i could feel your fragility under your coat. but there was nothing i could do. nothing anyone could do.

the cold was biting, even in the place where you had lined up, under the sun. the younger ones, naive still, clenched their faces as their eyes flooded with tears.

the older ones joked and jibed as they held their relations tight, the devils smirk of gallows humour drifting like spirits from their lips.

the world carried on, beyond the walls, it could be heard, a frenzied runaway attempting to escape itself. to no place in particular.

as smog fell upon the mourners you stood, frozen in your grief, a vision in black, ensnared by the sadness of your love. i am so sorry.

a qualm in the lyf

The mundane lyf of _ _ boasted no bonuses, bar the company car and the company mobile. Not having learnt to drive, and with fingers far too wonky for the fine details of the phone keypad, neither bought any use.
All there was, was the disinfected squalor of mothballed routine and the clicking of keyboards, y, n, enter, enter.
It played a merry little, musty little tune, fuelled by caffeinated pseudo-zest. While the homeless veiled theres in hessian, _ _ decided to don his discomfort. He wore it smartly, detachedly, non-chalontly, in the form of a suit and tie.

The chargreyed pigeons he had to pass through during his smog rise journey to the smokestack where he worked, pecked all the way merrily through, his half hearted attempts to thwack them with his rolled up financial review.
And, if the crossing was red he wouldn’t budge. Respectful to the light ordering him to stay safe. He stood stoic, a beacon of conservatism in the gutter while the others jaywalked.

And the sweet and lo that gave him heart palpitations.
In the loveless prison he had learnt to call a home.

There goes my bayybeeee.........

:b

my ass is numb

smack my bitch up, sleep dont weep.

Sea-legged qualms and rotten butterflies in my gulliver. You’ve ignited my thoughts but ignore to tend to the flame. So I lie here, flopped here, wasted here,
socked and smouldering in ruins of dust and shadow.

(yiz palms are sweaty, absence of moms spasghetti).

Would like to put a jar over it all, of it, covered.
'Til the last breath is no more, spent.

So you’ll put a scarf around my neck
and call it a day.
And I’ll be here as usual sweeping up the ashes.
So I guess I’m gonna have to call it a day.

smells like hsc english. smells like you. smells like the metallic dust of a war medal.

I don’t know how it can be achieved. A permanent residency here. Where is the value located?

I buy a travel ten, enough for ten bus trips. Though that is my entry fee from which I can board the bus I wonder, where does the worth reside? Is the ticket of value because of the bus trip, or, is the bus trip of value because of the ticket?

If meaning is always deferred then to where does it all trickle down? Is there somewhere a field of an ultimate meaning waiting to be ploughed? A bog muddied by letters and digits, within which diamonds are interspersed, the glimmers to be excavated out of the rough?

I hardly think so. The ideal of an ultimate to which we aspire is a concept elusive, and pursued only in a bout of self delusion and vanity, an ultimate incomprehensibility which is therefore meaningless.

Looking up into the night sky is looking into infinity - distance is incomprehensible and therefore meaningless
-Douglas Adams

Does every particle of a minute, every minute sliver of gold dust and beetle juice, every crimson drop of every passionate pang of a heart stain, every feeling torn from the ducts of a creased eyelid (your salty water that stained the pillowcase as you lay there)
Does it all pool somewhere? Is this effervescent source seemingly dormant only because of its veneer of invisibility?
No, it is all just absorbed and entrapped into the coarse and amnesic fabric of time.

Every word uttered, and sighed, from you to eternity. The papers shuffled, the papers scrunched. Bodies moving together with sanguine vivacity. Only to be torn apart as fodder for the endless procession of worms.
As the tides ebb, and the crescent moon smiles, then swells, then reverses.

-All these moments will be lost in time like tears in the rain
Everything passes, everything perishes, everything palls

I will do my best to love you, and to make everyone’s flight as comfortable as possible. An iota at a time the second hand has landed.

“Full fathom five thy father lies.”

And although every breath expires I can repose trust on my intentions that another will follow. To your destination in particular.

WHHHATTTSSS THISSSS???

I disregard your desired smile, you want it to lay upon your lips with a liquid heaviness.

Your contorted nervousness.

It is your flesh that I wear


Your expendable eyes. I will kiss them closed.
Your skinless body,
I chiselled my name into your marbled skin on top of your silly little ticker.
I peeled away all of your skin from the edges of my name and left you grotesque.

I had rendered you vulnerable, I tore away at your solidity and ground you to dust.
My vicious breath yielded you to the gust that dispersed you away, to be lost amongst the meaningless everything.

With eyes kissed closed and ears doomed to an endless rhapdory of whispers.
Your skinless self writhed and contorted at the thought of my every touch.
Your conquered totality exposed to the perceptions I had forced upon you.
Your every thought was of the beauty of your capture and the hatred that you were the one ensnared

rapture.

Archaic Araneae

They were under the brittle stone tabs by now.
But to crumble their homes,
To kick at the foundation pillars,
And to have it all collapse into itself,
The walls to close in upon the cobwebs,
And to make their laces crumple up.

Each finger fans in and
If I leave my hand still just for long enough
A spider might come.

And each will compress and refract,
An undulating tremble,
Together then apart,
The sticky lace,
Woven around,
As it matrix scrambles for comfort,
Up my arm and to hide in the crease of my elbow.