Plaster

Cold thumbs, like bolts,

pressed into the crevices of my skull

keep my head together;

an expedient fix

for my recurrent rupture.

My tongue is somewhere in my throat

dancing a final waltz,

drunk from the life's it had touched,

thinking not of the hangover that

tomorrow's loneliness brings.

Death—I am no [longer able to survive

this vessel the Lord has intended for me,

give me any]thing else.

New Year's Resolution

The universe becomes differentiated by day and cohesive by night.

Walls convolute into cloud
rather than clear figments of colour and orchestration.

Night is the synthesis, the absolute plan in its final form.

Solidarity of darkness awaits us

when human life has blinked out with no more left to offer.

Why then progress?

To know an end of darkness (a finality) is better, to some,

than to flounder in flux for eons and ages.

People who spend so long searching

just have to look when the corpse of day rises before the eyes—

it raises nightmares because it tells us of what is unification.

Unification is the constancy of dullness.

Unification is such an unsightly concept.

We want a human whole working in tandem together.

That is unsightly.

It denies that the world consists of an autumn:
vivacious leaves scattering in a tempest of close to no significance.

That is why we are taken by sleep in darkness,

because when faced with Unification
we turn away into the splendor of our own minds.

We want the time after the splitting of the tongues.

We are made for divergence.

But now I know that being human, a seeker of divergence,
is an ungodly chore of wasting.

A painter who paints constantly without rest

just to pull his eyes away from the terror of a blank canvas; the horror vacui.

This year I will reach a resolution

that transcends small fallible goals of self-improvement.

I want and will be unified with darkness and maybe a finality will be reached.

I hope.

Specular Glare

The subsided winter sun
shimmers on a wet, winding road.
To my left, the fallen giants
kiss the dewy grounds
on a forest's edge—
and to my right,
a great body of water
consoles the other side
with a soft silent stroke.
The sun's specular glare
threatens to down my drowsy retinas
until the sanguine sunset
ceases the suffering,
reminding me that all is beautiful
whether we start or end our journeys.

Open Door

I wrestled against the whirlwinds
which strained against my every stride.
They sent dark thoughts flying wildly
to convolute and then collide.

The vacant precipitous road
that I must ascend to get back
ran with a drowning deluge
that only amplified my mind's attack.

Yet just as I was about to break
and fight against the storm no more,
my eyes averted to a yard
in which there was an open door.

The door ajar filled me with hope,
it was no entrance to be ignored,
such was its power to entrance—
the threshold for the house of the Lord.

I had walked by that church countless times
but had always noted the door to be closed,
yet I found shelter when I needed it most
and my darkest flaws had been exposed.

Perhaps that door was a sign from God,
or just a fateful union of mind and time in tune,
but if that door was left open for a reason,
the Lord know's I'm thankful—I'll be home soon.

Soul Question

Do we

stir the air 

when we 

leave to 

dispel 

our essence?

An Escape

Ghostly white

prolong the night, 

scare the reality of day

daydreams and nightmares away.

Spineless

Yesterday I bought a new novel.

I considered taking it back

when I saw it had no spine

but then I concluded

neither do I.

Toppled

So beautiful is a tree tumbling over a cliff's edge—

it will soon fall to the sea, but it carries on,

salt waiting to lick its roots, lapping at the soil—

let me count the ways they coil and twirl—

capillaries circling the areole like vines,

dust settling on the grass and back as the wind takes it

soon specks on a pane of glass effaced by the wind.

Dream Life Away

Lately, I've found more meaning

in my dreams

than during the day's dreary blur,

so tell me

why bother to wake up

from a lucid life,

worth much more than living?

Fading into Greyscale

Tangled up in severed threads,

my oldest friends they want me dead.

A rainbow sketched in black and white

drowns my eyes in silver light.

You fill me up with old laments,

a message that I never sent;

a memory that I can't recall,

a tale that's grown a bit too tall.

A Day

Rose-fingered dawn, lay your warm cloth upon me.

Awaken them, deep down the cold billowy sea.

Helios, you shall rise and run over the land;

may your slow movement turn us all back to sand

Now unveil fallow pastures and rivers of gold;

dieing trees soon to be covered in greenish mold

Will this last long enough for me to walk away

and will anyone ever remember that day?

Endless fields unfurl before my eyes;

as a burning sunset slowly dies

Realms of life start falling out of sight;

seas of stars unfold through the night

Across the meadow, now turned to grey,

alone the pallid moonlights lay.

