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.

 

 

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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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.

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