first lesson

feathers licked smooth. willing the sinking soaking immersion into the rhapsodic tapestry of wideawakedreaming. your mouth tastes like a garden in full bloom. vibrant sunkissed tones. fresh & earthy. i am all corners and curves. stand here long enough and the moon will work her magic and the tide will touch our toes. wash our unapologetic feet clean. sand will shift. footprints will deepen. stars seared on flesh. miniscule grains sift from top to bottom measuring time. fossilised skeletal hands fused together encased in glass for curious eyes. nothing dies. apart from memory.

it tastes like gold

in the near distance november trembles behind the lace of naked branches below stars perfectly aligned and sheds her skin. the moon pools silver on my chest and i long to drink. i believe nothing touches you by mistake. rising in the dark before dawn i scratch the surface. press my lips against the day and walk backwards blind towards everywhere i cannot see. it is possible in 24 hours - only if we stand still - to pass through the same spot in which yesterday we stood. i can remember before, but there is no after. only always. burning ourselves and each other. plant my name in your garden like a seed and listen for it coming, growing. the only real world is that we catch sight of in our peripheral vision. open your hands forever grasping to touch edges and instead hold up the sky. it's the only way it can enter and caress the places inside our bodies otherwise unreachable.

life lines

she said,
"i can teach you to read these maps;
to listen to the gentle thundering
beneath your bones and the way
the hallowed ground sings
and screams that love
is the opposite of gravity.

and i'll dance in your palm
when the moon is on fire
warning of battles to come,
where worlds are tasted
on blood stained teeth
and the road of our spines
all cracked and worn
leads back
to where it all started."

no thread only needles

balancing on the crest of this edible twilight you appear regal in ivory gold. yet also human. spinal snakes and splints assist your determination to remain vertical. a pearl in my oyster of a world. scratching the surface. i wonder where i am. mostly remembering i live for now somewhere inside of this body. during certain hours in the day the sun shines on us both and i wonder why. and why not. dear narcissus drowned in his own reflections as i fell through the other side of his mirror. do mirrors have memories i wonder? dream chords lighter than air dance from windows singing songs of elevated desires holding me in place as i fold up the map containing my fate. veils of gossamer glass and lace hide the truth beautifully as you deftly deal the cards. haunted by your own self and visions of the weighing of your heart upon death. astronomers chart your progress through the unbent arm of time. spectral phantom burning bright in the crimson sky. even the insignificant details leave their decorative imprints behind as starlit serenades warn of impending doom. come. follow me up to the attic. i remember in dreams you glowed so bright as we lit the way. everything faintly sharpening into focus. words indelible leave impressions upon skin as unharnessed we rode the wildness of imagination.

the eye of the beholder

i want to see you
beneath the spot
you fell in love with hope
right here
where the fates
bow their prophetic heads
lower their eyes in prayer
or despair
and death casts his shadow
before the first breath has been drawn.
a vision of grace and strength
serenely summoning life
with power enough
to render kingdoms to dust.

i want to see you
eat these flowers
wildy
growing
out of my mouth.

borderland dissolutions

elsewhere.
simultaneously here and not.
travelling through years
moments eons. the manouevres
of a somewhat alchemical
gypsy. our beginnings held
inside this cryptic box
like the delirious solace
of a scream. beginnings
possessed since birth
and reborn evey day.
time, which is afterall,
only a human system
of measuring cycles distance
movement. the play of light
on earth and water. with zeal
we traverse the star maps
plotted by those with
heavenward gazes. running
our awestruck fingertips along
the potential of orion's sword
and paint our windows black.
the velvet canvas on which
to scratch a warning for the devil
to take heed. to cower
in the shadows cast
when we face the sun
and dream the world to life
in the place of no day and night.
where moonlight caresses
your body in it's most vulnerable
immaculate state. the place
where the beginning of
everything is unending.

false gods

my body slices through the air
thick with the pheremones
of those looking
for their version of love
for the night.

belonging not to that world
i exhale my disenchantment
before it's poison spreads
into all of my corners.

outside the cool night wind
breathes her secrets
into our hair and you tighten
the ribbon around my neck.

bells echo down the street
drowning the sound
of a thousand midnight stallions.

i avoid the cracks and jump the gun,
distill the evidence until i can map
the anatomy of your melancholy.
until the street light
forms a halo above your head
and you're bathed in amber
and burn my eyes.

only then

like a real life
dream world secret garden
flowers explode from your chest
in a symphony of petals
the exact colour of a first kiss
full of electric and fear.

once again
you smell like sunshine
and i find myself
thinking about whales.
navigating epic journeys
with nothing
but magnetism and instinct.

and i say 'nothing',
but really it's everything.

the birds too.
they understand the stars.
and the sun. and time.
when to stay and go.

drinking this confetti rain
your colours stain my skin
but my stubborn feet
refuse for now to move.

where the light gets in

so lucid are the gods and ghosts who share your bed and days. they are the shadows cast when light smashes through and molecules separate only to grow like pearls into tiny pieces of who we were intended to be instead of always being the first to pull the trigger from looking in wrong corners hoping our eyes dont give us away when secrets are shared like spare change before we understand our own riddles.


here's something - the ghosts never leave.


did i ever tell you how to find me anywhere and always?
i am the one with my cards spread clear upon the table. and a few more hidden up my sleeve...

