Aching in my
frugal mysticism,

I wasn't drunk,
but I was anxious.

Finding patience,
a rhyme
for the ages.

Walking the
face of the sun,

brightest gold
there is.

Rebuilding
my demands,

destruction my
little helper.

Shrapnel of the
day's dwindling,

and the
crumbling of

the moon. So it
may be served at

shows all around
the world.

Propped up from
earth below,
I level with myself,

among abundance
of green;
all that is lively.

Awareness of who
came before is clear,

they know well of
who I am,

and I too, them.

These rocks say it all,
echoing images of pri-
mordial gatherings.

Connected again with
whom I do not see.

—

Wholeness equalised
as it gets,

I vanish from the
quiet heights,

back home, to where
my heart, which lead
me here, will follow.

Pelican clouds.

Inky, clustered,
evaporating.

Money spent
elsewhere;

progressive
virtue...

overtly
shocking,

astonishingly
poised.

A sure nod
to the mind's ear.

Belittled by peace,
comfort in torture.

Mercy plead
together,

nonetheless
repeating.

Shooting stars
fallen in laps.

Fierce, tranquil.
equity.

Effigies honouring
breached existences, or
consistencies,

like baubles of
sparkling proportion,

opaque turned off.

Throats, and hearts,
young, and wheezing,
baffled by charcoal.

Can you imagine,

signals stalling
noisy, and silent.

Peace fair, but not
quite diligent?

Miserably aware,
walking away from
too much play.

Attracted to wicket;
but truer have been
without shtick.

A need to expel, cut
up by strictures,

splendor devalued—
worse yet, so rudely
interrupted,

yet again, revered.
Blurrrggghh!

Our land lord loves us, and hates us all,
and I can relate. More so in terms of love, and then some in turn of hate.

There's no debate, I'm making all of this
up. Forsaken demigods lighting fires beneath deaths wings, beneath where they sleep.

Counting sheep, around the clock, sleeping with face in hands, tolerating the devil.

I'm on your time and your on mine,
we are both oxymorons, but we are
less than that.

Our land lord won't fix anything, all
they want is to party. All I dream of is partying, but I've chosen destiny.

I am no enemy to the state, but it makes me sad that I have to be.

Consider me a rapidly progressing
rhapsody. Say it again, simply for kicks.
A modern day black comedy;

quirky, yet outrageously unfunny.
Half cocked imagination, yet it flows as if—

and then a brick wall.
Congested, bearing accredited banter, purified by sombre light, dry heat,

and flexible scampering.
There is a sheet, but projections derail.
The cloth is frail, and the machine

needs some other words. Tell your GP you are fine.
—
Inconsiderate, and inconsiderably
jerky, or a cool man in a messed up headspace.

Pack a suitcase, he packed nuts,
disregarding counting stock when
grocery shopping.

Freedom of love and hatred, kiss and tell.
The hell with all that cat ****, not ****** but getting close

The rest is up for the taking.

Perception a set of keys, and keys are like fingerprints, or snowflakes, or better yet opinions.

All my onlookers perceiving blurs. (Probably false.)

Eyes like lions teeth, crying in a storm. Diminishment, like visions, blown away just the same.

Everything on red; urgency, stop! Peel back, it's all black anyway.

Hooray to one day...  Hooray for what is next, and whomever follows— my love.

My journey round Herdsman
began by changing direction. A

statuesque black swan
displayed in its muddy riverbed.

Business types operating drones
in fenced fields, I saw the freeway
which I was pushed-out into,

re-entering to find the freeway
once more.
Another entry point up ahead,

welcoming me back with its
tunnel of shade, then coaxed back
into the open.

Buildings surfacing behind trees—
industrial nests.

I saw what brightness the sky
had to offer.

scrolling
shoulders

on an
android

before sleep,
wasting

lucky
days off,

writing
sloppy poetry.

Elbows
folding in

on selves,
neck

retreating
into chest.

Antici-
pation of

excitement.
Something

new from
suddenly worn
out

provocations,
with muscle all
their own.

Perhaps I'm
simply

concealing
unfinished
products?

All I
know is

haste
will leave

my brain.

All I
know is

I'm likely
to forget,

or search
wrongly
for

ungodly,
rudimental
possessions.

I won’t
forget,

apart from
everything

I must
remember

not to.

There’s a lake, not far
      That reminds me of you.
Keeps me from letting
      Your memory get carried away.
A place to remember you
      In a more natural light,
Where I imagine walking with you,
      Sat beneath a tree,
Eating biscuits.

