I step out of line

to see the picture that it draws

staring starstruck at the stars,

words leapt out of my mind and

onto this page,

words leapt off this page and

crept in a line that you followed

words leapt

and you stepped

out of line

i thought words were a bully

 beating me invisible

a light above me floating 

like an invisible bulb lit-an idea found

that maybe you don’t hate me

after all 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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he will not speak

only mime and point

like a pantomime a movement without

sound a muted television

with eyes and demands

he is young

he does not know where his

words are yet

they roll in his mind like

a carousel playing the classical 

music that dwarf clowns will dance to

waiting for an applause that he can join in on

watching life from a magnified gaze

a close-up focus.

He will not speak

but his communication is not compromised 

he knows connection and

that presence of pure life unglazed

by experience untainted with

repetition he has not

seen it all before. That table those 

lights those feet that door-handle the

concrete bricks he inspects from its

foundations to the worn out scars and the 

ants that crawl within them delighted he

is a scientist who knows the art of

wonder 

 

corrupt my words

with rage

add a handful of chilli and then

rub your eyes and

scream as they burn into

your brain. I never said my

writing would remain 

sane while we sailed into an

indiscreet world with everything

diluted in technology a 

downloadable wisdom for the

masses that remark to have a 

say

we are all fighting for a place

in this digital space

 

 

 

The Art of Creation

stencil-painted words

decorate this document

discounting the passion

of creation in its delicacy

Did I forget to navigate my steps when I

twisted tunes to fit a format? are we lost

within the translations of expectation

and a history of chartered waters? are we 

like gravel slushing fast within a stream of past?

delicate delinquency

unravel this fog in cloud of creation

let words burn through your soul and

rip your mind in a lightening 

that will forever scar its thoughts

it is time.

 

when did I forget to be human?

when disappointment made a brick wall

and I punched it

forgetting the living soul behind it

empathy erased and only

accusation singing its symphony

like the angry section of a soprano

the minor fast-paced allegro with

a bellowing opera singer, who is probably italian

and with one of those shiny italian-looking moustaches

wearing a short suit jacket with a long tail and a bleached shirt neatly tucked,

when did I forget to address you like a human to snap those bitter

comments in your face? 

and yet

a part of me still feels

justified

 

 

I wish

that when I shut my eyes

I could disappear

to catch that lack of consciousness that

makes you reappear

brother bear

wherever have you gone to?

broken apart into a million parts

you are the ground the trees

the clouds the stars

and dead.

what does that strange word mean?

I write words into the universe that

I hope you have read.

disintegrating thing

where are you travelling to?

if leaving is arriving somewhere then

where can I find you?

if I dig at the ground will you speak to me?

if i shout questions into the sky

will you drop answers over me like rain?

is your soul trapped in that Orange tree

the place that took away your pain?

I sit beneath it and ask you for answers

and a bumblebee replies.

Where

have you gone?

When all that’s left is a 

picture, a cold 

shell that

echoes with

all the things you once said

your physical being

gone, gone?

and yet your 

soul

embraces our hearts

reminding us to mind our ways

your voice

inside my mind

like the tug-tug of a memory train

your hugs

I feel enclose around my 

shoulders

your kind eyes

ever peaceful ever loving

telling me that 

everything was okay

I wish that I could tell you

send you an email

write you a letter

You would have been proud

I wish that you were here

 

 

magic

magic morning unravels

like a rolled up rug

its dust bombs into the air like the

glitter atomic of a magicians trick

bitter like the sharp edges that make

it shine.

Catapulting chaos of creation

so cosmic, so corrupt, so contagious 

watch these illusions contort

into unexpected bliss

 

 

 

and so

I run, 

against the current and the cause

creating ripples that will speak

in waves

so, cover your eyes

I am not there

an illusion that taints the air

Here are my weaknesses those

scars that chorus of invisible words

which crafts my soul into

witchcraft that stabs the soles of

my aching feet my achilles heal my

trauma,

the fire

that burns words into my mind

This is my disease 

 

 

 

 

mi goreng

the walls are melting

and the Dalai Lama could not find the answer

lurking upon a tapestry of truth

on a miniature cow blue-tacked

to the top of a window pane

that I called lucky

there was still good to remember

nobody could find it

a fog of croaking frogs

deafening in an

ice cold world

and mi goreng