While Meditating

The faintest flutter of a
falling leaf
grabs my attention.
Turning my head around I
look out the window:
A wayward bee
is caught mid-flight by my
torchlight senses.
Then on the same spot, a bird,
then warm sunlight,
then particles of thin air.

In this way, the Beloved
whispers to us constantly of
a universal characteristic:
the impermanence
of all sensations.

Things I Have Learned

The sunlight does not
veil me.
Instead its secret
cascades gently into my veranda:
“Be aware of this skin
that traps the pining spirit.”
A burst of this warmth
slopes down my eyelid like
long rickety fingertips
merging with that feeling of
television-static
all around my nostrils,
sliding slow like
thick poured honey.

What I learn are spun
from the garden of the sun.

All Earthquake-Like

my words crumble
all earthquake-like
into an unknown darkness.
i submerge myself in
eyeballs that spew
warm self-criticism.
i escape the unfamiliarity
of these redundant verses.

the eyeballs
pry into past thoughts
into bygone poems:
"why the hell did you romanticize
this fragile ego?"
they squelch to me
in unison.

i harvest
the humour of the eyes
and they watch me
suspiciously.

they zap my wanton squishy
thieving grey-matter brain
(possibly with skull-piercing lasers
or other equally alarming weapons
similar in purpose,
and often the cause of
gaping holes in my
imagination.)
such weaponized pests
search fiendishly for
whatever self-serving scraps remain
of my lonely, silver tongue.

this is why
strings of rotten words
of estranged letters
squelch naked out of my fingers in hoards:
but these verses are without love.
these words disregard
how they used to lie still
silently fulfilling their purpose
on my piece of paper.

and nowadays
the only thing that i
can honestly muster
out of this vile brain
that now resides under the
constant vigilance of my pet eyeballs
and in the seemingly perpetual absence
of actual talent ----
is this satisfyingly weird
predictably vertical
sort-of-ugly
arrangement of words.

Caravans in the Sky

The sky is a bruise on the skin of space
At night, when black and blue
It whispers in all its hopelessness:
"there's nothing you can do"

The sky is a bruise on the skin of space:
I learnt this as I spun
At the back of my desert caravan
Whose reigns were held by none

And so it swivelled around the sky
Screaming dreaming free
Until it crashed into a cloud
And rained down on the sea

It happened then, and once again
From sky to cloud to sea
I fell and fell, into a cell
Where calm could never be

By and by the laughing sky
Had bruised me black and blue
Strung it said, "why are you afraid?
There's nothing you can do."

So I walked until the earth
Ebbed away my shoes
Disillusioned this traveller so
Bitter black this bruise

And I saw you feather across the sky
And settle next to me
You scrutinised my tired eyes
And fed my dreaming tree

For every frog that croaks in grief
There is a bird that sings:
It was you, my love, with all your life
Who gave me back my wings

Yet like Icarus, the Fool himself,
I crashed into the light
And fell again, headfirst down
The sea of sightless sight

Up there you sat across the sky
Tied down by my grief
The sky gave way and in you fell
Into the dreaming sea.

This song, my love, I sing for you
For some things you must know:
My wings aren't worth an ounce of dust
If your wings do not show

There was a time when all the songs
The sky had passed to me
Faded into empty ears
And eyes that wouldn't see

But light has dawned between the black
And blue that drapes the sky
It seeps into my sleeping eyes
My bones, my will to fly

And so I will, and so will you

An anchor I shan't be
Share with me the sky, my love
Kiss my dreaming tree

"Enough of this wandering"
I'll sing to Black-and-Blue
'I'll take control of the reigns for once
and there's nothing you can do."

the grieving tree

dogs know that
people are assholes,
delusional and
full of shit

some divulge
indifference
to the world
and some imagine
its creatures to
belong to them

the rest are on
a foreverlong
running train
watching landscapes flit by

the trees, by the way
know this.

in fact
the next time you are
scaling your city streets
in languor
or some other
disillusionment
and you notice a
lone tree just
hangingaround by itself,
do not shuffle past
or look in the other
direction.
instead,
stick your
fleshy man-ear
to its tree-trunk
stick it
do not feel awkward:
go over to it
and kiss that
pretty wooden thing
then make sure nobody is
watching and
listen closely.

you can hear
it grieving

a hollow
baritone sort of
grieving,
an ancient
blues lyric
accompanied
by a fat chello or
a double bass,
eerie on account
of being slightly
out of tune

sometimes
you can hear
a wind whisk by
in harmony
with the chello

their words
cascade and
elongate:

we
don't
need
you

the insects know this
and laugh

while the trees they
just grieve.