A single body of water
      linking me to you,
Where we were last connected,
      Like wildlife.
The openness surrounding it
      Depicting freedom,
once carelessly shared.
      Its width, and depth showing
What we'll never be.
      
My longing measured
      By how itchy the grass is.
The fresh air
      Making me think of your
Thin hair.

I rise, you fall. Vice Versa, or
one of the two— either way we
both land on our feet.

The music never dies, but
while you do, I live for what I know.

Darkness, ocean;
worlds apart, yet darkness
sleeps in everything,

and you are my favourite kind.
Deep down,
the ocean but a cloud,

its thickness intensifying your
stare, and, finally, you see clearer.

Creatures at the bottom doing more
good than harm.

Specks of light, sun and moon,
dashing about, as only tiny commits
can around one's head.

A love found in death, as well as
diffusion.

Impulse collapses(...)
Adapting, imperfection
scales a

wide set of stairs,

growing
thinner in some places.

The same, yet everything
changes.

Poetry, gone fishing, first
drop of bait,

calling on concepts
other attempts at speech
have already made.

Pink and greys
attacking grass and dirt,

collectively, retrieving
evening sustenance.

Rolling over; up and down
they jump.
Peck, peck bing ****.

Sunscape behind four,
thin palms.

I anticipate it's colour, an easy
kind of sadness.

Shades of red present
themselves upon shadowy clouds.

I relocate, half way round the lake,
where it's less obstructed.

Above a dozen pines.
Courage dies, and I don't know why.

Tales shared of the depraved,
I keep true,

dismaying my
own sore, lossless cries.

1.
Cold weather forcing
sweat.

Physically uncomfortable,
inspecting brand new streets,
forging my path.


                        2.
                        Draine­d beyond reason, of
                        all that is tender,

                        as I drink, and drink, while
                        her call remains on hold.

Have you ever
sensed the motion

of moving elsewhere,
to return home feeling
foreign;

was it humbling
to know you've found
a better place to rest,

or did it dawn on you
that you may have

forgotten where it was
you came from?

It took some
physical searching

before arriving here
tonight;

this old childhood
location.

(One of which
I'd thought vanished
years ago.)

Now I have grown,
and the ocean seems
to have done also.

Now, in a chair, I
ponder it's darkness,

positioned upon
shore,

at the  bottom of
a set of stairs,

left behind, for me
to find, this perfect
view of loneliness.

Despite
integrity

thoughts
remain wasted;

passion
non-exhibited.

A naked
face

on a false
body,

falling
backward,

with
nothing
to

descend
upon.

This behaviour's awfully
senseless, my frailness explains.

The explanations in my head
never forfeiting their place.

-

It takes time, conforming to such
effortless grief... not a question of
age, but purpose;

what drives us to harbor, what
drives us off that cliff?

-

A touch, a kiss—

the caress of things other than short-
term relievers.

Let us be the sunrise,

tall buildings, street lights
that shine bright at night.

Let us not hide in the
public restrooms of our lives,

damaged mirrors will always
give off broken reflections.

Let us be the libraries and the
stories their books tell.

Let them be read and
published within ourselves.

Today
I ran away

from an
uncomfortable
situation.

Forcing
new plans
upon old,

placing
dreams among
higher heights.

It was only
yesterday that I

promised you
that everything

would
be alright.

Dress me up,

tuck me
somewhere tight.

Reveal me
only to your friends

as they

admire their own self-
portraits;

as I paint mine-
in a corner,

near the door.

Pleasure witnessed
Via ***** desire
My independence
A mirror to admire

Debris dismissed
By grimacing sires
The ups and downs
Of being on fire

Southern ridges
Structures perspire
Majesty obstructed
One can only inquire

Opportunity reigns
Following yet prior
The here and now
To which we aspire

Crucial steps
Thrusting us higher
Reaching the top
A shared empire

Common privilege
A costumed attire
The ins and outs of
What we acquire

Traveling here
I did arrive

into crimson night,
by holy light,

bells tolling over
seas and shores,

old bodies with
fresh bits releasing;

coming and going,
to see what hadn't been.

For when it was
(this life) prune-true

it had you come by
the affluence of decadence,

putting to bed
all that you ever had

congratulating
the indoctrinated.

Running on(...)
hand width widening,

a tiny universe.

Black tipped feathery
wings spread wide

the size of towers,
mimicking investments.

How a birds neck
does crane

against flat blue skies.
Eyes set upon it all,

rearing away
from the dark alleys.

Effortless the gaze
the polished head portrays,

and lays upon me, from
a world of granite.

With eyes of grey it has
seen enough to confess

jealousy beyond itself, which
would be mine
if I were in its place—

still, the head is earnest,
and with faith.

