Sometimes a jolt can stop you.
Like a phantom step that calls for you drive your heels to the ground,
Or a sentence in a book that yanks your gaze back to the beginning,
Heaving and lurching over.

Sometimes I stop,
To take in that I have stopped.
That it has been as few months that I could count on fingers,
The same that have scratched at my insides,
Heaving and lurching over.

Sometimes that same jolt can push you,
Like a static shock from a touch.
And that is why I do not claw, crave, beat or binge,
As I think of you most days, not out of love but as a warning.
For if the shock from your static unmoving self
Had not left me stung and stumbling,
Heaving and lurching,
I would not have ran forward.

*I have been cold inside and out.
I have been clawed and have grown talons in return.
And I was paler than my anaemic self,
Lacking in haemoglobin to burden with rasps of air,
Because my heart was weak and could not push blood to the surface.

But now that the colour has drained from my face,
I can blend into snow.
White, all but for red lipstick,
And apple in hand.
So I know when people have found me
They must have had to stop to look.

You may search for kin in the blood that binds,
The haemoglobin of heritage entwined.
Or you may wade your way
Through the rich and meek
To find those of whom you speak,
Those so oft' hidden in plain sight.

Trust not all that you can see
For disguised treachery
Can lie in the softest of smiles.
Devious plans of mental mockery
Executed with cunning and guile.

Look instead then to the conquests!
Not to those we won outright,
But to the ones that fall to unions
Under starlight, under night.

Perhaps even then we will find
With our silent siege of time
That the Kinship sails on blind.
When the mindful heart
Meets the heartless mind.

We are the ***** purveyors of other peoples lives
renouncing the living breathing beating heart
in exchange for another photo of craft ale
and home-cooked food with a foot note description
as if it would fill our bellies and sate our hunger.

We are the dark wave tsunami of digital information
waxing lyrical about that holiday in Spanish sunshine
and a rant about car parking attendants and traffic jams
rather than the outstretched palm to jaw caress of realness
instead we line up perspectives of another bottle of wine.

We are the breeders of the optic L'enfant terrible
gorging on the memories of other worlds in 140 characters
snap shots of the life we could have had outside of the screens
the spineless automatons of digitized free love
the could've been, would've been lumbering electronic has-been.

We are the tumultuous storm rising fighting against the unknown power
we unite to save bees and coral reefs
and explore the concepts of actually doing something humanitarian
all we need do is sign the petition before the 11th hour
and be one of the thousand voices saying:
NO. We won't take this any more!

We are the saviours of our time and the rescue merchants of lost dogs
imbibed by Scrabble and Candy Crush weaving the elusive like a band aid
the tapestry of memes and images of cute kitteh's in boxes
chasing the shadows of reality on a stick for kicks
and all the while the moon is out there somewhere shinning her light
glorious silver light etching through the hash tag of cloud formations.

We are no longer what we thought we were. We are each other.
A haemoglobin gelatinous mass of misinformation and forgotten dreams
You are not alone. Even if you wanted to be,
my friend, my sister, my lover, my brother
quoting movies as if it were an inner wisdom speaking in tongues.

God lit us into life
and enjoyed us for just over seven days-
when clouds were still white puffs of sweet nicotine
and a volcanic eruption was just another blaze
in a series
of ***** inhalations.

But then God coughed his lungs out
and realized that Humanity is a cancer
which divides uncontrollably into a collective
body without a head to control it; a cancer
that insists on tar-

-ring its own pathways
along pre-existing pathways
of life-giving oxygen
(cities replace forests just as
carbon monoxide replaces oxygen
in red blood cells' haemoglobin).


