He Lays in the Ocean

He lays in the ocean,

cruciform, eyes lacerated by salt

awaiting divine tides to guide Him

one way or another.

Beneath the waters, clear and glittering,

He discerns the Sun's shimmering corona

glinting back in the sands.

He rules to retrieve it, and diving under,

parts the water with His hands,

hinged with heavy chest.

Grasping that miraged halo

provided His rough hands

with nothing but coarse sand

and no safety of shore nor surface.

Repetition and Alteration

Repetition is a constructed lie
but one that allows us to thrive
for it's a variation improved by
the new moments had whilst alive.

Alteration in the familiar
is a route to a rout of rights
through perfecting something similar
and subsiding all of the slights.

Feathers

Feathers in your mouth and blood on your tail:

I can't help but be a fool for the facts.

Immaculate paws point to faith I'd lacked

and oust me as someone fragile and frail.

Yet we're still clearly left with a dead bird

and its carcass conveys a carnal sin

so it takes all my strength from within

to dismiss the tweeting that I had heard.

For sometimes feathers are merely feathers

and blood can come from natural sources;

when careless suspicions run their courses

fearful minds can break free of their tethers.

I still nurse that bird in my gentle hands

knowing not who did it harm nor where it lands.

#Casual

There's no worse sentence

than one what starts with the words

"I'm not racist, but..."

Upkeep

There's a higher thing

in hyacinths

sprinkled on the lawn.

They remind me of

my love for you;

how it threatened to be overgrown.

How the upkeep would

distress the neighbourhood

if not picked and pruned.

Yet my blistered hands

can no longer stand

to aggravate the wound.

Escaping my Sepulchre

Removing the boulder of your body,

I escaped my sepulchre sequestered,

solivagant against the subterfuge

and the sins and ill will that had festered.

Renascent against the apostasy

in animus that made me ascetic,

I cursed not the boulder that had held me

but rather found forgiveness analgetic.

And such reflections found me less reticent;

regret receded with ruminations

'til I found the ataraxic axiom;

I was thankful for your testing creations

This realisation rendered me removed

from a sorry world that had never improved.

Her Horticulture

The lifeless tendrils of her faded amaranth abate

in vicissitude of the verdure found within her Spring.

All plucked are her petals, as their douceur dissipates

and left is an unbloomed knosp of a madness enate.

Still those truculent turbid tendrils tangle around my chest

and try to feed on my tacit and altruistic manner.

Internecine and intransigent, I sometimes detest

those sciophilous, shady seeds that ever began her.

I shudder to think of poisons injected by her thorns

or the injury that one would endure from ingestion.

The vesuviation of variegation is forlorn,

revealing the verisimilitude behind beauty's deception.

There's a torpid tabefaction in this tryst of turgid shoots

and I'm wary of tatonnement in the tawdry tangles of Spring.

I will avoid the plants bearing the serpent's ripest fruits

and, like weeds, rip them up from their once roseate roots.

Wren

A wren springs

from his seeded seat

on to the branchlet,

which wobbles

 from his slight weight.

A wren flutters

his tiny panicked wings,

plummeting to the floor

in stuttering glide

before flying away.

It strikes me how even

the most fragile birds

make errors of judgement.

It strikes me how only humans

let pride prevent us from moving on.

We are the ones who forgot how to fly away.

Tokyo Moth

The homeless man heard a knock at the door

and his obsidian drive

told him that he was alive.

Distracted like a moth in Tokyo,

he sought any form of light

in the bitter cold of night.

His wings fluttered from staircase to window

and found alleviation

in hazed radiation.

His weary rise and fall began to slow

on his back with hired support;

the only thing he'd ever bought.

Now, this moth only had one place to go

and fell into the lure

of artificial light impure.

The homeless man heard a knock at the door

and his obsidian drive

told him that he was alive.

