summer morning/nitrogen oxide

I crawl out of my skin and up the ladder

rain drowning, ripping through
my gripping bones,
a morning breeze
blowing clouds of acid, softly disintegrating
my leathered cracks,
Listen, the squish of my ancient floor boards,
the sunken rivers
overflowing
with their illuminated truth,
Hear me,
I am a born again Christian, damp,
howling at the expulsion of having to become
anew, raw
with a fleshy vibration
See me, I am the penultimate sinner, I feast upon
a roof to slither
and lick with my greedy hands, so I claw
out of this gaping mouth
and up
this melting ladder, the
porcelain veneers guarding
eternal bliss, the
perverted smiles of the chosen few flashing
down upon me
wider, higher, unhinging their jaws,
as my putrid dentures
split lightning fast, 

Watch, this electrocuted mind
oozing over
the precipice of heaven
no longer condemned to linger
in its haggard sheath
Look, higher, higher, these
blood shot eyes
caving in,
victoriously
imploding
taking in
the sky

dear diary,

brown smoke
chocolate cigar
sweet mouth
stained and sticky
plum cheeks
wash my skin
peel off layers
crackling shavings
wet feet touch
the ground

formaldehyde roses

dear diary,
we spent a lifetime at the circus of the unwanted and unhinged,
dancing at the crack of a whip.

we watched the world begin to leak at the seams,

the water pouring out, the water pouring in

we had everything planned in detail, 

but it took a while for the atmosphere to change

we would ride through the line of fire,

following the sun's descent over the hills,
dodging bullets, melting into the ocean,

the setting was perfect.

a sudden explosion. loud panic.
the roaring flames.

and thus,
we ran.

ran, ran, ran
away from it all,

from the balcony blues with clouds of smoke billowing around us
sweet and sticky, clinging to innocent layers of thin white cotton
passing clusters of vicious lolitas lingering on street corners, murderous infants
with heels drumming encrypted messages into the pavement

we ran, ran, ran
from the night cradled babies without a single care in the world
from the drugs, the mindless thugs
chasing stardust with the asylum doors
spread wide open

from
night cradled babies with touches frail like a moth's wings
hands sliding slipping lower flying failing falling higher
from
virdina green absinthe breaths
and a thousand infernos, burning deserters
rabbit hearts looping back and forth among reckless manifestations,
rats in our dingy kitchen, 
a silver knife lightly tracing the veins of my throat

we ran, ran, ran
from the night cradled babies
from the needless, the needles
the summer sons
spiking veins of
summer daughters

ran, ran, ran
with our fragile wings fluttering
casting long shadows
across bleeding asphalt, 

burning holes in the soles of your feet 

the asylum doors 

spread wide open.

diphyllodes magnificus

dear diary,
different cities,
different rooms,
different names,
and as I stride past crystal palace
everything is silent.

early dawning:
we see a soaking madame de l'amour
marching over the grounds of the royal gardens, dragging by the collar a small girl
a peroxide gloria of candy floss a pale blue dress ruthlessly drowning spider limbs
her sheer cotton skin shredded in the turmoil
her breath bruised by sweet cherry wine
her blood stained hands
with dirty talons echoing the scarlet scratches upon
the back of a tiny tin soldier, his face buried in the pavement.

sunday morning:
and in the background, the faint cries of restless hands
relentlessly pounding the keys of an ivory piano,
infernal harmonies quietly writhing through the bleak landscape,
creasing on the silver lake like black serpents.
(like cockroaches heavy thoughts flee
by the sight of the exterminator,
chanting Alice, Alice, oh Alice.) 

and when the hermit walks, I run

 

serenity
the shadows cannot not haunt you.

a hypnotic scene

dear diary,
we live our lives in silence, the creature and I
creating hypnotic scenes in our daydreams.

night after night through the eye of the storm
we never speak the truth and we feed them with our stories
we ride it out, proud as baby swallows, learning not to fly,
and with every metamorphosis the heart grows harder.

and as you sweep out with the winter breeze
a bunch of opium flowers and their milky stems
leaving wet marks on the mantle piece
stories bound together by white silk ribbons
when you go I dance on daggers. 

your apartment was impersonal, distanced in all is grandeur, distanced.
old furniture scattered carelessly along the walls relics paintings of ancestors
old relatives kept in urns mary and jesus pinned to the cross mary had a little
lamb and in the heavy chest by the door your private supply of armour,
my camera educed paranoia as morning light started pouring itself over the city.

so the creature and I walk down this lonesome country road,
her cradled in my arms tiny wrists like a pearl necklace.
our path lined by oak trees, memories peeling off the branches,
drink red sand, weep white snow, watch bridal veils grazing the horizon,
and with every metamorphosis the heart grows harder.

tomorrow little creature
tomorrow meet the world. 

blue moon balcony

dear diary,
a letter to unknown
from the creep in the window. 

he was young and dumb and she just wanted someone.