Wanly disclosing the rippling wheat

lying in quickly vanishing heat.

Skull

Fleshy smile,

more hideous

than the skull

that skulks behind.

Please, No Happiness. Just Sleep.

How long

until

I turn it off,

and save those well wishes

for next year's bleary eyes?

PLEASE,

there's NO need to check,

or include me in your HAPPINESS.

I don't want to hear your fireworks

or dance to vapid songs

that will be forgotten

JUST as soon as we all will.

Just let me SLEEP.

The Second Storm

There was a storm in heaven.

The clouds were rearranged.

The sinners blew through open gates,

whilst the angels were scattered and estranged.

The lord could not recall

which souls he intended to keep.
So he handed the nearest man a brush
and in trust told him to sweep.

It was Satan who took the tool

and he did exactly as God had asked.

He swept away all signs of sin,

took his thanks and then unmasked.

The lord was irascible in his wrath

that he had let the devil deceive,

but Satan said "It is you who lied-

I repent and you reward no reprieve!".

And so it was, heaven dared no more clouds

to bring a storm again.

But the fallen angel has righteous reason

to return with flames of rain.

More or Less

I am happy

Less

Than

I am not.

                                                                           (          H          a          p          p           y          ).

Praying for Morning

The weekend has come again.

Bitter words and liquor are loosely

rationed throughout the room in unison,

both equally influencing the other to release their potent sting.

I sit among them, indulging in both conversation and consumption

yet experiencing a great dread of their interactions and the respective responses.

Hours pass,

conversation and consumption has surpassed ration and rationalisation

and the rolled up notes are as spent as the sins they secured.

I cast a nervous glance at the clock on the wall.

It's almost time.

Is it my turn to speak?

Another mouthful to avoid such discomfiture.

Another hour passes and plans are picking up pace.

People reach for their coats,

shoes,

bottles,

making a raucous racket 

as they make their way to the door. 

I also make for the door,

coat and bottle

in trembling hand.

Retired

to a reticent and reluctant

cacophony of error.

And so we disappear into the night, 

Their noise polluting the air, I grip my bottle tight.

Looking down at the threshold at my feet,

I just want to turn and retreat.

I wish I could return to a bed less exciting.

The cold night suddenly does not seem so inviting.

But Satan's serpents circle the room

and I cannot make my excuses.

I take solace, knowing that as long as I do not kick out

I will not be bit.

Besides, morning must surely come soon.

December's Dream

The scent of your gossamer locks

distilled by the December deluge

infuses with the damp fabrics

which cover your soft winter skin,

it reaches my nose at the exact moment-

your red wine breath whispers

in tired susurrant tongue with chapped

cherry lips, biting back the

lullabies to lure away sleep

and I don't know where to rest

my eyes, ears, or nose,

so settle for your shoulder

and shelter from the cold.

Clouds In the Dark

If I catch you in the dark

I'm so sorry that I didn't wear my reflective lights.

Maybe if we found a spark to ignite

we wouldn't have to lift our eyes.

If I leapt out from my shoes

explore the city from a hundred feet above you,

is it worth it in the long run?

Waiting for the day

and losing sights of setting suns.

Firelight

Ethereal phosphorescence in the ether

of a blanket beneath the stars.

Sparks waltz from the glowing flames

pedalled from choruses and cars.

And as the day's dimuendo is forgotten,

the bled-out sun as distant as my gaze

I match my black pupils to the white moon,

wide and wonderful in my contented daze.

Finding Warmth

Incandescent candle light, 

emitting emollient pine.

Triple layers leave the night

wrapped in wool and wine.

Condensation fills the panes

when morning comes around

from a warmth that never wanes

with four bare feet off the ground.

Yet the frost gathers outside

dissipating the dewy day,

so we let our breath escape inside;

(once more) you'll keep the cold at bay.

On the Shore

Pressing through the unmitigated chaos

to come upon the calm shoreline-

a border to the ocean of my thoughts

whose waves are sleepily directed

by the whispers of my mind.

Lone as I am, standing on the grains

of my imagination's beach,

I cannot help but enjoy the humbling pressure

of discovering it all myself.

Yet I will not deny

that discovery is greater shared.

I keep looking for myself along the sand,

secretly hoping

that you will discover me instead.

Absent Cirrus

I rediscovered an old sin-stained notebook

containing your name and old phone number

written in the dark, distracted

curl of your cursive.

