Between the devil and the deep blue screen

Here is where you find me.
In the ballsed up tangled
parts of your brain.
In the fallow fields of imagination
In the transcendental inefficiency
of traffic jams and social media.

Here.
In the back of the kitchen,
underneath the mould in the mayonnaise
in the bored waitress
in her out of place hairs
in the slovenly pace of the midday sun;
that's where I linger, 
that’s how I roll.

I am the black book of malignant intention
the click bait of mediocre raconteurs
the tidings of a bureaucratic disaster response .

When you find me, I’ll be lazing
in the shade of a broken archipelago
cracking the code to your insignificant others email
wiping up spilt milk with your mother handkerchief,
the silk one, she gave you before you entered the world.

There will be no need for introductions,
lengthy overviews, or extraneous conversation
all of this, of course, is superfluous,
besides, it has been done on your behalf.
I want nothing more than to slip over you
like a hood, like a recollection.
slip into you like a cock at dawn,
neatly dovetailed as day and night.

From here, you can taste the infinite
the suspension of hours whittled
incessant ticks of clocks
and minor psychosis, a vague hunger
and an agitated stillness.

You spit twice.
It blows back in your face.

Earth Day

At the world fair they shrunk the earth
and all it's curiosities into a single square
kilometre, reaching out across unexplored
urban wastelands, now built up on every side.

The NaPoWriMo Back Log Day 15 - Pantum

The River Red Gums can dig for water
through stone, for over a kilometre
When her mother left, her journals
filled the silent house with explanations.

NaPoWriMo: Translation

Your mouth moved, sound
surfing the airwaves, almost
reaching but never breaking
the speed of light

like the slurring arms
of a drunken boxer; all intent,
no connection, lost
in translation

At the crossroads in Shanghai
your racism confused me
the references to yellow turning
to red

Silence is immovable
my phone stays flat,
out of sight, my profile stalks
your shadow no more.

NaPoWriMo: A Valediction for Flight

We fell
as angels do

Plummeting
into humanity

Wings cut
by shoulder blades

NaPoWriMo Cinquain

stressed
syllables snap
as lines break rhythmically
shards cut to iambic metres
of verse

NaPoWriMo: A series of unlikely explanations

Your mouth is a sack of marbles
pulling a prized pearler
from your lips, it rolls
into the nearest earthen hole.

Many years ago a small seed
lodged in my throat, growing
thicker, in darkness now
I only speak in latin.

Teeth and tongue, repeat
lip and cheek, repeat
an army of minuscule muscles
struggling against silence

on potential

If you were to ask a caterpillar what it knew of silk it would only speak of hunger. The solitude required for metamorphis is exhausting; it's every instinct is attuned to accumulation.

But caterpillars cannot communicate; they are all legs, teeth and tastebuds. It's whole being is segregated into bundles of What Will Be.

Destiny need not be tangible. The caterpillar is a masticating blue print. Evolution winks and clucks it's tongue, "Kid you got potential; this cluster of cells will one day be antennae, this one here a wing."

The caterpillar eats on.

The heart of a butterfly is a long and slender muscle, stretching along it's nervous system, suspended between it's wings. If you teach an old caterpillar new tricks they will be recalled upon metamorphosis.

If you ask a butterfly what it knows of flight it will tell you that it is somewhere between though and emotion.

If you ask it what it remembers of childhood it will teach you to taste your dreams.

Deluge

The monsoon stalks me. Skulking round corners whilst I busy myself indoors; stays poised while I ready myself for the world. With the click of the key, I hear the patter of footsteps; clouds running across the sky to my door. The dog scowls. "I can't help it" I protest, "Not even the moon rules the rain." The tides answer to lunation. Sentient beings and seasons fall in line with the sun. But the rain answers to nobody. It is an outlaw, a vagabond, a rouge. The muffled light softens my focus. In that other place the sun exposes all things for their harshness; beauty is stark, boundaries defined. Here, I am washed so clean that new life grows over me. My skin blooms with the algae, ever mutating, I am perfecting the art of evolution. Mangrove seeds wedged between rocks send sprouts north and south. I make them my mentor, in this captivity I grasp upwards and hunt below.