lymantria dispar

dear diary,
we are the caravan children and i will leave you by nightfall,
float through thick shields, veils, membranes of defeat, of resignation,
of unsurpassed beauty. we are the caravan children, a mirror cracking
from side to side, promises worn like a crown of carnations.

from dawn to dusk - a creaking carrige past victorian buildings,
tall, coarse palaces draped in egyptian silk,
moth eaten cotton dresses covering legs and lamp shades, a collection
of yellow stamps and faded postcards, violets, pharaoes,
a venetian mask in a stranger's window.

what does freedom taste like crystal
what does it taste like to be flying

carried through the hour of the wolf
we dream of dahlias - the slow strokes of a paint brush, crude oil, a linen canvas set
to flames, distorted faces with serpent eyes lunging from the heat waves.
we dream of violets - gypsy soldiers standing in line outside a stranger's apartment,
heavy breathing, their smudged reflections in the moonlight, frosted glass, tainted.
what it tastes like to be flying - winter apples, warm cider, mud, clay, grime.
we dream of roses, we dream of peonies,
a venetian mask weeping shades of purple.


dear diary,
voices, i tune them out, the crowds, the places,
i think of angels and all is silent.

the silver fox, hiding, the amber fox in bins and clouds,
the silver fox pouring down in amber vessels, tranquility.


the weight of an hour

dear diary,
dear morning.

05.30 am
it all makes sense, the city lies dead
i must be the only one left breathing.

05.40 am
ultrarapid, nuclear meltdown, the flutter of wings, cheekbones, concrete,
his name the haunting cry of a violin.

05.50 am
before the time of the murder (headlines: young boy, 15, dismembered)
i thought that i had met the most beautiful man in the world.
his slow brushes, cotton finger traces, leaf like shoulders, fine white charcoal lines.
i thought that i had found the most
beautiful man in the world, had felt his gentle caresses.
beside him, before him, along him, within him, balancing at the tip
of youth, swaying at the edge of adulthood, a blunt force, its sharp nature.
church bells ringing, chains breaking,
before the time of the murder, chronology our only predator.

06.05 am
something fictional, the view from down below
a photograph of an open window, the cool morning breeze and
sheer silk curtains teasingly dancing with every whiff of the wind,
too young, a nosebleed, blurred vision, white powder, black horse
too young, crimson winter, blood stained snow, ravaging purity
too old, ancient forests, murky breath, skin like sandalwood
too old, lumps of flesh held in fists of iron, a prostitute of a million faces
vanilla scented candles, cherry flavoured lingerie,
through the socket of his eye, my loaded gun.

06.15 am
the haunting cry of a violin,
nuclear meltdown, the flutter of wings, cheekbones, concrete.
asphalt dripping, boiling, orange men, wax men dripping, boiling,
forming thick opaque puddles, orange oceans, deep black oceans
slowly expanding, erasing every shadow of the undergrowth,
sweet and sticky, the spellbinding smell of tar.

06.20 am
a flight of stairs, a pile of empty bottles, smashed up glasses,
petals, mindflowers, torn out pages, diaries, dreamers,
a scrawny black cat my sole companion.

06.25 am
memories carried in my back pocket:
letters from the white country.
the snow, its tender fall, a grace, your open chest
the mountains, your visions wrapped in pearly blankets
the glaciers, you, crystallised, you, the sharp, brittle icicles.
over the ice glides the powder queen

06.30 am
the difference between a promise and a curse
an omen and a blessing
i must be the only one left breathing.


am limit

dear diary,
the city will swallow you.

00:00 am
i am stood here, waiting, the cold wet snow melting dripping by the first hit of
skin cold and wet wet and cold, the company of heroin bruised heroines
brawling, crawling ripped off beeds and derranged deeds under the husky
i am stood here, waiting, from inside the club and bursting out of the doors she
comes twirling here comes the wind the wind here she comes now the breezing
wind with eyes like ping pong balls, with eyes her eyes bouncing off the walls her
eyes like plates her eyes like planets her eyes that have always seen too much or
never quite enough never enough never enough her voice the one of a crow a mirror
cracking from side to side and her eyes darting straight through me to the heroines
back and forth through me and the heroines and her pupils the size of the moon and
inside this tiny tormented body an entire solar system, all the world's madness
enclosed, the madness the madness the madness, through every cell
through blood through pores purified spiked up madness madness
madness her voice the one of a crow a mirror cracking
from side to side this is nothing like heroin my pupils the size of ping pong balls
its brushes of madness the cold wet snow through cloth and bone, the whirlwind my
whirlwind with eyes dashing through inner spaces otherworldy places like
satellites tiny satelliets the comforts of madness her comforting madness
her madness her madness her majesty's raving madness and
i am just stood here, forever waiting, amongst
the drugs and the thugs rocking to the the beat of the cold wet pavement.