Set beside a white cross
painted black, a dove attached
retaining creamy pureness.

If what's beneath the head
shall crumble, it will be okay.

If not, dispose
of it, as if giving up
an old toy.

Man about house;
king of composure,
cleanliness,

charity backfired, or
minimal return.

All above or none at all—
thoughtful disposer,

I keep a clean cage.

Like a sunrise after
too much coffee. When
hangover is gone,

or punching you
in the face.

Eyes protected, because
this poem is about sunrise,

and I am of punctual nature,
a procedure that must occur.

An option to defer,
a referee and an ounce of

hurt, yet a
comfortable situation.

I never want to get burnt again.
White doves no desire for them

if they cost too much
or manipulate economy.

Beg my pardon, I am
stressed and mean no harm.

Twist my arm I fold when I fold
and right now I am holding on.

what cure can be found in
a band-aid but to slowly heal,
be it a small enough wound.

A large disaster, a surgical mind,
a black hat, perhaps?

Hero, villain, that is what I am,
a man—

Medication.

"Google! Tell me
what time it is."

Another frenzy, or
take it to go.

Out of pocket, or
on the other hand lavender:
a protection breed.

Go away
goosebumps
caressing my
sanctum,

allow blessed to
restrict silliness, rapping
monstrously at my door,

disenchantment
in all dire obsessions,

bleak outlets, and placid
outcries.

Told to rest—

an inkling to keep
going.

Out of the fire,
quick! into dawn—

passion,
and point of faith.

Digging
at the heart
for moisture
in the dirt,

curtains turning gold
from yellow sunlight.

If these years
were not strategically
blessed,

were a larger
paradigm deposited,

such time
would find me dead,
swallowed up.

Lightning could
strike, or a puddle
may blush,

a hole in the path
could take away our
chances,

but magic is
magic.

—

Will you
marry me, karma?

Our lives
are like cardboard
boxes,

there's only so much
they can retain.

If the pressure's
too great

it will break,
shattering what's
inside.

I loved you
like childhood,

but I guess
we all have to grow up
sometimes.

Wanting to go back to sleep
I argue with the sun,

bed sheets mimicking rude hand
gestures—

and already, these
coiled memories are unraveling themselves

like intestines from a soldier's
stomach.

I write better
with a little something
stuck to my heart,

latched on for dear
life, trying not to lose
grip, be forgotten.

Sometimes I’ll let it
hang, just to feel the pull,
and eventually it will

climb back up,
like a cat coming home
for food.

And sometimes, my
brain, it says

“Hey! Have you
forgotten about me,
or something?”

But, I say no, because
none of these words

would actually
make sense, otherwise.

Just random blotches
of red ink, and illogical

patterns would stain
this page.

I'd like for us to have the chance
to find that place we call our own.

The kind you'd visit as a child,
making beds in the grass,
drawing stories in the dirt;

climbing fences that prevented cows
from getting out.

The kind with a view,
a wide-stretched vista; sun, hills and sky;

another world created purely for
it's viewer.

—And I remember as a child,
I'd resort in covering my face,
when there was nowhere left to hide.

With dirtied hands it's not so easy,
my shadows take good care of that,

and I save my light for whoever sees past
them,

before knowing what light was
really there.

Not shy, scared
of what I can

and cannot say,
because all my

opinions state
that I don't care.

Conversations
are a drag—

I smoke, I drink,
and they all tell me
the same things.

I listen,
but not quite.

Then again,
I'm forever
repeating myself,

and no one
ever,
*******,

listens, to me.

The fact is
my mind's
a miniature
circus—

thoughts are
the fleas,

jumping back and
forth
from ideas

thin as tightropes,
air dry as cotton, a
stoners mouth.

I can't even
listen to myself.

I was to lay myself down
upon cool, dry sand,
listen as the waves came

rushing in, as if each carried
its own confession.

Instead I found myself
nestled in roots of twisted tree,
building tiny villages, from

leaf and twig- parted from
the ocean.

Unestablished and without
identity.

This poem mimics
boredom.

These words have waited
patiently

for their chorus.

This is a story
of a man sat quietly
at his desk,

searching for
substance to chew on
spit out, and

still resume its
flavour.

As regrets
transition from
doings,

into a single feeling,
it becomes

difficult to pin-point

what it was
that made you act
in such ways.

Time has passed,
and you can't help
blame

the little you
have inside on
what little is

received, or what
little effort you've
made to capture

anything
to fill the space.
—
So, when
those you meet
have stories,

stories to
traumatize the
soul,

you gather
your
absurdities,

realise there's
no use

comparing.

withdrawing
from
one another,
   (when our
day is through)
   parts of you
stick like salt from
  the sea,
which in turn,
   I cling to,
instead.