Regression

"if you travel through the streets of time
seek those souls whose rhythms rhyme.
in every life you've ever been,
these souls have been your friends and kin.
so fret you not, you tired soul,
there are no laws that we control."

the flutter of a leaf

grabs my attention

i turn around very
slowly and look
out through the
window and

nothing

what fluttered?

A friday

'Today, young Gorky, you will lose something.'

Probably something important, like my sense of smell.

7

acid finds you
when the time is right

it sends you spinning
through the night
its whispers are so
serpentine
my brain is full of
turpentine

Faff

This brain in drift

Through golden clouds
My shadow falls
On golden crowds
Who filter through
The alleyways

On their Mercs

And Chevrolets
While all I own
My shadow keeps

My brain in drift
Your brain's asleep.

Ways To Tackle Anger

vast feathery wings
if I had you
I could fly
away from it all.
As everything grows
fainter and fainter,
a part of me
on happy days
will fall asleep
like a baby dreaming
a heavy
spiral
dream.

Losing One's Marbles

I like to walk upside down
on the ceiling of my cranium
until the blood flows
into my head
and little pieces
of marble fall
scathingly out of my ear
each of them turning
their green marble faces
towards my giant eyes
to stick out their little tongues
and squeal, "sayonara, asshole!"

Too many cigarettes

Summer night,
even the stars wilt with your heat.
Even my nails begin to shred
silk-skin from my cheeks in strips
that curl like smoke.
Even love even rapture,
like dried ricefields fade,
like old paintings fade.
I even out my days
with matchsticks unevenly kept
on my table and I
have to light my cigarette
with the tip of an incense stick:
Two dim orange-drizzles glow,
Their smoke waltzing towards the ceiling
as my fingers spiral upwards to kiss
the curled silk-skin hanging
from my cheek even as I
breathe even as I
draw the smoke from
my cigarette even as
the inside of my mouth begins
to despise its own taste,
my lips begin to curl
at a passing girl.

Summer

For an autumnal love
Summer is a difficult time
Even the sunlight forgets
To cascade gently into my veranda
I remember
it used to slope down
Straight onto my nose
Like a tower of blinding light
Like a blinding kiss brightly spun
from the cold cold sun.

To walk again

When the day
Is done and gone
I'll wait again
For the sleeping dawn
To arise from flame
Like a phoenix bird
To walk again
Is not unheard

A dream about you

This is a story on drifting.

It is midday and I am dreaming. A summer wind hot with sleep has carried itself to the depths of our house, through rooms and corridors and windows that rattle like those old trucks you see sometimes when you're on the highway. It is a violent rattle. The sunlight followed in places----where it existed, it painted the walls with warmth, and one could feel the earth steal a slow sigh of comfort. And you in the bedroom, reading. I had given the book to you long ago, and you had been meaning to flip by it. You were just finishing off a stray page when I came in, but you did not look, and you did not smile. It was so beautiful outside I imagined everyone cartwheeling across the city in joyous celebration, it could have been so. I wouldn't have known, because I was looking straight at your eyes, and they were a little sad. Your pupils moved slowly as you read the page, like as if you couldn't concentrate. Through the curtains the sky shone a smiling white, vast and intense and fading into a creeping redness that seeped in through the corners, riding atop cigarette-smoke clouds. You had left me by now. The sound of your suitcase creaking as it swung, fading moment after moment is still fresh in my memory, I had bought the suitcase. It was green but you painted it colourful and wrote your initials on them in a handwriting deliberately unlike mine. I had chuckled at the time, and said how beautiful it looked. It did look beautiful, it is faded now. You are still here but you never leave the bedroom, you are a shackle, you are a chain. Nowadays I don't bother, I am a coward, I am a snail.

When you snore I creep silently out of the second floor window and drift. I have been to many clouds, I have named them. They disappear often but they always come back. They are the souls of stars. They have given me wishes and taken me closer to see the stars twinkling like giant white orbs of a million overwhelming moments, and one after another they hit me straight into my heart through the centre of my forehead and then I smile and say, "I am alright." They are true friends, the stars. I am especially fond of Orion, for they are there every night for me, whenever I look up. They are smiling and smoking cigarettes. I sing to them. They like drifting. In the mornings you magically disappear from your bedroom and I can smell your perfume on the pillow. It makes me soft and fuzzy and I grow blue and wish it was night so I could have a smoke on the terrace. And look at the stars.

