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stoic minded, red eyed
antipathy in all corners
bitter blood, salted lips
puckering with the acrid air

dull edge against thick skin
pricking, pushing
with no way in

these thin walls keep what's inside
and inside I will watch
with all four eyes.













Hello, bird

flailing wings

fire in the cradle

burning, slowly, surely

white to black with seconds time


I am surrounded

it coccoons me. They say,

keeps me sterile. Pure.

Lack of colour, loss of emotion,

Each letter feels like the cure

but these letters, they have life

I am purging;

they consume


Hello, bird

trapped in your cage

and I; in mine.

the last lit candle



It was only time before

the world

devoured the sun

and left us

in a blanket of darkness

I was left alone

like a long

forgotten doll

in the heart of

the wilderness

with only

the last hint of light

the wick burning slowly

slowly, the breeze teasing

to sweep away the flame

and leave me here

to vanish


that last flame

was like the last hint of fire

inside of my soul

longing to burn

but still trapped by the candle

slowly growing weaker, melting

beads of wax streaming from the flame

teardrops falling


but I refused to leave

as only an ember

and let the flame burn on

igniting the earth around me

feeding the forest to the fire

as the flames tasted the dusky sky

and my soul was an inferno

as I let the smoke

consume me




a. awareness



If colours could dance,

and sing notes, they would

they'd draw across the page, revenously

they would turn to red,

as red as the blood in my lungs as--


I am mute / 

It is blinding,

the lights, the cacophony of empty colour

letting out to staring eyes


I should not see this, every stitch

fragile skin held tight by sutures

I am imperfect. A tear in the vinyl;

a flaw in the music.


Look in my eyes.

Tend to my veins.

Let me sleep.











you think I love you, but I do not

you are wrong. You love the expensive dishes

and fine wine;

those many faces and the bottle which you 

might as well drown yourself in

and the diamonds and gold, they won't buy you a soul



I don't like it when you argue with me

I don't want another hour. One more minute

is too long;

I can't listen any longer. These faces,

all made up like the fallen queens that died

for you to become;

they're vomiting their illness on these 

white tablecloths

and it's headed straight for me


Girl, I hate you,

why do you keep me here?

You kiss me with those cherry red lips

and tell me to hush up,

and keep quiet. That it won't hurt for long.


But girl,

I'm following the white horse

and if it takes me

it will take you too.

hunger pains




The forest was home

and I was the mother

inside of the shadows

as the rain melted down

and my prints

left traces

of the simplest kind;


yet the ache

was greater

and stronger

than my will;

so I tasted red


they were certain

I would defray

for my instinct

so I stayed hiding

in my skin


but the needle hit my skin

so I slept

and my sun

is now fluorescent




Writhing hate

fear of pulling back the vinyl, staring eyes

into the glass, pale white

fixed on like an animal behind it


maybe it's what I've become

Clenched teeth. Blank eyes

one body, but the mind and soul


through the desolate forest,

to the bottom of the lake,

drenched in gray


I am not, not, not

stricken by the moon, tortured by 28

the peace will leave, and with it,

it drags in anguish

like the animal drags in a fresh kill

Rancid, leaving a trail

to follow if I am lost


one day, I will take you with me.





The dreaming hour, wandering about

these two black holes won't suture shut

I hold on tight; my skin is sinking

words spoken to me from all four walls

Seeping, peering down on me


I am a statue;

my body is stone

Cold, silent

life is moving on while I am standing still

and these words don't speak to me;

they scream, and blame, and criticize

They walk off the page

and laugh at me from through the glass

I am translucent - a gossamer

   there is no place to hide



I need a coma.




I will paint myself

and spread the colour

on the walls

of the thoughts

inside the hole

inside my head;

let the colour flow freely

upon the blank pages;

itching skin

and aching muscles

altering reality

to the view

outside my window,

skeptic thoughts

that fill the glass;

the door is open

to uncertainty

and fabrication

feeds the senses

so the world becomes

my canvas,

those around me

are the subject,

and my thoughts

become abstract;

one more day

to make the deadline

just in time

to stitch the wound.




I an an error.

I was supposedly going to write, or paint

my way out of this

but the lines kept flowing

and I followed them

21 rotten years later

I sit, counting numbers on a screen

picking away at what holds the seams

from tearing

aching to tear the voicebox from those who scream


I've been conquered by a sales pitch;

I'm devoured by the hordes.

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