A Weapon Often Overlooked

R
 E
  M
   O                                                                              
    V                                                                                              SOCIETY.
     ESTABLISHMENT        :                                                 E
                                     O        DEMOCRACY'S                        S
                                    D        E                         L                       I
                                   A        E                         I                        R
                                 YOUTH                        P                        O
                                  .                                     P                        R
                                                                       I                         R
                                                                     N                        E
                                                                   GOVERNMENT
                                                                                                        

Renovations

Paint the low flying ceiling

to cover the smoke jaundiced cracks.

Anaesthetise all feeling

to forget the faux forged facts

Melt with me in the house of glass

with an espresso shot of oil.

Cackling so crude and crass

as the landscaper tears up the soil

We need more wood for the decking—

sure, just add it to the list!

Pretend this isn't our home that we're wrecking;

pretend that our children don't exist.

A Collapse of Control

Cornered by a cage of conflict;

cacophonous in its callous call.

Curtains veil red velvet cushions

and creased posters on the wall.

Feeling more crap than crapulent

as an aching kicks my head.

Thoughts return to that veiled corner

and my thoughts are filled with dread.

Aged Anarchy/On a limit

Adolescent dreams of anarchy and revolution

replaced by reality's convolution.

That disillusioned dreaming teen

replaced by dollar signs and routine

feeding the machine

rather than offering a solution.

---

But we've got five years left in the meter

and I can't help but feel

if we invest just a little more

change, we'll be safe from

the warden that lurks around the corner.

Truths

I seek sincerity

in my sadness

and so I search

for situations

were my singularity

can be sustained

as isolation.

Lingering Festivities

There are few things more forlorn

than a Christmas tree left too long after festivities.

Like a reminder of  failures from the years, they drop dried needles

and disperse around the floor into places you won't find for months

and months

and maybe years later

so that when you do

pine scent, fresh as new, will assault you

like the memories of the past that haunt you in those 

gray quiet moments

before sleep.

Windbreak

I let the drizzle fall and form its stains.

I'll dye the rest so it can look the same.

Thinking what it would be like outside

while melted wood is running down my thighs.

And still my joints creek like weak trees

that are easily swayed by the whispering wind.

Knowing I have no time for her heavy hands

and yet I can't help but miss the moaning reprimands.

Accounts

I've tried deleting your number out of my phone to convince myself that

I won't contact you again. And I don't, yet I still can't help but

scroll through your social media accounts,

[on which I have unfriended you and

erased every trace of our virtual contact

or sentimental photos, as though it would rid me

of what had occurred]

Yet I smile at some things you say

and at others get a little bewildered what I ever saw in you.

Still, the smallest mention of another loser's name

or any implied intimacies

and I still get a warm bubbling sensation in my stomach

and a tightness in my chest.

I probably don't care. 

I'm pretty sure

I don't care.

It's nothing.

Night Shames

Composing conversations

in my head

with the ideal conclusions

to relieve dread.

But what I can construct

within a thought

is never completely construed

the way it ought.

And so I must recompose

with blushing shame

a peripheral panicked past

penned to my name.

The Breadth that Breathes Between Strangers

There is a breadth that breathes

between strangers,

it is what predicates them.

Born in the bloom of hostility

in a dewy-eyed spring,

it bears no rational prejudice.

Yet we send our souls to slaughter

of stuffy summer petulance;

even a breadth can be confining.

Wild Dance

Whistling winds whip away at withered leaves

coercing them to sway and dance

into an invisible ballet,

like a stringless ventriloquist.

Airy and wispy, the strength amazes me

and I feel myself pulled

by nothing

towards nowhere

but on and on

nonetheless

and I wonder what allows

such a boisterous wraith

to wreak havoc on the elderly residents.

Angry turbulence and resentful gusts

I fight against on all vectors

trotting on myopic as a mule

saddled in dignity.

I ignore the dancing leaves

and pierce through the medium

like an arrow through flesh

and I continue through the contiguous solution,

heeding none of its warnings

of an immensity unseen

and far too visible,

and march on triumphant

only to be left dancing in the current

along side the foliage

I once ignored,

and hated.