You are now a creature I don't understand, and it confuses me. I fear you might be growing a tail. Sometimes I feel that disheartening bump on your ass. Your teeth are longer and you have produced hair on your pupils. I think I can safely say that you are different. And like a wild beast that hunts in the shadows of jaguar rain-forests, I fear you may disappear, slink away quietly into the night while I am busy drifting. Things have a knack of changing abruptly, especially atmospheres. I am now falling, and I can see the stars flashing across my face like bullets of light shooting upwards around me towards the sky. It is all too overwhelming----

I wake up and am thoughtful.

Eat

pussy

As you were by the door

I saw you walking the pavement
Your head lowered blank in a thought
I'm sure you were thinking of lovers
And all of that love that you bought
With the beauty in you that reverberates true
Across the walls of my living-room
And in the middle I sit trying hardest to fit
Into a chair that is not there
And I loved you so true and so bare
Your words they are so unfair.

Your feet they have taken you further
And you've seen what you can't ever touch
Or is that just a lie for me to believe
Does that, my love, amount to much?
The birds in the sky are just waiting to die
And fall whizzing into your hands
They're talking, my love, "come with us, above---
Flying in the bluest of sands."
But you have no belief in the air
Your breath is a diamond to share
Your words they are so unfair.

One day I left you forever
But you pleaded with me to come home
I laughed and I said, "only a matter of time,
How long can I be expected to roam?"
And then you stood by and said your goodbye:
"I'm with you wherever you're thrown."
But if that is so true and has anything to do
With you, then why do I feel alone?
But one must not give in to despair
And one mustn't believe in your prayer
For your words they are so unfair.

The Obnoxious Transvestite Society (Lithuania)

HELLO I AM MULA FISCHER DUNCAN. I AM THE PRESIDENT OF THE OBNOXIOUS TRANSVESTITE SOCIETY FROM LITHUANIA. HERE AT THE OBNOXIOUS TRANSVESTITE SOCIETY, OR OATS, AS WE LIKE TO CALL IT, WE ARE TERRIBLY OBNOXIOUS TO EVERYONE WE MEET, ESPECIALLY STRANGERS LIKE YOU. WHICH IS WHY IT IS PERHAPS APPROPRIATE TO STATE THAT I AM CURRENTLY WEARING A YELLOW SOCK ON THE END OF MY PENIS WHICH IS BEING HELD ALOFT BY A MIDGET. WE DO THESE THINGS TO STAND OUT FROM THE CROWD BECAUSE HELL YEAH! WE'RE OBNOXIOUS! AND IF YOU THOUGHT THIS MESSAGE WAS AN INITIATIVE TO RECRUIT MORE PEOPLE TO OUR SOCIETY, THINK AGAIN. WE DON'T WANT YOU. WE'RE OBNOXIOUS. NANANANANANANANANANANANANANANANA LULULU I FARTED. HERE AT THE OBNOXIOUS TRANSVESTITE SOCIETY, WE ARE NOT TRANSVESTITES. IT'S JUST A NICE WORD. SORT OF LIKE "RUBBER" OR "UNFATHOMABLE". THIS IS MULA FISCHER DUNCAN FROM THE OBNOXIOUS TRANSVESTITE SOCIETY SAYING FUCK YOU! IT'S MY SANDWICH.

MINE.

The Winkle Foundation

Hey there. This is Lewis Von Winkle from the Winkle Foundation for overly attractive women. Here at the Winkle Foundation you, an overly attractive woman, will receive first and foremost the warmest of welcomes, even warmer than your family or a weekend in Egypt on a hot afternoon in June. But that is besides the point. What else would I get? Is what you are probably thinking. And if you weren't, well, you're definitely thinking it now, aren't you negro? I'm sorry, but in my country, 'negro' means 'beautiful'. So where was I? Ah yes. The au naturalle foot massage. The personal beach with a bubble-bath sea, and best of all: a night with me! Yes, here at the Winkle Foundation, the grandest prize for you, overly attractive woman, is a night well spent at the Stuff It Inn with your very own Lewis Von Winkle! Oh and I love you, and it was me who stole your tea-cushion. No, I'm not sorry. It makes for a great festive hat. And I like it. It keeps things festive around your head. Like eating a can of bread with the sharp end of a spoon. Ha you fell for it, didn't you? Here at Lewis Von Winkle, we share a laugh before we spy on you. This is the Winkle Foundation, saying peace out, fleece in, mexico, pelvis girdle, space-tha-fuc-disco shit-graze dig mother bitchin'-funk-a-doodle-doo!