in the right light when the mist clears

reticent creatures trimmed in ribbons of green emerge from their thalassic, ornamental homes in response to her siren screams curdling the tide into turning. dissolving the accumulated layers of time and science that they didnt think existed, preserved beneath skin and scales. archaic jewels
embedded within each vertebrae. spinal keys can be read only with wise fingers. unlocking the gift of mariner's dreams...

teeth

from under your skin i will break your days
and steal your thunder in my mind
on occassion when my heart is black -
karma of sorts, for all the times
your backbone (if you have one) failed.

undreamed ghost

night never fell, it just crept predictably
into the violet light carrying fresh dreams
to make your skin shine like the pearls
dripping constellations in your hair
whilst you lie exactly in the spot
where you chained yourself to one version of the truth
before swallowing the key tied with the silken ribbon
of the ends of love. pulsing to the tribal cadence
played on the moon's drum taut and silver deliquesce throb,
i wish you could explain the way snowflakes are cut
so perfectly into shape as we pass like ghosts
through the edges of these circles that grow
in spring's shade where your vagrant heart blooms
beneath a garland of old moth wings worn around your neck
like a mile of song teaching us lessons in and out of time.

once in the rain

sitting by midnight lakes
reflecting stars
below and above
it becomes impossible
to tell which way is up.

once during a long lost night
i heard the wind,
at least i think it was the wind,
whisper my name.
and not even this name,
but rather my real name.

i am a journey.
a story.
a circle.
an ouroboros.
harmony of asymmetry.
so old i am unable
to tell you where i begin.

contemplating cosmogony
provokes the longing
to remember
all of our explosions.
reciting stories
locked in scars and chests
where only angels dare to tread.

both archer and prey.
i pray.
i know not to whom,
but i say thank you.
alot.
grateful for having nothing
and everything to learn.

and LIFE.
in which to leave my map.
my mark. my trail
of meandering dirty footprints.
i was here.

drafting the manifesto

drunk on words poured from bruised lips
that only part to breathe once in a while.
i'd like to observe your technique
as you attempt to peel me off of this ceiling,
or whether you choose to fight, defy gravity
and join me. no nets below to catch us
(or the moon, whom i met one night
half way up the sky on our way to morning).
what if you could be convinced of the verity
of my world? shown charcoal fingers,
self inflicted from ingrained moth-like tendencies?
i could cough up the grit and dust of ages
settled in small dunes inside these lungs.
compelled to the flame casting light
dissolving shadows as we go. lift the lid
and flip your eyes. outrun the devils
grasping at our heels with greedy hands
and impale upon our middle fingers the nihilists
intent on waving their hypotheses of nothingness
in our fuck you faces from up here
pinned to the ceiling of a room with no walls.

catching the light

these hands remember the ghost of you
impressed upon my memory like a rainbow
melting colours down the sky
turning my bones into technicolour pools.
i dip my brush and paint
the way i imagine you to look
in my mind's eye. seraphic. phallic.
burning in fires or pyres of lust and love.
shackled by time still moving closer. appearing
seeping like glass beads through pores.
precious jewels worn around my neck. no albatross,
only this weight of feathers lifting
me as the floorboards kiss my feet goodbye

heart shaped lunacies

half the world away i lie with my back to the floor.
face the light of day and night.
in the absence of maps i take my time with your words.
roll them around in my mouth.
stripping you naked with their truth until i can see the detailed articulate patterns beneath your skin.
enough to imprint and decode them in my mind.
unlocking your spinal secrets.
chart progress not by the position of the sun.
but rather the coins and bones unearthed and offered.
collected and kept safe behind ribs.
to melt intergrate assimilate.
stories prised from fists.
every day angels are always well hidden in the crowd of faces.
the world has no edges and still it is too narrow.
somewhere between you and i, above the gentle arc of the earth's belly, we softly smash collide.
they say history is the past but i breathe it every day.
in my dream i lay you down on the kitchen table.
untie my secrets from your hair.
cherries in this glass bowl.
i suck the juice from the flesh of time and distance.
know your heart is too big for my hands.
but still my days are shaped like you.
they begin and end with your name.
and on either side the skin of the night closes behind us.
where gods and heroes are painted on the black.
here i find myself stretched across worlds.

kissing the sky

there are nights
in which the moon
follows me home
all the way
and leaves not my side
even when the sun
rears his golden head
above the line
where earth touches sky.
there are nights
in which the constellations
sing in black velvet
their hymns to drown out
the battle cries
whispering
the sound of swords clashing
making everything soft turn hard
haunting bones
quickening blood breath mind.
and there are nights
in which my fingers
draw the maps on your skin
in my silver mind
for your swollen heart
to read ignore follow
never in the dark.

fire birds

still i spit spite from time to time,
but remain curious
about souls and soles
fire walk blackened.

earth, stay firm and hold my weight.
glass, more often than not,
shatters in my hands.

i want to devour the sky
and eat the dirt on my grave.
flowers and thorns
growing tangled around ribs
offered to those
following their heart home.

dwelling upon these rooftops i wonder
who raises their gaze and sees
with the right kind of eyes.

and you, you should read my lips
when i tell you that mostly wings
aren't made from wax or feathers.
rather, other things
less solid
but just as real.

in the absence of skin

the world is turned inside out
with the need to know
and make sense
when even the chaos
and craziness
is enough.

echoing in our wake
are memories and stories
like rivers of ribbon
ravaged and dancing
in the wind as we run
chasing in slow motion
destiny hanging
from a string always
in the distance
whose promises
embedded in our souls
are felt strong
but like shadows
of whispers
defy articulation.

fully clothed yet naked
having never left the ground
secretly i see you fly.