husky whispers by the crack of dawn, tangled limbs, dampened sheets,
strands of raven hair and a dusty pink camisole, showers of feathers, white pillows, snowflakes,
the heavy smell of old port, misused trust waltzing with the wind, melancholia
twirling gingerly before the open balcony door, losing balance, falling, tumbling, dripping dripping
d
r
i
p
p
i
n
g
thick black tar over neighbouring rooftops, over dimmed morning shadows
over bodies glued together by sweet and brutal intoxication

and in an open window right across the street,
hidden behind deep silk curtains
I am stood, watching,
and in an open window right across the street,
hidden behind deep silk curtains
I am stood, waiting.
and with my hands beating against the soft fabric
I imagine her mind
a forgotten attic covered in dust and grime, a forgotten attic laden with
burned out candles, a cave where memories lie scattered like autumn leaves,
translucent moth wings overpowering creaking wooden floor boards. 

and beside their bed a basket of ripe black plums, slowly festering in the creasing morning sun, petals from a single purpur peonie gently snowing down, one by one,
second by second, drop by drop.

and her mind is poisoned, they say, polluted.
her mind is dangerous, venomous
her mind is unhinged
they say
her mind is the mouth of a serpent.

and as the city is awakened, hear the chiming voice of the streets,
for this foul smelling sanctuary to whom we all crawl to bleed,
and with the golden leaves chiseled into the hollows of my cheeks,
the shallow reflections gathering sand in every corner of my clouded eyes,
we stand, icons by the altar, breathing the heavy smell of port,
my ink leaking over sweaty linen sheets,
in a place where dreams come to die, on a balcony where dreams become
excuses, with the power vested in me, I pray to never
have to love.

strawberry hill synergy service

dear diary,
what is left to say
when everything changes
nothing really does.

white speed in the fast lane
venomous dreams, a tainted lead zeppelin
walking home in the pouring rain, 
walking home through catharsis

- the things they say, absent minds that drink, eat me
- the steps they take (closer, closer)
- drink me, eat me, me, in a red wine dress (your second skin, watch me undo it)
- empty vessel,  i do not love you, empty vessel, loose your mind
- screws, you never tried to (unzipping, undressing)
- villains, all villains, trust no one, trust me
- trust the thief that stole the royal jewels, trust the crispy scent of morning dew
- trust no one, trust me
- illuminations, a pigeon crushed, feathers like snow, the damp and pearly pavement
- open your eyes, breathe (and drum) my heart in a cage at five in the morning
- dented teeth and broken bones, let us smother in your grief
- flightless bird, let the windows swing open
- flightless bird, let the speed set you free

the internal noise, a primal hunger,
the foul smell of the river bank soft and wet,
the whirlwind, an honour
the blanket, a sacrifice,
the thief that stole it all, forever lost in blindsight.

leucanthemum vulgare

dear diary,

truth to be told

was a single promise

ever broken.

#1 and #2, in retrospect:

- are we slipping again

- pulling away
- with force
- you punch

- I glide
- where did we go last night
- don't you remember
- where did we go last night
- can you not recall
- did I pay for the taxi
- don't worry
- did I shout at you?
- you called me a prostitute, a tactless rascal
- how much was it
- a thief and a liar
- you, not the taxi
- your hands around my neck
- I'm sorry, I wasn't being untrue
- you were terrifying me
- did I sleep with that man
- only briefly
- did I leave you behind
- you still do
- did I run
- you came back
- I'm sorry, I never meant to be untrue
- you always come back
- I cannot see where I am going
- then stay
- will you blindfold me
- if you wish
- starlight?
- what do you want from me
- silence.

dear diary,
i am too tired to speak,
the room is covered in plastic.

cygnus olor

dear diary, le circque de soir. where anything could happen. act 1: in which you ask me of what i am thinking and in which i reply (in the shape of a howl or whisper, after dragging myself across a draughty hotel room, the highway, exhibit a: a juvenile glare by the bedside, exhibit b: lolita fingering the frilly lace of our curtains): my mind is a container of humid air, an enclosed archive tapered by images of vanishing swans, my mind is a abandoned photo booth adorned with torn out sheets of music, cut out newspaper articles, headlines before close ups: the brittle curve of a proud neck, the nape at the end of a long winding road sucked into shadow, a sinister minefield, an arched backbone reaching for the highlands. my mind observed under northern lights: a black car with toned windows speeding over a glaciated lake, suddenly spinning out of control, piercing through the ice. my mind is a summer snowfall and abyssal nights, paintings of dying swans scattered over the tundra. my mind is a cave of icicles, a hoard of deer moving like lightning, white birds caught in a sea of broken glass - feathers, twisted bodies, the feeling of taking flight with frozen wings. my mind is a temple for dying snow and falling swans, my mind is specks of stardust and every heart beat eternalised, my mind is how the sun manages to rise every morning, how hard it can be to keep from melting. (a faint smile as the lights fade out) act 2: (inside the white cube) a solitary person sprawled a the floor of a white palace, 1. left ear firmly pressed against echoes and vibrations, 2. right ear listening to the voices of the concrete walls. a group of spectators leaning against the fiber glass, pressing dirty fingers against the television screen, smudging their own perception and from serenity a swift motion: long strands of silver hair shooting out to carelessly brush the monster's cheeks the ceiling mirroring the floor mirroring the ceiling and the sprawled the sprawled solitary spider for everyone to touch and your reflection, your face glued to every surface the distastefully depraved madame d'amour, the silent voyeurs with clouds of silver hair, long strands of silver hair shooting out to stroke your eyes, the chin of your reflection, thin silver arms slithering out from every opening, tracing the outlines of your portrait, silver hands woven into the pair of miniature silk gloves resting on the crown of a grown child's head, a pearly white dove taking flight off an old man's shoulder.