...Evidently, the pleasure of her eyes was not enough,
so you sought for some clouds and volcanoes.
But then again, the absence of that same pleasure was what
drove you to become God in the first place.

i still feel the urge
of the clear water of escape and roughly 90 sleepy circles,
and the call of the shiny one who shows me my own
haemoglobin.
i still want to float away to the clouds in silence
in the still air of tranquility of nothingness
i still yearn to be nothingness
to become the air we breath

but i cant bare to leave you.
not here.

i.
Abyss.
Cocooned within an infinitely bounded vacuum
A smile eclipsed by resonating quiescence.
                         This emptiness
                                  kills.
I yearn to sculpt the carvings of camouflaged tears
through 3 am poetry
but yellow sheets emptier than my dreams
embrace
as I dangle amidst kaleidoscopes of barren yesterdays.
Even words have failed me tonight.

ii.
Chaos
Twirling against haemoglobin tiles
deranged voices heist the oxygen from my lungs
as I gasp
against a narrowing rib cage.
Insanity tattooed within mascara embroidered eyes
I hear you over and over
screaming, screaming, screaming,
and I explode
into scarlet fragments of nothingness.

iii
Adieu
I used to build esoteric constellations with
the stars in my eyes
and tuck away the moon underneath
my smile
But now my irises bleed the tales of fallen stars and a widowed sky.
Whiskey memories sway against burnt edges of my windowpane
as I spiral into an expanse of toxic ruins
of myself,
falling
falling
falling
falling











fallen.

The rich herbal infusion of your blood
It blots on paper, makes funny shapes,
You giggle-
Teabag skin stripped by a paperclip,
Torn so easily, it smells like rain
Like the first time your bare feet touched soil

You long to lick it,  
It's the liquified form of tension,
Some inner tangle propelled outwards,
Tempting, tempting,
Like stuffing a yarn doll with its own string;
The re-consumption is only natural,
But allow it still to flow-

It is water let loose from a dam or a hose
That's been blocked with moulding leaves
And now sprays fitfully just because it can,
A thousand explosives set loose
From their trembling captors.

By no means is it neat,
But the sieves of your veins have kept it
Fresh and scarlet with health,
So it isn't unpleasant to look at.

Drain it, let it pour like honey across the table
Where your family sits, silent and traumatised,
Watching the deluge do what it does best.

Pour them a cup of it to have with their slices
Of cake and biscuit crumbs on their plates;
Haemoglobin is good for the brain,
Gentle terror for the soul.

Red is a sign of valor
The color of my haemoglobin
And the color of the Reality Stone

Red is an unstable color
My eyes have seen too much
I’ve seen everything
My reality is cursed

Red is the bloodshed on the ground
Nobody to scream for help
Not even a single person alive
My world is broken

Red is a sign of hopelessness and abandonment
I will keep on fighting until I really have nothing left
I will stand and never back down
Until I fight and bleed no more

Just when I thought that my world was at peace
I was wrong
My reality was cursed with just one red stone

Red is a curse
I only see blood and nothing else
As my blood flow comes out of my flesh
I see nothing but the reality of this world

Red is the color of my traumatic past
I see myself on the corner
Scarring myself on my left arm
My blood was held accountable for my PTSD

Slip me betwixt your lips
As easily as your hips
Cyanide a couple drips
Haemoglobin a couple rips

Blood thins
Pace races
Death pins
To your faces

Easy exit,nothing more
For those who get it,here's the door

i refuse to let go of this sadness/ that wraps me up in the dead of the night/ because my calloused fingers have crushed too many shards of happiness/ only to exsanguinate poetry/ out of the blood cells/ that the doctors claim have enough haemoglobin/ despite the scars that stink on my wrists/ covered with the holy threads/ my mother asks me to wear/ so her gods protect me/ but they fail to shun the devil/ dangling on my left shoulder/ that loathes me/ yet continues to be the parasite/ that the host of my body thrives on/ because it has never known/ any other way of tenancy/ except in the house of insecurity/ that has decayed/ into blooming flowers of hatred for myself/ full of poison/ that is enough to weave a string of thoughts/ detrimental to a sense of peace/ i have never been a consumer of/ for i have only eaten from the leftovers of sanity/ that the artists before me could not afford/ and i am the flesh and bones of their temerarious ghosts/ roaming graveyards/ of miserable mortality/

Night is for visualising the dreams,
Day is for turning them into reality.
Gut nods at the dream,
And mind turns it into a hustling bloodthirstiness.
If life is a red blood cell,
A dream is the haemoglobin.