I was standing outside a café

watching a cirrus cloud in the cerulean sky

float by like foam on a pint of beer

(meanwhile, the absent-minded cigarette smokers outside

watch their fleeting exhalations

coalesce with the clouds),

and thinking about how 

the memory of our meeting has ebbed,

it too ascending and merging with the sky.

How you

finally broke

like a storm across the sky of everything.

Bed of Roses

Winter brings night by afternoon,

a gloaming sodium vapor lit

ninety-nine metres apart,

but those seemingly obfuscous shadows inbetween

contain the most comfort.

Favourite LP

I've noticed you listening to my favourite LP;

I've often wondered if it conjured thoughts of me.

Honestly, I could not care less if it did or not,

it's just a mild but nagging curiosity.

Do those words hold any meaning to you;

those lyrics which have often defined all that I do,

or are they just some soulless sung sentiments

which I have desperately clinging on to?

I've noticed you listening to my favourite LP;

I've often wondered if it conjured a happy memory.

Do you attach the music to those missing moments

or am I just another meaningless mp3?

I remember the times I used to sing along

and you used to declare that it was our song

but now that we have gone our separate ways

repeating the lyrics just feels wrong.

I've noticed you listening to my favourite LP;

and I wonder how you have the audacity

to ruin something that I used to love so much

and leave its sleeve in our debris.

Beneath the Surface of the Sun's Silence

Phosphenes float in the fleecy clouded sky,

like restive woken walkers, weaving to work.

The withered yellow leaves have all but died;

the worn arms that held them plea for a perk.

The grass-blades shave their early morning frost

as the sun ascends and purifies the night.

The cows complain about the latest milk costs;

the price could not justify the budget's bite.

The wind's peppermint breath conceals its scent

plundered from depths of desperation,

a breakfast of sulfurous sorts, nights spent

ruing the winter's rapid inflation.

And as day swaps shifts with the oscitant moon

the phosphenes know they have arrived too soon.

Gazeless

My words may not mean much to you.

They elicit no response

and they will hang like stars,

which are always there.

You could wait until the night,

maybe then you’d see them

but you would still have to

choose to look up

and I don’t expect that you will.

Vision of a Stream

The fleeting vision of a stream

is stolen by a sunny beam.

I cannot feel the peace that lived

within the context of my dream.

By losing heat I pay the cost 

to walk a world of fog and frost.

There is no cause to stay in bed;

the vision of the stream is lost.

Game Over

My noose has got itself into knots,

nervous about all of its loose ends-

it says it wants me to drop everything

but I can't be beneath when it descends.

My bucket is feeling so empty,

woozy from having its world completely turned-

it says I should kick it into touch

but I can't let go when it is concerned.

The spring in my step is spirited,

bouncy from the thought of a final bound-

and leaping off the pixelated cloud

I fall asleep to the "GAME OVER" sound.

Asylum Skull

Disconnected dissonance drones into my drums,
my lifeless limp body floating above my bed—
the crimson lampshade reaches out to an empty socket
as a seven hour death orbits my hollowed head,
and harrowed though I am, my cerebration can grasp the plug
to spark a glimmering celebration of the dead.

Filth/Fresh

Repulsive layers of hoary skin,

days old on my body

full of sweat and sin,

matched by the lewd grubby stubble on my chin.

Loosely layered filth on my sheets

which grip me like a drug

and fester where the flesh eats

my former self obsolete.

Transcendence,

I ascend.

The dirt from my bristly past descends down the drain,

icy water pours and devours me,

heavenly bites like an angel's unrestrained passion—

a startlingly strong baptism

penetrating my pores.

Resplendent layer of unspoilt skin

I am born;

I am youth.

Smudge

Rust rubbed into the black card-sky.

Bleak streetlights, a child's grubby fingertips

which smudge the silence with sounds soaring by,

joining the dots from thirty second clips.
And so the rhetoric realisation echoes a retrospective cry

but the hand that forms cannot maintain the same grip,

I smudge the anxious smile away from my diminishing dye

and extend the same stroke to my wind-chapped lips.

Escape Route

Something changed that night,

full-beam irradiating gleaming green needles

strewed across the silence and the desolate dust,

cascaded horse-chestnuts crunching on the coarse gravel.

As my droning wheel-bearings startled those intrepid foxes

who had dared to make the white paint their bed,

the black cat's eyes glinted towards the ebonized sky

as if their master was prepared for flight.