act 3: (pitch black, voice-over) and all that you took has been replaced, what was left cemented in the skyline, you are no one.

sublimation:
to calculate the possibility of running into someone you know;
a simple equation, a downpour of figures, a waterfall defenceless against
les fleurs du mal. understanding yourself as nothing but a number;
how five is the product of every quantity of five that has
ever existed.

dear diary,
i am my body but my body is not me.

sublimation:
to calculate the possibility of running into someone you know;
a simple equation, a downpour of figures, a waterfall defenceless against
les fleurs du mal.

lymantria dispar

dear diary, we are the caravan children and i will leave you by nightfall and 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 finery, moth eaten dresses covering legs and lamp shades, a collection of yellow stamps and faded postcards, violets, pharaohs, a venetian mask in a stranger's window, what does freedom taste like crystal what does it taste like to stay 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 - abandoned soldiers standing in line outside a stranger's apartment, heavy breathing, their smudged reflections in the moonlight, frosted glass, tainted, waiting for their call. what does freedom taste like when it was so reluctantly given? winter apples, warm cider, mud, clay, grime. we dream of peonies, of roses, of a venetian mask weeping shades of purple, soaring high in the sky.

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, silk finger traces, fragile 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,

him, too young, a nosebleed, blurred vision, white powder, black horse too young, crimson winter, blood stained snow, ravaging purity me, 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 beads and derranged deeds under the husky streetlights.

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 beat of the cold wet pavement.

une fleur du mal

dear diary,
bleak blue silence crystals love without a beginning, without an end.


1. our days remain the same, identical sets of limbs, regardless of
how we twist or twirl them.
2. time is a ship and a fixed destination, you and i are nothing but pleasant interruptions,
psychic drivers on the open freeway, we are cheap tricks, we are popcorn and a drive in movie,
we are tiny specks of light on the giant silver screen.
3. and then there is the ether,
distilled beauty, pure white noise.


he wore taped up glued together black leather boots, hair in long greasy tassels
he put a spike in his vein, pumped himself full with heroin, rationalised any
irrational action by saying; the drugs cannot take a hold of me,
i have got nothing left to lose, what you see is not a fear of flight but flying itself
i am a painter of modern life, through daze, through storm, through thunder, lightning,
shooting past furiously charged clouds, riding my horse of liquid density
the ether: distilled beauty, white noise,
embracing the duality of human nature.


what gives a crystal its weight is its lead base, a frozen core of poison.
concrete floors, paper walls, hooker heals as the beat of a drum machine
the sound of someone practising the piano, children screaming
even in a place where no one is seen but heard,
we will find the ether.

definition, madame de l'amour:
existence is a explosion of colours oceans springing to bloom change is only a constant
all dreams are lucid every twitch caught on film a flick of an eyelid a nail scraping skin
trash devouring couture a snapshot of our matron wheeling about france in a solemn overture
wrapped in chanel and tin foil a peacock painted in shades of spite senseless in her innocence.

euphoria

dear diary,
my tiny tempest.

ever increasing circles

we went too far this time, did we not

we went too far this time, did we not

we went too far this time, did we not

we went too far, baby,
we went too far.

if i were to describe her like a spectrum of colours
for her ignorance – ochra, late autumn, sweet honey wine
for her inevitable demise – something primary,
pommes d’amour, saturated scarlet
for her melodious voice, words sung in harmonies – such a luminous occurrence,
lucid hazy yellow milky azure cloudy diamond sapphire sea
and for her stoic face when loading a gun – tyrian violet, deep brushed velvet
a thin purple hue in between the lands of violence and indifference.

and it’s crystal dancing with skeletal boys, crystal dancing to infinity.
euphoria.

candy darling – the definition of wings, flying, weightlessness
chandelier - the sound of tall spires splitting against
badly worn limestone floors
impossibility - the purity of nothing, a void, delirium
mortality - the weight of the world resting on crooked marble shoulders
phosphoresce - not letting anything bother or interrupt, fireflies,
illuminating the dark, darkening the moonlight
road trip - a medieval game of endurance, master to marionette,
marionette to master

sirens - police cars, passion, silk stockings, icebergs,
the possibility of miniature flames escaping from a shotgun
tar - a most difficult type of stain, the clingy love of an infant,
unrequited, eternal, easily broken, easily destroyed.