A daunting arrival, settle thee none.

She's a sea swan sailing low
with silver feathers and a silver glow
the sea sings calm roses red
the moon sets sail a simple dread
because she, the swan sees them all
dancing; dancing to and fro.

50 shades of stupid

So I'm sitting at work
(there's a) thinking singing ringing in my head
words been said
that seem so strange to me.

That's not right
I wanna say, I should say
but I'm afraid.

I'm afraid you'll say it's ok
for you to one day
thrust into me when I say no
and that-
it's romantic to be draining in cuts and blood when-
bdsm is an expression of love
and marks of the skin is an expression grim.

so do tell me.
how you can justify an abusive biograpy
praised as if it were new
like hell praised for killing you!
would you say sex is the decision of your lover? when you don't want it
and you're being the bother?

I'm afraid you'll say
"oh grow up, you don't understand.
love is what the lover can stand."
perhaps you don't know how it feels
when the blood's draining down your heels
and it kills
tell me sorrow
your heart'll follow
a knife or two.

I have a proposal for you
why don't you read between the lines
and stop watching the disguise
grin.
It's laughing at you, it's watching you
and it knows
oh my friend
it knows it's got you.

but when you are there
you're stuck.
struck
and broken.

Now tell me how that is sweet, sweet love.

Song of feathers

I am no flower
I am not vulnerable
and I do not wither.

I am not beautiful
like my genitils
deem me to be.

I need not beauty
Nor great strength
to simply be me.

I do not need
his delicious fruit
nor prestigious parties.

I am wholesome
I am made of feathers
and I dine on freedom and the far trees.

Let the winds guide me
Not your philosophy
that guides you dull.

Let the winds send me home
to the home
many paths lead to the same end.

Guests

Sharks cross shore showing nothing more
than sheer intimidation
with their wet blankets
and their careless roar.
Unaware their presence marks for
a discomfort in the waves
they brought to the floor
and the air made core
to their discord and gore.
Voices unwanted
Voices unknown
Voices I want gone
Far from my home.

Shrunk

I feel like the world has shrunk,

and I'm balancing on one leg

and on my shoulders are weights

and I'm being pulled in several directions

and my hands want to burst forward,

but my back is stiff and leans back

while my head, like lead, stays still and dead

as thoughts race and dull at the same time

fade quickly and reappear

repetition, repetition,

sensual inequations unable to meet user demand.

I feel like the world shrunk without me

I feel like I've left the world far behind

and I'm not in space, just a void

no direction, no destination,

no voice, no mind.

Where is the journey, where is the journey

that I thought I was walking

but lost the path a long time ago.

I feel like I'm sick but my body is empty

and tired

and slowly, slowly, wanting to sleep

and rest

and weep

finally, something I cannot endure

that wants my bones to break

but will not ensure their destruction

because I'm not on earth anymore.

I feel like I'm so far away

that rules don't work

yet twist and insert

in ways that stretch me far

like a red goo

but not allow me to snap

so I wait

exhausted.

You tease with teeth and whispers.

You assassinate close strings that held me up

but until you strike the final blade

I shall keep wandering on

in the new land I've made.

We broke the house

You wrote me from a book of disorder.

You stole an identity

painted my name with a tattered brush

long, old, and worn.

Paint thrown thick and black

onto walls, onto paper,

onto stone, brick, and a cold house

yellow wallpaper no longer kind, gentle

the place that you longed for

torn, ripped, decayed and unloved.

The paint drips onto your shoes

as you remember where the first cracks appeared.

But you don't remember how.

Or what.

Except, the hate you have of me.

Grown, kept, nourished

by desperation.

That poison
My dear, it is called addiction.

You cannot resist to taste and paste

my name like lyrics to explain your hate.

To everything purple and green, yellow and red,

you compare me to everything you love and dread.

For all to see and share and learn

the evil you see

the satisfaction you feed

desperate

to help support your sadness as it burns.

Hungry child weeps.

Away with the fairies

 I see shadows in the distance,

They follow me.

Tired memories polluted with drink and darkness.

A mist ventures from shadow to shadow,

it falls and rises

As poison presses deeper into the veins of willow trees.

A smile that lingers on the lips of a fairy

hides and sings

“Dance, dance with me.”