Cream Cheese Sex Clinic

Hi, I'm Marcy Chadman from the Cream Cheese Sex Clinic. Here at Cream Cheese Sex Clinic, we clinically cheese out your sex cream, with an innovative alternative to a vacuum cleaner and we call it the Mexican. The Mexican comes in five sizes: tequila, tequila, tequila, tequila and large can of tacos. Not just that, we also have a special lump of a prize for all our patrons and slaves! Breast cancer! It's the new way to evolution! Here at Cream Cheese Sex Clinic, we spare our radioactive waste for your beautiful glowing skin, to glow brighter in a fluorescent manner for millenias to come, even after your death! And so much more for your most vulnerable areas: we have, for example, the rarest, most expensive form of herpes! Get herpes from celebrities and politicians! Be the new cool infected terminally ill pop-sock of our society! This is Marcy Chadman broadcasting from the Cream Cheese Sex Clinic observatory that is shaped like a drunk vagina, saying Hitler was a sweetiepie and my nipples went to France! Tune in next time for more creamy cheesy sex pick up lines for the clinically-impotent.

Men (for) Talking Boobs Organisation

Hello, I'm Mark Zachary from the Men For Talking Boobs Organisation. We here at Men For Talking Boobs Organisation have a very long traditionally ingrained method of having a lively and wholesome conversation with the breasticles of our significant others. Now, many of you out there will say, "oh, dear god! A talking boob?! Preposterously sick!" But hear me out here. Imagine the scenario: You wake up one morning with your brain far up your butt because of all that damn tequila you drank last night. You didn't brush your teeth before you passed out so now the inside of your mouth tastes like the asscrack of a greasy fat man who stuffs bits of pickled garlic in between said asscrack. You get out of bed and limp to your toilet, which reeks of vomit and filth. Inevitably you miss the latrine while you absentmindedly take your cock out for a piss. The carpet turns a darker shade of its own colour as your stray piss accumulates around it. Right at this moment your wife comes in, swearing like a fucking dragon-slayer from the ghetto. You realise suddenly that she pays you no respect and makes you no breakfast. You slap her and she falls on the soaked piss-carpet. From then on she is quiet and listens to you, but you for the life of it cannot squeeze out a single word of conversation from her. However, she has sex with you for she is afraid you'll beat her. Quite alright. While you're down to business you gaze philosophically down at her luscious titties...and they say "hello!" You're amazed! Baffled! Turned on! You spend the rest of your life treating your wife like shit and having the conversations you can't have with her...with her own boobies! Through these years we have seen many breasts rise up to fame and flatulence: Squishy the Right-Wing talk show host in "The Daily Boobage", Rapunzel Finch who is a writer, writing on the eventual freedom of breasts from the bondage of women, and of course, Lilly and Lilly, the two talented twin tits who made it big...well, literally. So big, in fact, that they were most successful in UN peacekeeping missions where they were used as talking shields that would make bullets bounce noiselessly off them, and at the same time have a lively, loud and eventful conversation about money, education and the healthcare system with the enemy soldier. Yes, here at MFTO, we share a dream. This is Mark Zachary, and I just love boobies.

this drifting brain
is harrowed through
in mindless laughter
it sings to you

( o Y o )

we need a
revolution.
and yet this
this is what we do
with the very same language
with the very same alphabets
that assata shakur used
to write her autobiography:

( o Y o )

drifting through the jungle

keora leaves fall quietly on the
tired river that
moves steadily towards the
awaiting sea
one cannot be
aware of activity
at all times.
& at all times
tigers roam the
islands of the sunderbans
& at all times
i was not aware.
& all that was received was
a silent feeling of
being watched through
the darker trees
by two luminous
effervescing eyes.

breathe this green

breathe this green
that echoes across
miles, that echoes
underneath a sleeping
river green. breathe
this green that
cancels the brown
of eyes breathing
and the green
breathing eyes
of the river.
breathe this green
through which we squint
for a hint
of orange and black
that never was
that always was
elusive.

She was on him, screaming his name, squirming like a hungry maggot while He lay still enjoying the springiness of the bed. She was a passionate, fiery-eyed goddess and He was carrying an entire galaxy in his head. But in the end, underneath they were both dead. She longed for a countryside life with horses and pigs and cows and little yellow seeds that she imagined growing into big fat trees. He longed for nothing anymore, except perhaps the continuous oral care of his cock. To be honest both their dreams were futile, for while one tries to follow her dream, the other pins her down by the mouth with his manhood. These are all metaphors. In the morning they have coffee together, hungover without drinking, cross-eyed and cross with each other, for no apparent reason. It is just so. They have no work, no hassles, and no expectations from other people to slow them down. But here the question arises: slow them down for what? In twenty years time they will not go anywhere. The same house will stand in the same place at the same street, decaying. By that time his cock will not be able to pin down even a squirrel, and it won’t even matter. It will be too late, too late for her. Her blonde hair will be doled with wisps of grey and white silk, and her hands will be too coarse and deathly to hold the reins of a horse.

