Psycho Special

I once knew a guy called Tom. Everything I heard him say was designed to fuel his ego. He would manipulate people into agreeing with his points of view. Most things he said rubbed me the wrong way, like sanding against the grain – usually criticisms of people I found to be unfoundedly negative. It was like he viewed everyone as having a hidden malicious agenda, like he viewed the world as being two simlataneous realities – the one displayed, and the hidden manipulation and maliciousness lying within each person he saw. He would make up stories about people’s “real” motives behind their behaviour, often portraying friendly behaviour as being well hidden evil. I would usually try to vaguely ignore, but he would poke and poke harder and harder until you finally gave in and agreed in order to shut him up. Once you validated him with your false agreement, he would sit back and smile. Dominant. Full… for a while. I could breathe easier when he started harrassing someone else… my hair would lay back down again.

Tau

Into the caffeteria

walks an old man

too poor to retire

he goes to make instant coffee

frantically spooning 8 tablespoons of sugar

into his small plastic cup

muttering incoherently

he adds boiling water

the cup overflows

scalding his hand

sugary black liquid paints tau over the counter

as he strirs incessantly

he fumbles the spoon into the sink with a clank

as a young colleague resemblant of his son

looks at him with pitiful contempt –

it doesn’t register.

Dog beats dog

When I was a child

my father

had a vicious dog

which he trained

to be

like him –

he would incessantly growl

at each passer by

attempting to bite them

before they had a chance

to bite him.

It’s funny how dogs

mirror their owners’

personalities.

One time the dog

barked at my father,

my father growled

and beat him relentlessly

I felt I was witnessing

a crime

I remember thinking

this world

is dog

beat dog.

 

 

The hanged tramp

I met a girl

when I was 14

at a caravan park

where we camped

once.

She was living

in a tent

with a whore

for a mother.

 

She was my type –

kind

dark haired

fair skinned

broken.

 

I fell in love

watching

as her mother

choked her

for talking

to me.

 

She pierced her

with insidious

insults

as her hand

squeezed

around her frail

neck

repeatedly

glancing at me

begging me

to help.

 

I asked my father

if we could take her

with us

when we leave

so her mother

couldn’t hurt her

anymore.

He said

no.

 

She was standing

at the park’s exit

with a black eye

alone

waiting for us

to drive by

so she could wave

me goodbye.

 

We cried

as we waved

our requiems

to each other –

my face pressed

against

the rear window

of her

sailing ship

as

she hanged.

 

 

 

 

The beautiful goth

It was winter

I was 13

on a school excursion

in the city

the light rain had soaked

through my furry

school jumper –

chilling to the bone.

Sitting on the bus

alone and awkward

I gazed out the window

and spotted

a goth.

She was standing

on the street

in a crowd

of business people

waiting

to cross the road –

umbrella in her hand

wearing a black trenchcoat

sprayed with mist

from the rain

resembling

the night sky –

she looked cozy.

 

Her face

was white

as a cadaver

and eyes

pitch black.

A bandage

covered her wrist

I supposed

she’d cut herself –

I’d thought

about trying.

 

She turned her head

and locked eyes

with mine

at length

I felt she could see

my soul

tears welled my eyes

as we gazed

into each other

she raised her hand

as a gesture

without waving

and did not insult

with a smile

a plain, solemn dead like countenance

as if she knew

what was in store

for me.

 

It was one of the deepest

emotional connections

I’ve ever had.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Haunted

The alarm sounds

a death scream

plummeting me

into a waking nightmare.

I brush my teeth

out of necessity

as a mosquito teases

my ear.

I glance in the mirror –

it fractures.

The voices begin

to antagonise.

I throw clothes over

my corpse.

I walk out the door

your ghost

haunting my shoulder –

today is a good day,

the weekend

will be worse.

Ode to Spring

I.

I remember the beginning of this cruelly dark nightmare,

before souls were crushed and gnawed by its jaws

before flesh was torn and flayed beneath moonlight

before cyclones raged between temples and roared.

The soil was soft and soaked and fertile

smelling rich of lavender and petrichor

scents soared through nostrils and dilated pupils

filling the lungs

with ferverous

ardor.

 

Spring promised harvests of fresh flowers and sunrise –

dreams of azalea beneath blazing blue skies.

Wisteria would vine around bones, softly squeezing –

nourishing bodies and blooming with life.

The sun would burn lustful in a warm crimson shade

and honeyguides would chirp as the heavens poured rain –

stimulating the senses with beauty and wonder

if only had Winter

not torn us

asunder.

 

II.

What should grow now from this desolate dry permafrost?

Soils snapped frozen by Khione’s icy breath

insufflating, expanding and engulfing like vapour

glaciating the Sun to an ultramarine orb.

Veins of light beg to crack through its surface

exuding from the soft sultry flame at its core

bones rattle, crack and chill to the marrow

as life wails for release

from this enclave

of cold.

 

I remember the moment before madness took hold

before hail showered shattering psyches like glass:

souls emanating heat, burning together as snow

fell softly upon her violin-string eye lashes.

Snowflakes melting and flowing and merging

subsumed by sorrow in a rivulet of tears

a bittersweet blend of love and contrition

now frozen still

in the stormy chill

of fear.

 

I gave her the knife as her eyes turned to stone

vowing her breadcrumbs would lead the way home.

We inhaled the sunset’s final warm hue

as the blade pierced my chest splitting reality in two

and as sheets of blood spilled cold from my veins –

I prayed that the Spring

may heal our

raw wounds.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I’m a junkie

Your words

like heroin –

the pang of the needle

stings the skin

before flooding

my body

with warmth.

 

Arteries and veins

vine around the soul

softly constricting –

comforting my broken pieces.

Screaming –

“you are not alone”

 

Let me be

your junkie

Forever.