trepidatious

a tribute to reality television. 

is it

though,

is it

the word?

penance.

facing a jury

of previous lovers

i hope they remember

me fondly.

some made me bold,

a few made me scared,

some were only around

for a night 

or a few hours. 

you were all my muses

in your time,

even if i've already

forgotten your name.

your honour i contend

that i am accountable  

only for standing up 

for myself, and that

my kindness serves only

to highlight their

own misconceptions. 

to conclude your honour 

i offer up my sacrifices 

and take penance in your thoughts.

again.

when love is rubbed away

there is a cast of shadows

to greet you.

they inhabit the steam,

singing songs of longing

and insomnia.

what chains must break?

what piece of fate

occurs to make

the light shine?

pulling the moon

into the story

i've been digging holes

and uncovering things,

where the air is pregnant,

and you are born again.

chances.

swallowing  the bitter

with the sweet

i carry matches

for starting fires

and magic tricks.

a stronger fate

awaits the penitent, 

but to fall in love

with a clown

seems my best/worst

chance of finding 

happiness. 

i don't know the magic

spell that well so

don't let the 

blindfold slip, my dear.

bring me the head

of a snake that whispers,

strip yourself naked 

for us all to enjoy.

none of us are afraid

of the dark anymore. 

v.

vicious victorious vandals     

vacate various viaducts.

vixens varigate vistas,

variously viscounts vigorously

vault visible valuables.

viable votes validate

village venerable vices.

friday.

friday isn't always my favourite, 

dark days come sometimes

on a friday, gloom

sets scenes from my dreams

to play out in real time, 

a grotesque theatrical

performance. 

in the north

a storm rages,

king tides of the mind

where more than the body

takes a battering. 

slam dunked in the spume

it's a friday struggle 

to remain

upright.

i take an uncertain lover,

fastidious, anxiety ridden

we ride together 

for a time, until

ultimately i grow weary

of his friday idiosyncrasies. 

i leave him with scratches

but no dents.

when the angels sing

i try to reply

in a language foreign,

a language of hope

and redemption. i tell

them the unexpected, 

that fridays make me 

want to go home, and

if only i could find

the right sequence 

of events i'd find

my peace.

i run through my

safe words to comfort me

monday, tuesday

-watch me drop-

wednesday, thursday

-into the next-

                friday.

atlas.

silence sounds

a lot like screaming 

and by that i mean

your absence

makes a void

so large i have

lost days in it

and by that i mean

i have ghosted

loved ones

in your honour

and by that i mean

i'd pull the burden 

of atlas to lose

sight of you.

ready.

ready to spread

my wings

i am at the

mercy 

of the cat.

will he take 

the higher ground,

content with

unhunted sustenance?

or will my twitch

itch his featherhairs

enough to make me

entrèe?

he crouches lower,

i am a statue.

he makes that

clicking sound,

i am stone.

we share a 

heartbeat

as the sky around us

darkens,

this is it.

and then the

blessing of a

dog barking 

releases me from

a cruel twist

of fate.

sing.

(after dance little baby, traditional nursery rhyme)

sing little baby, sing down low

sing black sabbath, mother won't know.

yell & scream and scream and yell

eat a bat you'll go to hell.

up to the ceiling down to the floor

drugs are a trip, have some more.

sing little baby, make all the bread

you'll need it for living but not when you're dead.

art.

art reflects

but only

if you let it. 

sometimes arid,

like the badlands 

sometimes lush,

like babylon. 

try to stare

unblinking.

tell your art

you will bleed for it

if asked,

chastise your art

like an unruly toddler,

then open your arms

to the unambiguous

love that returns.

promise your art

your first born,

or at least a finger.

rise.

i can't stay around

until you turn

blank eye cold,

i just don't have 

that kind of 

winter covering.

so i will leave now,

whispering

the mantras of strength

and resilience as

my tears shed

more than salt. 

my eyes are not windows

they're oceans, 

watch the tide rise.

okay.

like an heirloom

found in the darkest corner

like a penny dropped

and a dollar found

like the rain

late for the party

like an artwork restored

like the hat pin

as a convenient weapon

like a talisman

worn close to the heart

like a unicorn

calmed by the maiden

like a song 

that takes you over

like a ritual

resurrected by the pagans

like the milk spilt

i will be okay.

icecream.

iridescent in my eyes

can't resist you, ever

everytime you call my name

candour leaves the room.

right on up to pussie's bow

excellent, exotic taste sensation 

anytime, anywhere, anywhy

maybe i'll have a bowl now.

eventually.

autumn falls

at april's hurdle

as summer refuses

to let go.

we have missed

november's

thunderstorms,

leaving us short

on electricity

for future endeavours. 

times change,

so do the seasons

eventually. 

made.

we are not made of stone, 

because every bone

is encircled in

the stars of the ages.

seek relaxation as a way

of maintaining innocence,

seek innocence as a way

of maintaining joy.

seek the ethereal. 

ribbons drip, some light relief, 

some too dark to face,

trust they always

keep coming.

victories collected

place rungs on  

your ladder,

keep climbing jacob,

we're right behind you.

of course.

don't put on a talisman 

then wonder when

the magic happens.

it doesn't matter

how many secret altars

you worship at

you'll never get

redemption 

without crossing

a few thresholds.

philosophy is fine

for the thinkers,

and there's always art

as a chemical imperative, 

but of course

the default 

is panic.

anyway.

inspired by history,

beatings will be

administered daily

to activate lifeforce.

we play wartime orgies

to pretend that we're not

living in endtimes.