After a series of genial miscarriages her want of a life has faded away. Her eyes reflect the apathy and grief of her city, the streets of which are swarming and swarming with her brothers and sisters, all dead underneath. Yet they hide their loneliness well, deliberately and with haste. He likes to think that he doesn’t, anymore. His loneliness is poised on a sad little stage for all to see. He visits strip clubs and dingy pubs with suspiciously mangy women, who spend their time polishing their ten-foot fingernails with a hot bowl of wax while eating soup with their vagina dentate. They are strange. He is lonely. He likes soup but it doesn’t taste like anything anymore. Not with the coarse and deathly hands that prepare it.

They got themselves a dog, a thin old spaniel, name being Rasputin, blind as a worm. He wasn’t a very good dog, but that too is debatable. Half of her time went by cleaning his feces and washing all the insects crawling over his body. He drooled like a hagfish. She loved him but he only humped her leg, sometimes, half-heartedly. She tried to take him for walks but Rasputin would prefer to stay, instead, with Him. He on the other hand hated Rasputin and would tie him up to a poplar tree in the garden and kick him repetitively. After a point that seemed to be his favourite pastime. After a point Rasputin was no more. His ribs had been kicked open and he died a terribly painful death on a painfully festive night. She cried a little, while he got his excuse to get drunk with suspiciously mangy women. Life drifted by.

On the day of His death he was at the museum. A horrendously heavy night of drinking had left him wandering zig-zag with a bottle of rum in his hand all around town. A suspiciously mangy woman followed him, eyes rolling, lips wet. Soon enough and somehow or other he had stumbled towards the museum, and it seemed to him natural that, since he had come this far, why not give himself a free tour? The time seems right to see the history of our little ickle earth, what with the dinosaurs, and the fossils, and the artifacts, and all that science, mystery, legend, and fucking monkeys in caves staring placidly at a group of other monkeys wrapped in white staring at a group of other monkeys embroidered in gold, all these dumb fucking monkeys. Fucking monkeys, he thought. And so he broke in, and he walked halfway down the hall, and passed out, and in his sleep he choked on his own vomit and died. Fucking monkeys.

If anything, she was jealous. Her eyes had not delivered tears when she heard of His death. Her eyes had delivered only a look of confusion, and then a look of anger, and then a look of acceptance. And the next day it was a look of jealousy. It always leads to jealousy with these people, thought God, the most jealous of them all. And so, now she was all alone, and the house was as empty as her mind. She only felt grief, and a curiously large amount of self-pity. In her coming years she will never realise that the change she had wanted, the excitement she craved all her life, was always within reach, always in her hands. She only had to reach out and grab it, and shove it out towards the sky for all the stars to see. In the coming years she will never realise that she, like so many of us, has lived the life of a vegetable. And on the day of her death she, just like Him, will regret every day of her life. And those of us who do not experience life, but rather passively drift by airily without paying any attention, we shall all regret, and never be able to escape this spiral.

innerlimbo

my lips they seem to have been sealed
i cannot say till it is revealed
for now my heart is still as stone:
it fell asleep to a simpler tone
it breathes and breathes in yellow sighs
and it may not stir until it dies
and within it lies another heart
that weighs too thick to be torn apart
that has no will nor life nor grief
that bears no way to feel belief
but deepest down i know of this:
you must fight for what you miss
and no heart of stone can ever stand
between me and my wonderland;
so i take my leave till it's revealed
my lips they seem to have been sealed.

lonesome night

watch it grow, this lonesome night
this night i wish would fade to white
watch it breathing lullabies
watch it breathing through its eyes
my conscience chokes and cannot sleep
i've run too far and delved too deep
and now the road that led me down
has led me to my lonesome town
so now i'm here and i cannot leave
i cannot do what kings achieve
and when the world is cold and still
look out through your window-sill
watch it rise, this deathly plight
watch it grow, this lonesome night
the stars they're glowing yellow-white
the stars they're glowing crimson-bright
never dancing out of sight
never reading what i write
the stars they made my heart ignite
they need no love they have no fear
this lonesome night i disappear.

Misery disappears at the realisation of a beautiful indifferent universe.

