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
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
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
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 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
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.
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 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
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
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
pandaplatter 