thoughts

were my brain not a puzzlebox, perhaps I would have grown tired of it's contents, taken them out and held them enough times that they bored me.

would I be motionless, like some perfectly held tension, the early morning surface of the lake before a leaf falls or a fish jumps. 

If I had more time or less, or some idea of how much, would I feel calm? Would I stop turning and reviewing, would I clip along the ridges like a sail boat?

Shame really, this lack of appreciation, dull, no matter how the sun shines or sweet voices or the soft beds or the salt or the lemon or the sea. 

gallery visit

the projector sound rattles and it sounds cold and warm.

the sound makes me feel comfortable, but sad 

 beginnings and endings, all now the past, here in the present 

beamed onto something. 

fragments hanging, a portal raining against the wall 

the sound makes me feel calm, these things are as they are

what they are not they cannot be 

I look for a place to lean, feel the wall against my spine

on and on and on

Sometimes in the tangle of vines I think I'll finally be lost.
It's a relief to be honest, to be tangled beyond further movement.
Sometimes, I guess I almost want to be caught in a net.
You know that moment when someone's head hit's a wall in a film.
And the scene changes, and there is a palpable sense of finality, of release.
fuck, I don't know. Some Times. i just want to move on.
Even if I can't be included in what follows.

drunk listening to emo, slipping into my middle age

Hate is governed
and blessed
less and less
sycophants
panting with
watery eyes
I despise
nothing and everything
I have sinister memories
 I remember
I'd kill to forget
 oh
or I'd kill to remember
anything
once or again
or again
or again
friends of friends
that I find
far to boring to pretend
which is how I find myself
time and again
sycophant
over and over
under everything
every skin
anything
new years eve
years ago
memories on bridges
some how more poignant
with all that water
flowing side to side
like queasy swaying
maybe i'm pretending
like I know
look me up and down
I don't have a clue
keep pretending
until tiredness hunts me down
cornered and under and under and down

.

Perhaps this was always the point in the horizon that we were headed for
the lost land pushed through like a pin prick in our collective consciousness
I've suffered with deja vu my entire life, maybe
I'd hoped to reach a point where it made sense, that, or anything

Skin is a neutral smell, holding a rock that fills my palm, standing in the rain
sensations distinct from the slough of sadness
steady me against and rising anguish,
relieve the mundane burden of adulthood.

willing

These are just memories
nothing new but dirt
and that's just recycled
blood rust and hurt

The plants growing ragged,
rugged and raw
tendrils out seeking
the light from Gods maw

The rocks have no ability
to stick to the shore
not that they want to
they don't want any more
but they did when they were animals,
flowers and trees
now they are blissfully unaware
of hurt and disease
of impending apocalypse
of hunger and fleas

I'm just forming memories
like scales on my back
like scales in a kettle
some memories stack

but some things just won't settle
and my spine starts to creak
and some of these memories
make me not want to speak

there's light at the summit
a blistering heat
God yawns through his fingers
the morning is sweet

but I wish I could stop eating,
stop yearning to live
If I were a bit more discerning
I'd cease to exist

on a rock

I've been trying
 to raise the dead
to lift my head
from my knees

I've been trying
 to cut my hair
with my hands
but then I freeze

Like a lizard playing dead
with the scissors at my head
just curled in my bed
almost as hollow as when I look into the sea