Hiding Under the Living-Room Table

I have been hiding under the living-room table for almost a thousand years. I have hidden in many other places around the house, but this was my favourite spot. The living-room table. And a marvellous table it was, with it's precariously polished, beautifully carved legs that hung down like the limbs of a black jungle-god. By now everyone knows where I am, for they've figured out where I spend most of my time. Hiding under furniture. They call me furniture man. One day while I was concentrating on my usual hiding posture I was surprised to see a little girl sneaking in from behind me, her eyes big and wide with fear. I asked her why she was where she was. She said she was running away from her captors, and I peeked outside and I saw her entire life in the shape of a jackal scavenging through the room, in search of its little vessel .

Why am I here? I could jolly well be outside, basking under sunshine, running around in circles, enjoying myself. It is because I still enjoy myself, outside or not, and rather immensely at that, in my little dim rectangular cave under the living-room table. There is a difference between isolation and solitude. Here, I have all that I need. Outside, a face among a thousand more, I feel isolated. Sometimes, I sneak outside and merge with everyone else to keep them happy. But wherever I go, I am always under the living-room table.

The only time I feel I should abandon my shelter is when I am in love. When I am in love, I falter. I no longer wish to be by myself, but rather with (and very awkwardly so) the one in question. I am like a cowardly dog, too afraid to come out from under the sofa to take his little scrumptious treat. I am afraid, perhaps, of heartbreak, and perhaps I am not afraid at all, but merely apathetic. Or perhaps I am afraid of dependence. I falter.

Her hair is a mesh of golden brown, almost the shade of her eyes. I remember watching her walking by, I remember dreaming. She remains beautiful, she remains graceful, while I remain untrodden, silent, staring. She is also afraid, she is indeed hiding. She is yet to pull me out. When we are together our tables bump against each other. She knows nothing yet, but might just be curious. I may be curious. I may have faltered. But I have faltered while sitting under the living-room table. And I have loved under the living-room table. And I am in love under the living-room table, wishing I could just crawl out.

Why are we here? Not to exploit, or destroy, or deceive, or hate, or multiply, or believe, or even to love, or travel by foot, bus, train or flight, or just to smile and be happy. We aren't here for fate, wisdom, or grief. Nor are we here at someone else's expense, or because it was our destiny. No, we aren't here for any of that. We aren't here for anything at all. So why are we here? It doesn't matter, fact is that we are. Relax, just enjoy the ride.

Autumn Lady

It's been many lazy afternoons
That I've seen you through your window
You were dancing in the living-room
You were spinning nice and slow

And I entered through the garden door
And I caught you before you fell
For I know that you have constantly
Been falling to the floor
And I've seen the way you look at me
I've seen your eyes before

And the sun had stopped its shining
And the seas are breathing softly
While your eyes they shimmer brighter still
Like a star from long ago

And the stairways zigzag through the trees
That stand outside your walls
They hang onto the highway
For fear they too will fall

And the gates of hell have been grieving
To have lost the sight of you
And no king nor god can ever fathom
The things that you can do

And the sun had stopped its shining
And the seas are breathing softly
While your eyes they shimmer brighter still
Like a star from long ago

And your breath it sifts the sand at night
As we sleep upon our beach
It stretches white for miles and miles
Its end too far to reach

And I've taken all for granted
And I predict what could be said
But you, you stand a fortress
And your soldiers have left me dead

And the sun had stopped its shining
And the seas are breathing softly
While your eyes they shimmer brighter still
Like a star from long ago.

And every second my eyes rest upon
The path that you have walked
My heart he leaps and disappears
And my lips they cannot talk
For I know the path that you have chose
Was the path that I have strode
But I'm lost and my shoes have tethered down
From the friction of the road

And the sun had stopped its shining
And the seas are breathing softly
While your eyes they shimmer brighter still
Like a star from long ago.

Atonement

Our night is young
It sweeps the sky
In its cradle
We learn to fly
And one can see
One wear a smile
And snigger secrets:
Secret guile
And long ago
Within my sleep
I fought a war
I went too deep
Now that is lost
And lost for words,
I sit and stare
At shadowed birds
That sweep the sky
Forever young
Riding verses
Of songs unsung
Yet here you are
With your pretty hair
And I look at you
And I sit and stare
So hear me, love
And heed my cry:
Our night is young
And shall never die.

these people that are now a crowd,
these people that have screamed aloud,
their sorrow hides behind their frown,
their stories i shall pen them down.

