billionaire weddings than the millions under siege. love and diamonds over constant blood and tears on my phone. I do my best to keep my undue judgements to myself. look in the mirror. if you can't say something nice...

whistles and strangers screeching at a ball. I tremble like a child again. dull and far too serious for a nightmare on a rock. I wait to see your pictures. you always take your time.

waiting for the doctor (2pm news)

black trousers, black jeans, black tee.

when was that last test?

Friday, but like early, like seven am.

did I tell you they don't work there anymore? I have to go tomorrow in the afternoon.

they've said the same thing three times.

yeah its cause they don't have anything to say.

[a lot of the local businesses are in lockdown, they say the town is on edge.]

which town?

[they're trying to keep the kids as calm as possible. you can imagine the panic across the town, lots of the community don't know what's going on or if they can even leave their houses-]

the girls have gone against Chloe about Christmas this year.

how so?

I mean it's a bit presumptuous of her to think we want her to host every year.

that's true.

she's mad. read this. I didn't think she was worried about losing it.

why I want to scream

we take the tram to catch a movie about today and self indulgence. front row leaves within a minute of not seeing who they want onscreen. cackles of laughter on their return from those of us more patient. the beautiful Americans have perfect teeth and problems we couldn't imagine. how are they to live if they can't tell who they're meant to love? one hour fifty seven and another twenty million for a dance around the edges of our egos. ticking every box to house a morgue of lonely husks. was it a train wreck or a mirror? do I really want to know?

I leave the credits angry at how we are or the glassy veiled reflection of the modern leper that can't stop crying out for more. we laugh about the surface and having wanted something else to happen. I open my phone to watch a bomb drop on a hospital fire escape. journalists and nurses disintegrate to clouds of dust. I think about their kids and what they might have thought about the movie. too bad she had to settle for the waiter with the housemates. at what point do we escape ourselves? am I drowning in the mirror all the way down to the grave?

the kettle boils and waits for pouring til the water's cold. tomorrow I forget the clouds and why I want to scream. 

zero dollar day

eyes open and close through paper days. a body on a pillow. some nights pass quicker through static and silence in the sheets. others fill with colour.

dreams build doors that never actualise beyond the bardo. familiar faces take the stage to gloat ambitions for the demons to scratching claws and howls. a pantomime of what if, all of little consequence. at the time it all feels real from the cheap seats to the wings.

sometimes there's excitement like I haven't known in years. I chew on fantasies I'd never have the nerve to chase. watch them forge a path into the inbetween. hope is less dangerous behind closed eyes. I see you and you want to see me too. sometimes there's only joy and warmth without an urge to read the news. your closeness is enough to keep me where I am. content for a moment; cycling circles in my head.

the theatre empties for tomorrow. I spoil a zero dollar day on account of lack of sleep.