i felt shame with the lawyers
saw letters from employers
a kanji sign for death
and a sickness for the scholars
the flower boy
next door
with the wreath at the backdoor
reeds grow out of my body
the scabbing antibody
as an operatic ghost
to you i seem composed
the flower boy
next door
with the wreath at the backdoor
satchel
the relation to your eyelid
and glitter
is fluttering, butterfly -
pretty lips is his dream, monroe
in the pipeline of his night
the planet dispenses with your knowledge -
no! kiss and keep your composure,
await his
hopes of a polygamist
in a monogamist’s body
lust or pride,
your mask of lucifer perplexes
he then assumes
at the very least, an unmade bed will suffice
and glitter
is fluttering, butterfly -
pretty lips is his dream, monroe
in the pipeline of his night
the planet dispenses with your knowledge -
no! kiss and keep your composure,
await his
hopes of a polygamist
in a monogamist’s body
lust or pride,
your mask of lucifer perplexes
he then assumes
at the very least, an unmade bed will suffice
beaut
i
equate a kiss to a
self-portrait
we're tall
spaces
but will never be
more than a breath
mirage of
fabricated self
dry hair, fill mask
with feature
curiosity of the
history void,
please bear this tongue apologetically
as i take the self-portrait and smear
brush strokes across
sabotage, you finally
appear
equate a kiss to a
self-portrait
we're tall
spaces
but will never be
more than a breath
mirage of
fabricated self
dry hair, fill mask
with feature
curiosity of the
history void,
please bear this tongue apologetically
as i take the self-portrait and smear
brush strokes across
sabotage, you finally
appear
routine (to uncle lachie)
a nude picture of your uncle projected onto a wall,
you see the similarities between genitalia but
not of the eyes or the nose or the mouth.
to the hospital bed navigating corridors,
a distance for a distant uncle.
the compass of your mind seduced in the aftermath
of the news. the million year old man, ventilator
pumping wildly — a daily increase — his chest
erratic and bored of the everyday struggle.
you walk through another ward, the smell of birth
even worse than the smell of death. a baby cries, and
you want to tell it that this is just the start of a
whole lifetime. same old nurse walks past,
cigarette packet in pocket, irony too cliché to even
make special note of. working for your death
must be so ever bittersweet. but then, a break in
the sullen rooms appear — a lengthy narrow corridor
exhibiting paintings by children. always noting the one
which shows the child sitting in bed as a superhero,
and not the ones where crude representations of
family members are present. presumably, the paintings
portraying nightmares and surgical apparatus were
editorially cut. families outside waiting rooms — their
facial expressions always the same, choice of flowers
swap like a death rota. ‘his room is on the left hand
side, just along that hallway’. the trip has been made
every day within the past few months, the nurse
does not recognise your face like the others do.
but the nurses forget faces as soon as the casket gets
brought in. the chapel attached to the hospital is never
occupied — maybe a loss of faith has universally occurred.
maybe it should have been placed next to a less significant
ward, where the patient returns to their everyday.
you see the similarities between genitalia but
not of the eyes or the nose or the mouth.
to the hospital bed navigating corridors,
a distance for a distant uncle.
the compass of your mind seduced in the aftermath
of the news. the million year old man, ventilator
pumping wildly — a daily increase — his chest
erratic and bored of the everyday struggle.
you walk through another ward, the smell of birth
even worse than the smell of death. a baby cries, and
you want to tell it that this is just the start of a
whole lifetime. same old nurse walks past,
cigarette packet in pocket, irony too cliché to even
make special note of. working for your death
must be so ever bittersweet. but then, a break in
the sullen rooms appear — a lengthy narrow corridor
exhibiting paintings by children. always noting the one
which shows the child sitting in bed as a superhero,
and not the ones where crude representations of
family members are present. presumably, the paintings
portraying nightmares and surgical apparatus were
editorially cut. families outside waiting rooms — their
facial expressions always the same, choice of flowers
swap like a death rota. ‘his room is on the left hand
side, just along that hallway’. the trip has been made
every day within the past few months, the nurse
does not recognise your face like the others do.
but the nurses forget faces as soon as the casket gets
brought in. the chapel attached to the hospital is never
occupied — maybe a loss of faith has universally occurred.
maybe it should have been placed next to a less significant
ward, where the patient returns to their everyday.
placed in wings
stop gazing at the moon
deep in a joyousness,
i draw my last breath to look at the stars on your face,
take my heart and place it in a
lightly woven silken sheet.
and caress it like the delicate wings of a bird
oxygen swimming to the highest peak.
