this is my fun epiphany.
dances are free and stealing glances have smirks attached to the edges of innuendo. there is beer, lots of beer and champagne and cider and there’s the getting of tattoos and piercings, just for the heck of getting a piercing. everything’s spontaneous, everything’s got colour and spice and everything floats two inches off the ground, like we’ve got wings that work in auto pilot. you giggle and i giggle until cheeks hurt and stomachs hurt and the days turn into nights turn into days and there is flight of time and fancy, flirting with fuzzy and frolic.
hey, you wanna run down to the sand, down to the beach, down to where we can watch the sun coming up? it’s coming up real soon. race ya.
with a richness between those unspoken, i desire
words that sigh and drip from lips, that with one
kiss may burn on flesh’s timbre, a yes of purely
honest forever lasting prosperous distraction
i heard the lazy hiss of homemade hamburgers on the barbeque. it was nice.
i also heard the hiss of cars on the wet road. i sat and listened through the open window. i liked it a lot.
it ground me to here,
to this softly smileworthy place,
a simple kinda place that feels like home, within a home,
within my aloneself, at peace.
i swillingfully drink sweet
i smackfully kiss sticky
i shhhfully touch forbidden
height, a flight
from fingers clasp, i
good and pure,
i propose that there is nothing better for the soul than sharing a conversation, a very large bowl of home-made spaghetti bolognaise and a six pack of pilsner – here, in my kitchen, in the softening light and quiet. nothing that is, except the realisation that neither one of us want the night to end.
the sunday morning’s first coffee sip is a stinger on the back of a dry wretched throat. the opening blinds flood a squinting light whose welcome is met with the drizzling rain. within seconds, it is heavy, and falls to spite. they greys are dulcet all around this dry wretched man and his pulsing fogg’ed mind.
he can still hear birds, playing birds. are they courting each other to fuck(?), he wonders. he is, for sure he’d hoped, to be more than a typical dirty man.
there is still an ache here, in the not-so-secret garden of respite. this is where the crossroadskeeper stands. this is where dry wretched brains are held to account. this is where the coffe turns cold, like the birds (those fucking birds), and the wet drizzling and dulcet grey sunday morning sings a song that he’s not quite sure is in our out of tune.
i’ll be your walk-along-the-beach-with-a-laugh-in-your-ears-and-sand-between-your-toes-and-salted-wind-in-your-hair memory tomorrow at sunset, if you’ll let me, if you’ll let me hold your thoughts for a quiet while before something’s nothing again.
look at the stars, they’re here to meet the sparkle in your eye.
deep and far away, deep and near, here, for us.
here, i’ll show you. that’s something.
something // r i g h t // there.
from me, with you, there’s a neversayingness of
a b c d e f g h i j k l m _ _ p q r s t u v w x y z
for what more than turn’upped lips,
swinkering hips and woo’d-fired souls do we live,
say i, say aye,
i’m a graduate of belief
i just sometimes forget to hope
until the next sun rises
there’s been a death of an idea, thanks for asking
i double checked the sums, and fuckkkit, the mental
model is fuck upped out of proportions, with punching
walls and swearing at God as heroin’s hit me, raise me
dealer, bet on black, bet on thirteen or anything now
here’s deep and dark and dire and bogged in swamp
but i haven’t accepted anything fool, i’m still looking
for a way out of this stinking mess.
i don’t know what i should be
doing either, or where we’re going
to do about it. i’m open
to suggestions and suggestion.
cherry blossomed ways,
ripened day of falls, where warmth
is shhure // precisely
it is not i, but They who steer my chariot, and with Their
stallion grip they bind my mind, and pierce the night’s
blanket sky to once again, silence my forlorn Sight.
i eat secrets with passionfruit
ice-cream. whisper those
i. dirty in the back seat
ii. sweet teenage crush
iii. traffic light dreaming
secrets in my ear. c’mon,
serve me up a double scoop.
there was chill of bone and will and when i ran
the head of ice’s wind and piercing shrilled my name
, but i was warm all the while and afterwards, and long
after that for the day was long and still well remembered,
and the night for now is — still
i enjoy the sweet conflict of the closed eye times when my breath rasps in beats, two, two times for a distractioned focus, fractioned we’re ordinary people in threatened fracture. i have a twitch now, at the base of the little finger on my left hand it’s kinda welcomingly freaking me out —- like indigestion too many hours after i’ve eaten. it’s not dark, it’s not nothing, it’s a swelling of My Consciousness that if you don’t understand i can’t explain unless you’re unlessed. i’m floating in quasi-free. i can laugh at the uncanny certainty that only comes in these most familiar of adolescent memorial-times. did i tell you how i used to feel it under my hands on the steering wheel, the same as when i’d cry at night without a skerrick of sleep, except it became welcome in the later years. acknowledge.
i tried to write some
thing else with spine
but i slipped
a risc, and,