Much like the foxes' ill-fortuned sleep,

my small-hour soundtrack was disconnected

by some strange interference suggesting a return to signal;

a tinkering tone I could forgive

for I now find myself back in the civilization I had loved to avoid.

Through all the twists and turns,

and incandescent lunar-lit landscapes

I cannot shake your mind.

Evolution of (a) Man

Minor brushstrokes

on the portrait of my youth,

a springtime collection of sentiments

that no longer hold their truth.

So I sever the cold roots of winter

painting over the love that they had gripped

and find home in my sunny solitude

and the missing pages torn and ripped.

Soon

Surreptitious little ripples spread animus in my mind,

but art ameliorates that sour state.

48:39 to combat those dilapidated disorganised plans,

accompanying acerbic print on off-white

which resembles that resentment to empty words with its flowered obtuseness.

The Heart is a Lonely Hunter;

Loveless.

I'm done.

Sleeping Away the Dreaming

Lurid, lucid landscapes in luminous zest and zeal

where majestic magenta melts into the black and gloaming teal,

but materiality could never match this mirage of an ideal

so I bring my body to bed, where everything is real.

Seasons Swept Aside

The first leaves have fallen on my dusty careworn drive;
a forlorn foliage graveyard of deciduous death.
Indubitably forsaken from arduous ceaseless use
but not pity peppered in it's plight.
It instead houses those haggard hirelings of the harvest Moon—
like the branches across who had embraced those leaves
and sheltered my drying drive from the ascendant summer Sun-
a favour reciprocated through their ceaseless tacit pact.

I've watched the seasons stake their claim
on that stoic horse-chestnut across the road,
but none could conquer nor truly compliment its colour.
And sweeping the first leaves from my dusty careworn drive,
I discern how drastic the difference appears from mere months ago,
but I can admire how subtly small the seasons shifts really really are
when observed at a distance.
Colour will rekindle.

A Sunrise Stroll

Dew-kissed toes

in permeable plimsolls

as morning's coffee breath

collides against my neck.

The wrens cheerfully chirp

to my trudge through leaves to work,

a bracing halcyon blush;

I embrace my morning rush.

A Step in the Right Direction

The moon's bleach illuminates ultra-violet freckles
on your exposed shoulder-blades
as your furrowed frown searches for meaning
in the leafy silhouette of your frame.
You step into the forest's mouth and the silver halo,
which had orbited your crown, falls and fades
and with the bleaches kiss, restless thoughts are cleansed,
all wild and rash becomes tame.

Obscure Junctions

Spanners can so swift and suddenly spring;

the coils of life leap like a jack in the box.

We cannot say what the next day will bring

so we cannot be prepared for life's shocks.

The fog on the path obscures the cliff top

but we have no choice but to walk blindly,

hoping our feet don't reach the sudden drop

and, if they do, the fall treats us kindly.

We should not become bitter about the road

for it too leads us to places of joy.

This route can take us to places so broad

so we should walk; and both rise and fall enjoy.

The twists of this network can lead us dazed

so open your mind and become amazed.

Bed

Over-eager summer nights

strip me naked drenched in sweat.

The window is no escape

nor her hazy cigarette.

Autumn evening's welcome sigh,

a brisk breath against my bed.

Her acclimatising bliss

soon brings warmth to where I'm led.

Yet winter's kiss is far too cold

which lingers along my back.

Her sheets shake my shivering spine,

living in sincerity's lack.

Truth is, I can't blame the seasons

for the discomfort night brings.

It's the lonely side of the bed

which brings the coldest of my stings.

Mr. Meldrew, I Feel You...

"Technology has sunk society",

typed tempestuously to the network of inattentive eyes.

Spouting the same old stale jokes shared and restated;

quipped with my continual complaints—

I'm every bit as bad.

Beyond the Beacon

Azure hammocks of cotton strings

suspend premature rains,

celestial lenses of passionate gas

hug tendrils connected to torrential reins.

Precipitous pride in the catbird seat,

humbles and crumbles to chalices below.

Necessity calls upon deliverance,

for life's elixir, has no life of its own to know.

Flight from the Fly

The devil is at my window.

Six legs latched onto glass.

His hexagonal eyes disinterested.

I freeze and wait for him to pass.

His crooked smile twists my way.

I look fearfully to the floor.

He stretches a bony finger and beckons.

A signal that I can't ignore.

It's become clear that I'm found.

I have no faith to hide.

How could I possibly use the shadows
when the darkness is his guide?

