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.

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.

Dancing with Matches

I.

September breeds thick black storm clouds that linger

atop skyscrapers standing on catacombs, screaming

down on that soaked sunless desert – splattered

sprayed and showered in red sludge and cordite.

The dead tree provides no shelter from this pelting,

persistent, acid rain of man.

Thunder – tastes of rotting flesh and thorn trees;

boomings – marked by gaps of still silence

so loud

it thumps

the chest.

 

Metallic gates clink and pierce eardrums and latch

and cancerous green vines grip white fences and gag

as flickers of sons fade smaller and colder

until nothing remains of their flaming red match

Cast your gaze down

on that ashen

black match.

 

II.

The city reeks of cigarettes and sex

covered in piss and stained with regret;

while glowing eyes reflect stories of cunt wars and trump,

brains softened and battered by radioactive meat bruisers.

Where is the meaning, the hope, the Divine?

People scream as they commit suicide.

 

Muses and Sirens dance and soon fleet,

racing off promptly to Homedale street,

where the soup’s always boiling and boiling and boiling

and boiling and steaming

screech whistle

then pop.

 

Ketamine pills filled with realms of repression

attempting to bite their own smiley faced teeth;

and fathers unleashing their heart-felt aggression –

fuelled by the fear of their sons being gay.

 

Father, oh father, where art thou you father?

Father, only in heaven you lay,

with wind and wet rain and giant balls of bright gasses,

conduce me your wisdom

with soul

of Tao.

 

III.

Devour the most beautiful sunset you’ve ever

witnessed, with your insignificant eyes,

and wonder and ponder the potent perfection

of a magnificent omniscient alive laughing planet.

Floating and floating in harshly cold desolate –

emptiness – twisting with spirals and pray

for skies filled with colour and beauty and starlight –

and green leaves so wet,

dripping recent rain.

 

Father I see you you are always dancing –

dancing the Argentine tango and rising –

setting – dancing in trees where we’re raping

everything give me more money you whore.

More power, more pleasure – please spare me your sorrow

Nature – satiate hungry dismay.

 

While that match keeps on burning and ashing and cracking

returning to nothing but the black dust of life;

fertilising soil for fresh seedlings to sprout –

to grow and to breathe, to dance and to Die –

to grasp and to clutch and to feel the fresh water

running through veins and sustaining Life.

 

Nature feeding Nature feeding Nature feeding Nature

we are all Nature – how did you enter that body and wake?

What is it that’s reading this page?

The curtains are closing – the end drawing near,

quick now please set the stage.

Ego

The mind rests in mourning,

like soft mildew in the fog of winter.

Finally aware of the dark seed within it.

A seed which has sprouted, spread, and tangled throughout;

growing like a tumour;

a cancerous, malignant, destructive web of black;

tightening its grip around the mind –

in an attempt to defend the very thing of which it destroys.

The monstrous seed sits inconspicuously;

powerfully;

at the centre –

pulsating.

Conducting with ease the orchestra of its lifeless musicians.

Stare.

Stare at fear itself.

It does not want to die.

Die.

Die.

Die.

My Nirvana

I love how ants build nests taller than humans build their skyscrapers

I love how creases of pants remind of nature’s constant fluidity

I love how the well worn door knob feels cold, but smooth against my palm

I love the clinking of its latch as it calls out do not enter

I love the stinging icy wind that spins off fan blades in the winter

I love the crackling sound of vinyl as needles bounce Holiday like a printer

I love the way red wine and cigarettes pepper the air like peaceful solitude

I love the spark of reminiscence while adding honey to my tea

I love the networked trees

I love everything

that isn’t me