Picture each day
not as a day, but an idea

printed on
a piece of paper,

put into a hat,
drawn from at random.

That you were to live
your life

scheduled to these ideas;
ideas unheard of by you.

Ideas so unlike you
they became

nothing but gestural,

no option but
to improvise your life...

what would
you do?

A spot by the rocks for
old time's sake, a
river wide dividing city

from richer suburbs,
trailing upon the other side.

Buildings are non-existent
from this point, primary
colours: distant windows,

port, and
starboard marks remain,
pixelated, and dispersed

upon the surface of
the river's shimmering body.

The river is a road
without traffic, I give way
to nuances of its

natural behavior.

i
Scoping the sky
I see a trail of birds
cross a path within,

split, and marry
upon other side of a hill.

Now time to find my own
path.

Within the next
few days witness a sky
as bright as this,

unite and conform
with obligation, just as
each morning is lit.

Although, for now,
(this very moment) I can
relax,

observe the refurbishment
of an isolated city—

take note of it's destruction,
and how it's managed,

as I do my best to breath
in its success.


ii
the river seems to
treat him well, more so
then the food.

No food for me today;
coffee, and the hunt for
a cigarette.

The man is gone.
An unfinished structure,
it's rigidness planned,

missing bits plea for
imagination.
—
Everything seems to
move much slower than
yesterday.

The river
remains the same,

minus the wake of
a few small boats.

Today is stiff, but
I don't care,

I'll save my worry
for tomorrow.

iii
Today
the river fails

to reflect
the charisma
I need

to keep me
from

this
city's isolated
silence.

The nooks
and crannies
only those

with a
whole lot of nothing
and a lot to show for it
could ever care
to visit.
—
Today
I become one

with all those
who are

homeless,

whose voices go
unnoticed,

hearts as
worn as their
attire.
—
Today
the system
fails me,

as I do
myself—

and as the
day gathers its
momentum,

as
laborers
force dust
into

the sky,

as first birds
seize flight
in search for food

I search to find my
place of rest.

iv
As I look to what is
now forgotten, and all
brand new,

instead of dirt I see children
secured by
wooden architecture,

insecure if nothing,
elevated above an array of
Freshly planted trees,

allocated seats for the parents.

I count my blessings, think no
real thought at all
—
The universe
will thank me soon,

yet not until
this city has completely
transformed,

all these children,
climbing high,

have long forgotten
this day.

Introspective
  trier.
A record of unfinished
panic attacks.
      The complete
difference
between feeling and
thought -
  to respect and
  ignore...
and

However many people,
        whatever the disparity,
if drawn,
        always there will be
one agreement.

        (it's a given)

        So with that in mind,
knowing only
        one similarity
can help combine
        a satisfying hunger
for more
                  than just
        distraction,

        easy it does become
                  to consider,
        while realising,
                  there is no harm in
          contrast.

What can one do
when forced to stay
inside, but cry?

We are not products
on a shelf, nor should we
bid our lives.
—
What was fades
away,

unfortunate designs
disrupt and take over,

demeaning
rights of simple thought,
ancient way.
—
Positively empty,
first to congratulate,

king of my highest
mountain—

more than lucky
stars will have been
thanked.
—
Hello being amused,
not bemused, by
mistakes.

So long
departures.

the outer world
travels at such a speed

(from within this
carriage)

it causes dizziness
or is that the other passengers?

To be involved in
what's out there,

would be to stand
still.

Away from this train,

and the ticket-
checkers checked on
by camera gods.

Oh that's another
dizziness.

Can you determine
the inevitable,

stop and turn the
other cheek, standing
in your place?

Do you know your
way now,

which way it is you
point?

"look toward the
light shying inward
from the strife."

Mind the gap.

Have a nice
day.

In moments of growth
you are with me.

In places special to me,
and those that are not.

Your name
seeking to reveal itself—

whispers in my
ear, head upon chest,

guessing the image of
you.

If it's all meant to be,
then I believe, you are

here, now and
forever.

Nothing left to fear,
it is clear

you are with
me.

I have witnessed the point
where it all loses meaning.

Nothing climbing, nothing
falling. When everything rides
on that next line, but it is

missed, for you were not yet
satisfied, though it had its place.

Blindness unseen for it
is not there. Scratching our
heads at direct profanity,

when it is someone else's
back we should be scratching,
or our own to be heralding.

We take our chances
where we find them— An
abandoned ticket, or

an unattended beverage;
accepting our losses as
they come.

Reconstructing the issue,
recycling old towns.