15. Attention

There’s not much to be said





Running across skin
Sequentially snipped knots
Excess lace de-parts


Let’s play amongst
Your machinations
You do not need
My approval
I am the gods
Of Your
Night and neighs

Annoyed Panic

Ecstatic although find way to manage

the moving concerns of unjustified concern

Becoming a healthy habit that this

addict would rather stop, but not yet

my eardrums haven’t shattered,

each eye seeking insight in the void.


A danger to myself and others, the

proof pudding from practices will


How grains of Fate have fallen

between the luke-warm fingers.


Concussion with momentary relapse

into amnesia, I open and close

words with each.

All beside music is noise



Sleepless Stimulants

I place my face upon her

darkened skies

Drawing stars in

each breath


They congeal creating

voids at my throat

That grind my teeth numb

and sink my cheeks

Sleepless Cemeteries

He looked up at the sky,

the stars were dead, the grass

grew over his shoulders

and tickling the sides of his  neck.


The silence seeped into his

head, we change so often that

when things become ordinary.

Some strangers passing in the

damask dusk of an ever-ending



Something nameless, faceless and

no way meaningless, Sisphus’

sermon on the mount over

those deities grave-yards.


Now noting these emotionless

thoughts, invoked by the sleepless



Upon him his weightlessness

lays heavy, grounding him to

the depths of his chest.


How he now yearns for tears

of the day and the taste of

morning dew between her legs.


He stands on the hill out back

where she conceived in him

all this scenery.


He remains without remorse

nor regrets, he buried her beating

heart in his stomach and chest

with some sauce and pasta.

It was pork so it was fine.


He made his bed by her

headstone, and he slept without

rest. Suddenly time passed

as the vines through his skin.


He kissed each bird and each bee

as they pollinated pink poppies

on his cheeks.


Ravens nested in his rib-cage

within a week. Still he watched

the sky after they fed on

his eyes.


His brain and mind had

become a hive, he was

absent for it all, and

presently his body has never

been more alive. Lucid his

passion laid restless in that bed,

as beside he remained, by her

headstone he stays.


He is one of us, the children

of a broken home fathered by

Logos and Mothered by Eros.

We were born jaded with passion

embedded within our heart. To

tell this story more honestly

our father passed away at the

age of three and our Mother

raised us alone.

So we hold on to the thought

that our passion will remain

whether brain dead or insane.


Only with time we understand

that our father dies of alcoholism,

because he could never reciprocate,

when when our brief step-father

was writing he didn’t exist.

We’re still playing the

game, of colouring between the seams.


Filling in the spaces between the pain,

like we did on our Mother’s wrists ,arms ,

and legs.

When we were just children, when

we were just children, smaller

than this.


– Light Absorbing Flame –

Intoxicated by the sleeper’s wake.

Restless, as an evened brush stroked

in darkened silvers that shall not shimmer.


Burst! Burst thither, hither, neither nor

the nether realms the interwoven lightness

entangles, in an instant branching out

and ever expanding.


Unfulfilled this pedestal, for if it were

not mined but the thoughts that were

audible. Each one picked, quoted, misquoted,

and nit-picked from networked clouds.


Then slip, slip off, slip away. wrenching

what is false and wrenching without passion

from both stomach and heart.


The paths, mine path’s ever inward

to the reaching shelf of even those fragmented

biscuits and cookies.


The mirrored ballroom of all the marionettes

masquerade, how forgetful for each may

have more than one way, more than a single

face, rather charade peaking with a wanton glare.


Sever the marionettes coils, let the mirrors remain

and each mask fall apart and away.

Blossom into light absorbing flame.