To a bird

in the streets that we have bought
i have seen you lost in thought
in the plains of grief and naught
i have seen you walking.

and upwards you had hitched in lifts
and downwards i have moved in shifts
and never have we paused for gifts
nor water nor conversing.

and i have seen your inner world
and i have seen your sighs unfurl
in fits and screams they swirl and swirl
without rhyme or reason.

and as i drift on further down
through our moon's dressing gown
there is no tear nor grief nor frown
only quiet acceptance.

and as you circle up in time
through fields of forest smoke sublime
most definitely in your prime
too soon you reach the sun

and when you touch the fireball
one day baby you have to fall
and spiral down where angels call
to you in dreamy murmurs.

so do not breathe another sigh
for in my dream you learn to fly
and in my dream you never die
this dream that spirals downwards.

and in the streets that we have bought
where we have drifted lost in thought
where the city groans in grief and naught
existence has no meaning.

how long has it been?
how long, through these filthy semen streets
have i been walking?

these things on the wall

these things on the wall who are forever in yearning
these things on the wall who will forever be sleeping
they stand for no man and they stand for no minstrel
and they are standing no longer but are hiding in mirrors
these things on the wall they have reflected my reverie
they surround you with hunger till you cry out a memory
and every waking morning they will feed on my conscience
and they follow me in subtleties till i end up going nowhere
and they wait for me in numbers and are guided by shepherds
and they dance around their campfire and lather in their alcohol
and none have ever lingered for more than a moment
and none will ever linger for the rest of this evening
and there will be no one to come follow me tomorrow
and one cannot fathom the weight of their sorrow
but soon it shall pass and soon shall be forgotten
and i will never look back over my shoulder
these things on the wall they are waiting for morning
these things on the wall they have truly been learning
and they have leapt on the trees but not on the mountains
and they are leaping over rivers and riding the oceans
these things on the wall, they are not breathing
these things on the wall, where are their shadows?
these things on the wall, where are their shadows?

My motives are lost in repetitive thought.

estranged

this face is not mine
these hands hold no dust
nor shine
nor an ounce of love that lived on
in the creeks of my skin
i, within
a world submerged
upside down in the waters
of sweetest nonchalance
yet if perchance i wake up
from this terrifying terrifying sleep
hold me tight, sir Tragedy!
for i refuse to fall back:
god knows i can't swim.

Starry-eyed

Wave goodbye to moments akin
Ferment the flesh of the fruit of sin
Sip it, now, with nonchalance
In death do I live my foreverdance.

Icarus

Red gleamed white in this brightest night,
Red rushed past my eyes.
Like angels soft and sad with hearts
That fell into the skies.
In leaps and bounds we spread our wings,
In leaps and bounds we flew---
But I dreamed too soon, I dreamed too soon,
I dreamed I dreamed of you.

Verusian Vinniefly.

His little box

Years later, I found a little box where I kept my most prized possessions. It was empty. Had I not wanted anything as a child? Perhaps I had lost everything. I remember losing my toys at a ridiculously rapid rate. Even now I consistently keep losing things, and people don't trust me with their lighters and matches any more. I pocket them absent-mindedly. I pocket all sorts of things absent-mindedly. (I am an absent-minded thief.) I am stranded in my self-made island of wretched carelessness. I mean no harm. (I am a harmless possum.)

It was empty.
Are we compelled to put things into our little boxes and spend the rest of our lives scavenging through our neighbour's backyard looking for more? I hold every shit in the morning closer to my heart than mere material wealth.
Often I drown myself in self-pity and try to justify my disregard for the enormous web of humanity that surrounds me, with vague philosophical ejaculations. They are all premature (ha, ha). It seldom works. Perhaps it is the sperm count (my philosophical penis is weak). I am like a dog without an appetite in a land of raining biscuits.
I have recurring dreams. I have recurring dreams of being followed by a dog, rabid and mangy, mouth frothing at the lips. He stalks me everywhere I go like a lonely drifting spirit, inching closer all the time but never close enough. Every morning after, I would awake with goosebumps scourging my back and no morning erections. (I still have these dreams now and then and cannot figure out why he is so intent on following me even into offices, banks and classrooms. I must be going crazy.)

I must be going crazy. People mention this all the time but seldom mean it. It is half-hearted and lethargic. It breeds loss of breath. It is death. Often it loses its meaning and observers let it go by without pausing to mull it over. Words die in conversations on the profound. (Words die in English classrooms.) Usually it is a lie. If a man were to truly realise the inevitable demise of his sanity, it would send a nerve-racking chill up his spine (And plant rabid dogs in his dreams. He will be followed everywhere forever and ever.) If I am to go insane, I will need nothing more than an empty room and a box of paint. (I have learned to keep things simple.) I will paint the room to my liking. People can watch me as I paint the walls over and over again. It will be like a zoo. (I am a majestic tiger, and the paint is my roar.) (I am Sisyphus, and the paint is my boulder) They will throw me treats now and then and I will grovel and drool on the floor like a pathetic worm. (Insanity is no joke.) I hope to goodness I don't become crazy enough to eat all of the paint. I hope it never happens (and now it will because I've thought of it. That's how it is on this bitch of an earth.) That would be a real shame. (What will I draw with?) That is bad enough to be deemed as torture. (What will I do when I'm bored?) I hope they don't put me in a straitjacket. I expect I will die out of an excess of defiance (paranoia) or claustrophobia (paranoia). It has to be paranoia. I do not trust myself. (Sometimes I feel that everyone I know are aware of something important, and keeping it secret from me) How will I draw with a straitjacket on? I will have to use my mouth. I will have to try. Apparently some people can paint with their anus. (I will have to try.)