"this too will pass" we say

changing the sheets for

the next one.

the rose that is thrown

to the gutter still smells

as sweet and sour

as the lily feigning death,

or the frangipani.

they've cordoned off my

special place in heaven

and hell, judging by

my life so far it could

go either way.

jesus knew that lazarus

would be his undoing, 

but he did it anyway.

lament.

i send my orisons

to the ghosts, those of us

now free of our bones

and our muddy feet.

i pray they are

opaque enough 

to hold my pleas

in their ether as i watch 

them follow convention 

to float close to the scene

of their demise.

i ask for the mudane

i ask for the impossible 

i ask for my friends and relations

i ask simply to watch.

they tell me

"crush your eggshells, 

lest the devil finds you home."

lament.

the craven angels 

send their ferrets

of reconnaissance 

north to sentinel

for content.

satellites are for 

the spying of 

citizens,

their discontent 

rises.

with an early start

the bakers lead

the eat the rich

revolution, who

better to prepare

the feast?

four and twenty 

blackbirds cry sirens,

the dead don't hear

their eulogy. 

ketamine.

i roll my eyes

to raise my suspicions.

to you trust

is a tourist

who has worn

out all welcome.

to me trust

is the moon

who is

sometimes hidden,

always watching.

incantation.

dance like you're an

animated peanuts character 

cry like you're on a

downtown train

laugh like you've been 

released from prison

run like the devil's 

on your tail.

belch like you've 

just had your dinner 

sigh like you're

out in the rain

pray like there's 

nobody listening

ache like he just 

broke your heart again.

in.

in depth, i am 

a shallow puddle

in depth, i am 

a lamb

in depth, i am 

a balloon exploding 

in depth, i am 

the slam.

in depth, i am 

a drop suspended 

in depth, i am 

a lair

in depth, i am 

taste sensation

in depth, i am 

the fair. 

in depth, i am 

a moon horizon

in depth, i am 

a sprite

in depth, i am

a boulder crushing

in depth, i am 

the night.

however.

no memory serves

the exact truth, however

dreams fill in the blanks.

genie.

experiment where

the danger is inherent;

run without shoes,

shout with no chorus,

balance

              anywhere.

the years find

more danger signs to heed,

your instinct is to

question them. but like the

sphinx, they do not

care for trivialities, 

humanities,

fragilities.

paradigms change,

but not without

a battle royale

and a few slip ups,

so beware,

once wished the genie

may cloud your vision.

satisfaction comes

enshadowed, 

for blind eyes

to lead the way.

fictions.

in a suburban vista

there are things only

seen with your eyes shut.

i've looked once before,

standing on the shoulders

of ghosts now free of their 

bones they float past

the scene of the accident.

fly my pretties,

rewrite your fictions

to better suit your narratives.

sirens wail

which upsets the nestlings

and makes them wail too.

eternal.

it may be the sun

who shows us the way,

but when the darkness comes

the truth seekers will see.

inside the oracle (question everything)

there is a blinding light,

a holy light

where jesus knows that lazarus 

will be his undoing

but he digs anyway.

dandy.

abbreviated senses

fall over themselves

to reach tear ducts

inhale/exhale,

stomp as a way of

release.

you are here.

side roadworks 

cause not only

confusion 

just

be grateful 

there's no fatalities

today.

the planets aren't

aligned or even

talking to each other

right now but

there's no trouble

in paradise

unless you send up

the solar flares.

the theatre of war

is only entertaining 

to frankenstein's lover.

you never get

the generals to the front,

oligarchs must remain

ignorant, or at least 

blinkered for us to

remain capitalised.

tears are not

the most valuable liquid,

that's ink

to sign the papers.

alternatively...

crocheted clive.

i begin with the

best intentions,

but the piece

of my brain that

imagines success

has mastered the art 

of misrepresentation. 

the frogs creep in.

the tangles turn

to order, but only

sometimes. wrangle

your materials in an

almost brutal sense. 

you have an audience 

remember shirley,

you'd better sparkle.

punch the needle

pull the chain

you'll be okay

precious artifact,

if only i can...

burns.

 he doesn't burn slowly, 

usefully,  like a candle,

he burns dangerously

like a cigarette 

about to be dropped 

on crusty bedsheets,

he burns like red embers

spat from the fire

onto ancient rugs.

he is a dervish, whirling,

living for this moment 

and this moment,

and this one.

he is a professor

in the science of 

getting nowhere. 

he devours all the flavours, 

he is the rainbow. 

the flags he flies

are not red, they're flaming,

and i am the moth.

apollo.

apollo walked

by moonlight

contemplating entropy.

although a king

of increasing power

the snowball effect

of the melting ice,

the fires that close

the gap on heaven and hell,

the ruptures that 

the earth endures

make him fear the virus

has finally won.

apollo wept

by candlelight 

contemplating entropy.