-- upon this i may dive into the sun's ray
where your silhouette sits against stone.
in the mountain i hide you away.
and see shadow dances in concrete --
deep in a joyousness,
i draw my last breath to look at the stars on your face,
take my heart and place it in a
lightly woven silken sheet.
and caress it like the delicate wings of a bird
oxygen swimming to the highest peak.
-- upon this i may dive into the sun's ray
where your silhouette sits against stone.
in the mountain i hide you away.
john cassavetes
where people reek of near death,
smoke cigarettes and set off hand grenades
to the days of youthful adventure.
and to retreat to a comfort zone would be a safe bet
but it lasts as long as your candle to a burning match.
find myself in a state of denial for days
hoping everything would turn back,
but our clocks are manual, the loss of life’s flow as they are turned back.
putting heads under water to obscure voices and their expressionist tone.
i'd like to think my mind is so clean you could eat off of it but days of endless TV advertisements and listening to people's phone calls have left my brain dry and seized. dirty minded from even the most prestigious of their words, the vegetable life beckons;
a woman under the influence.
to the days of youthful adventure.
and to retreat to a comfort zone would be a safe bet
but it lasts as long as your candle to a burning match.
find myself in a state of denial for days
hoping everything would turn back,
but our clocks are manual, the loss of life’s flow as they are turned back.
putting heads under water to obscure voices and their expressionist tone.
i'd like to think my mind is so clean you could eat off of it but days of endless TV advertisements and listening to people's phone calls have left my brain dry and seized. dirty minded from even the most prestigious of their words, the vegetable life beckons;
a woman under the influence.
yesteryear
scene:
old house behind a hill
dotted with touches of yesteryear.
drained of its family portrait, it lies awash with floorboard memories.
i visit the house for a sip of repression. the wood creaks while the ghosts converse,
conducting a generational lesson, a requiem for
the disenchanted and the forgotten.
there was an old woman i used to visit there, her skin stabbed of history
with eyes cloned from an obituary.
old house behind a hill
dotted with touches of yesteryear.
drained of its family portrait, it lies awash with floorboard memories.
i visit the house for a sip of repression. the wood creaks while the ghosts converse,
conducting a generational lesson, a requiem for
the disenchanted and the forgotten.
there was an old woman i used to visit there, her skin stabbed of history
with eyes cloned from an obituary.
phrenology
placed in cosmic affairs --
bled antiquated.
an unwilling to coalesce with normalcy.
shrouded in pretension - consumed -
my feet pure in the virgin snow.
i kiss the snow, left blue, hurt by the vision of a doe.
the bitterest pill to swallow;
flashbacks of throwing birthday parties for my pets .
wistfulness grass cuttings scream ‘world on your shoulders’
(please hurt me cliché, please hurt me).
sweated mosaic posed in metallic -
you poised rhetoric.
mountain faced and machine operated,
i am studying phrenology.
bled antiquated.
an unwilling to coalesce with normalcy.
shrouded in pretension - consumed -
my feet pure in the virgin snow.
i kiss the snow, left blue, hurt by the vision of a doe.
the bitterest pill to swallow;
flashbacks of throwing birthday parties for my pets .
wistfulness grass cuttings scream ‘world on your shoulders’
(please hurt me cliché, please hurt me).
sweated mosaic posed in metallic -
you poised rhetoric.
mountain faced and machine operated,
i am studying phrenology.
insecurity pt. i
fake petals
breath through --
reminiscence of needing,
then i cut God
desire relegated to your free will cloak
i push the brush
over white bowls
but see the face of
him
and him
hands posed, glint
between your vision
where have they been?
your fire of divine swelling light
fingers, mouth, cunt --
gestures of human condition
this kiss, that kiss - history's creations
a cup of light,
poured into my eyes
the milkiness of the blind
breath through --
reminiscence of needing,
then i cut God
desire relegated to your free will cloak
i push the brush
over white bowls
but see the face of
him
and him
hands posed, glint
between your vision
where have they been?
your fire of divine swelling light
fingers, mouth, cunt --
gestures of human condition
this kiss, that kiss - history's creations
a cup of light,
poured into my eyes
the milkiness of the blind
untitled
retreat not from the body
but into the body and away from engagement with the world.
cut off your tits and inhale the scent
that permeates from your now titless frame.
train yourself in stoicism — bare. a painted still life of the world’s origins you would dare to enter.
perfume it up, boutique’d and disposed. you convey skinless, a skeleton — anatomically disused and undesigned.
but into the body and away from engagement with the world.
cut off your tits and inhale the scent
that permeates from your now titless frame.
train yourself in stoicism — bare. a painted still life of the world’s origins you would dare to enter.
perfume it up, boutique’d and disposed. you convey skinless, a skeleton — anatomically disused and undesigned.
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