I will have to try and put things into my little box. Maybe cut-outs of pretty girls and some money. (These days little boxes are known as banks). I hope they're worth it.

the sky is red with anger and the deserts are still yellow. in the city the streets wind down like ancient serpents, hissing in a hollow drone, its alleyways wet with dead rats and subway semen that turn up all the way from the crowded subway below. and yet the irony is, artists are still painting beautiful pictures.

blue

blue the colour of september
blue this dreary night of march
blue the skies after withered storms
blue the drunken days at hand
blue my mourning motherland
blue the skin of corpses cradled
by the lonely love of a river
(the river not so blue anymore)
blue the heart of fire
blue this world of prying prying souls
blue cockroaches in manholes
blue your grey eyes
blue my heart
where black applies.

Night-time

Tonight, under a sleeping sky,
I kissed the moon and waved goodbye.
For she, unspoken, had grabbed my heart:
Our love can tear the world apart.
And so, after our night went pale,
I checked to see if our love was stale.
And lo, behold! I found no heart:
She took that away before the start
Of the time when we slept
tangled, insane,
Of the night where she spread
into my brain,
And I smiled to myself, and I wrote her a song;
I will see you again, it won't be long.
I will see you again, it won't be long.

Dream before your time is nigh,
Dream before your turn to die.

Whisper

To you, my brother, these lines are laid bare.
To you, my brother, I weep freely.
For the needlestain junkies in the streets have flung me out,
And all the minstrels in their opera halls have spat their hatred on my face,
That boiled sickly sweet so much so that entire cavities drilled through my brain
and kissed the stars that hung around fucking and multiplying in their sky-beds above
I have been pushed into an orgy clown-box
by people who had considered me innocent,
and white and shiny like a rare diamond,
which when it looked into the mirror
saw itself in kaleidoscopic horror,
I have toiled under sack upon sack of wounded hearts
which I stitched with the skin of my shivering lips, which in turn
hung limp and loose and paranoid and unable to kiss,
I have toiled under entire mountains of protruding eyeballs squirming and staring staring staring,
staring maggotridden and stinking,
I have toiled under the stink of justice,
for I had wronged, I have wronged, I will err,
I have toiled, I have toiled, for a snail-paced decade of decadence
And with my fingernails I have scratched a stranger's face
That sat placidly on my neck, unwillingly, obscurely
Fingernails that bled profusely from their tendons
that hung bare and peeled off if you picked at it enough,
I have walked through slimy green gangrene greentown redtown blacktown downtown alleys
where angels fucked themselves over gigantic barrels of whiskey,
their dicks hanging out like some
ugly decaying stinking sucker-mouth sucking the night air,
which they briskly tucked into their trousers at nine o' clock, sharp,
their dicks, not the night,
passing greying, dying versions of themselves without a second thought, indeed, with disgust; indeed, with guilt;
I have fallen through the flickering trickholes of love
and landed on soft pillows of indifference and often I have died,
and I have called for you, brother
when I lay in bed with my brain throbbing on the far side of the room,
I have screamed, screamed for slithery electric eels
to tie themselves like a noose around my tongue,
before I cry out:
"Shit! Filth! Suckers of Satan's cock!
Mongrels! Murderers!
Fuck you! Fuck yourselves!"
And yet I refrain, I refrain
My heart is heavy,
My heart is wilting,
And to my lovers: I have forgotten you
with a sort of kindness that you must have used to forget me,
I have forgotten your eyes when we fucked day and night,
I have forgotten our kisses when I look at your silhouetted face,
only ready to show itself after
a decent diplomatic mask has been chosen,
I have forgotten our grief when we sat dawdling in empty rooms
with heavy walls that vomited nightmares and toxic ooze,
and our flowers are now scattered along an unremembered road.
I have forgotten how to awake,
I have forgotten myself, and sometimes
I forget the world.
I have toiled, brother,
I am dying, brother,
And I do not know where I am.

Love love love love love
la-la-love
makes the world go WAR