So I take a shaky step full of shame
and climb onto his sebaceous back,
feel his wings flutter against my heart aflutter,
almost praying for an attack.

But when I open my screwed-up eyes

I see that I'm falling through the air.

I'm paralised completely,

death has answered my prayer.

Crossing the Storm

Passing the threshold of the storm

on the road to staying dry.

As the clouds slunked off over my head

I exhaled a thunderous sigh.

I was headed firmly north

whilst the gloom swallowed the south.

Looking the storm in the eye

I ripped the sharp teeth out of his mouth.

But now that I have got here

I just want to waste my time and roam

because I know that if I return

he'll be waiting for when I get home.

Lull

I collected no comfort from these cold keys

in the brightest months of bloom,

but my own flowers came into fruition

in the meager greying gloom.

The paper seemed to absorb raindrops

and break apart with such clarity

which the computer could not evoke

nor offer the same sincerity.

My walking boots had been collecting dirt

whilst my writing pen was collecting dust

and when the conditions turned for the worse

I peeled away the clay-like crust.

Damp air imbrues my curly hair--

through my scalp, soaking my skull;

and only when the summer's passed

do I feel the skies clear calming lull.

Café Blues

Who runs the sundown coffee joints
at the close of Night and Day?
I have spare time and money
without a place to pay.
There's a premium of rowdy bars
with loud voices and louder shirts
but it all smells so superficial
with egos as high as the girls' skirts.
Just take me in from the cold
and keep my caffeine from going low.
It's another sin-free Friday night
and I have no place to go.

Broken Doll

There are knots in the strings on my shoulders

and I have not the nails to disentangle.

You can ken from my canter and my carriage is contracted;

the controller's lost control.

How'll I relocate my lifeless limbs

with none to manipulate my marionette—

and even if it could be managed

how'll I master my own movement?

So better to sever these tangled chords

and decussate this surplus cerebrum,

disassemble the parts and restart

to give this stooge corpse a course.

Negating the Negative

Considering the phrase "too much of a good thing is a bad thing",

would the inverse indicate

that too much of a bad thing could indeed be a good thing?

It would most likely be concluded to be a rash rationalisation

for the very beginning-

"too much..."

implies an excess, which in itself connotes negativity.

With that being said,

this apparent negative is already an alternation—

or a negative-

of a postive action, and so any negation of a negative action

would invalidate any reprehensibility.

Right is wrong is wrong,

and wrong is right is wrong.

Cold Campaign

Egoistic lists govern my compulsive cabinet-

and though I see the policies that I pass

often alienate the public,

I care not for their votes.

Deep down,

I would rather display contempt towards these empty vessels

rather than fill them up with the ingredients of growth.

So I questioned if culture could cure the ignominious ignorant

when I killed their comatose cult;

but my misanthropic mindset met no well-taught contention;

victory tasted like an insult.

Infusion

Sheets mottled with our stains

painting portraits of those afternoons

in dried tears and satisfied drool.

Cravings channelised through touch,

tactile tenderness turns to tactical retreat--

emphatic sighs broken by caffeine's refuel.

Biting Back at the Crocodiles

Fourteen billion eyes gaze

transfixed on the same thing;

their own self-centred sentiments.

If only we were staring at substance

instead of inconsequential ideals--

and as the starving skeleton stirs

from his lurid lacrimation

his sleepless lucid dreams

are controlled by a Sandman society.

Our own tears are filled with foul floods.

Illicit spills of banal and lilliputian "loss",

these opprobrious cathartic tears blind us

from a sight for sore eyes.

So let not our own troubles be a willing distraction

from our despondent and decaying domain,

but let them guide us into worthy action

and put a priority on the purging of proper pain.

Woven Blanket

A mile long bed, with room to spare 

and a blanket that I’ve woven from your hair

found in the plughole of the shower,

and I still need

every last piece of you

wrapped around me.

501

Another dart has been rakishly hurled,

curled to the left of the intended red mark.

One more to spare, a double to win,

too cautiously this time into the dark.

With replenished arrows, I hold my resolve,

determined the next should be my final shot

but some vacuous distraction at the hilt of discharge

ensures my fumbling fingers fall foul of the slot.

My rivals also struggle with the subtle balance

of butter-fingered brush and ham-fisted thrust,

sure that it will be my dart to pierce the heart

I'm distraught to find myself once again bust.

The opponent steps up with a glint in his eye

as all I can do is watch him take his aim,

acquiring the target which I have let slip by

I'm once again on the end of a losing game.