Spiders fall from dead leaves

Onto ground scattered with thorns and blood.

The naked feet of a traveller

Blisters with hate

As the song of the hopeless

drifts further into the forest.

The Moments Between

There's a chair in the middle of the room,

It presses against carpet with four thin legs

and is stuck rigid

forced to endure.

It's master gives no promise

that it will be relieved of it's duty,

the wooden frame groans

as decaying muscle waits.

Brown jacket sits on an unfamiliar lap.

Naked pockets inside lay thin and sick

as the material weeps over knees

and waits.

Foreign hands curl gently and lame;

they fall loose, then rise

as jacket smothers hair and face

and becomes engulfed

in a smell that stains the fabric

from the outside.

Whisper

Ah, there they begin again.

Twists of air

Fading in, fading out

Amoré

I want to share this moment's warmth

And sing it's softness with a breath so sweet,

that it would curl around you and hold you tight.

If only I could reach those strings and play those notes

you so easily release into the air,

that transcribed from your voice, your touch, your love,

locks me into a synethesia of rich colour

that bursts beneath my feet

and keeps me         floating.

No longer a chariot

Unscrew it, dismantle. Unfold it and lay it out.
Pieces.

Block.

She’s blank.

Grey stone stuck on paper.

Tools, here and there, strike.

Loose grains of sand so scarce,

Drowning in a white river

Disappear instantly.

Blank canvas, blank novel, blank sound

Bleed into a single screech

Of flats and sharps

Making the air heavy and

Sick.

Rotting desk sinks

As hands fall to the floor.

Empty Eyes

Dark room with a single candle

                                                                Floating

Hungry ear pressed against the condensation

                                Waiting.

There is an eerie song playing through the glass,

                Familiar words distorted into paranormal notes,

                                The happy voices now split into a chorus of spite,

                                                Emphasising the lonely separation

                                                                A mark of the lacking sensation

                                                                                Of warmth breath against thy neck.

Monopath

 A familiar taste sits in my throat as I walk home at night. Letting my mind wonder as the streetlights stretch across my vision in a blurry orange beige spectrum, I contemplate on what the taste might be, but it is too unnatural to define as something organic. I let my legs stagger forward as my senses smelt together a complex pattern of ideas and thought. I hear myself groan as my feet kick the curb of the road, but the sound is detached, an automatic response to environment. The utterance is nothing more but dust on the skin of my independent society; My unique brain complex that leaks colour onto the road. Hallucinations of music vibrate kindly, entertaining my thirsty mind, bored of walking.

Rising fumes against smiling shadows

Rise Rise Rise!

Why is it always this?

Gret sparklins arrive from the floor

And beckon

Whispers, in agrar husks.

Mist, aloft, the mist,

In lingers within large space,

In transparent, different volumes,

Harsh points in great intensity of feelings,

They drift,

Drift among me.

I am never alone.

The coldness intensifies as I relish that statement,

Everything I am familiar with dulls,

As I am pushed hard into a different world,

Fingers around my shoulders,

Scales around my arms and fingers,

And flashes.
Flashes are the things that catch my eyes,

The scythes swinging at my vision,

Cutting me from my understanding of this trance.

Is it not a game I can receive clear,

Nor deliver commuciation,

But just feel that coldness,

Wrap me round,

What if it takes me,

What if I am no longer, myself, found?

Brush-Painting

Brush marks parchment with a slap of ink

Staining like a permanent burn,

Shades of nothing become embroidered into a new harmony,

Lively symbols

Of entangled symmetry.

Painter smiles,

Daring to curve and sweep his brush wildly

Fulfilling his need to deliver

An honest message

In a fury of passion.

Wounds of love

CRUNCH!

Teeth snare

Encoding data

Transmit

Into the apple.

Pulse of sound

Replays.

CRUNCH.

Teeth snare

Into apple.

Then withdraw,

Dividing flesh

To attack core.

Drunk

On bitter sweet sour

Green blood.

A thirst, a devious hunger,

For another taste

Of a broken structure.

CRUNCH.

Teeth snare

Into apple.

Another--

CRUNCH!

Fangs dig

Into apple.

Lips kiss leaking apple.

DUMP!

Remains discarded

Deep, dark bin.