Irrepressibly entitled (90 of 365)

Day 90 of the 365 day poem challenge.

Word of the day rictus meaning 

"a fixed grimace or grin."

So we have completed our week of poems for each day. Today, a bit of verbal diarrhoea from an unpleasant but lasting impression from my last happy customer and work today.

Irrepressibly entitled

Ever have a day where you

Feel the vomit in the back of your throat and you dream about smashing your brittle skull into

A speeding freight train

The cataract is lifted and the sight is bloodless and luminous

There is no answer though for the sharp prodding demon in my mind

Detonating my front lobes

And raising the cortex 

My lips curl into a rictus

Belying the blood curdling screams

The sweating neurones of my worn out brain that aches and kneels in subjugation "please no more!"

Send me dashed down into a cooling waterfall

Send me breaking through the mountain sides

My molten core and my pounding head will absorb it all

All that brain damage I've endured through my cheeky lobes

Would that I were now deceased and entombed

That would be less sombre 

Than the dread burning fire bending dread that becomes my waking self 

Have you ever had the menace of an irrepressibly entitled person 

Have you ever wanted to murder 

Inside your calm little she'll 

I am throbbing now with murderous intent

But I shall not lift a finger

All I need is space and time

The volcanic spread of my rage

Will cool in time

And from it will emerge a new wonderful island 

Fingers crossed.

Sunday (89 of 366)

Day 89 of the 365 day poem challenge.

Word of the day beguile meaning: "

influence by slyness."

Sunday

It was all yellow

It was all final

It was all so simmering in

The gloaming light 

It was spectacular 

And exploding like a Phoenix

To recede back into ashes

It was aplomb

It was applause 

It was a show a brilliant show

Tears came to mind as the players bowed and we left back out

Into the cold chatty auditorium

Where noise became delirium

Then we slipped back into the humdrum weekly world

It was a crackle

Like fireworks only muted 

By dread soaked pillows 

Of days tumbling after days 

Of tasks rearing their ugly heads

Of minutiae and micro-minutiae pummelling the brain meat

It was so wonderful

It was so beautiful

It was so magnificent 

It was so beguiling...

It was yesterday now.

Now it is gone.

Saturday (88 of 365)

Day 88 of the 365 day poem challenge.

Word of the day carbotinage meaning: "behaviour befitting a second-rate actor, otherwise known as hamming it up for the audience."

Saturday

pleasure fancy calm

But this is a Smokescreen only

Frantic panic tumult

acrimony

Is this the truth? 

Sometimes 

And sometimes also

Pleasant peaceful palatable

When the dust settles

The morning is nice enough

There are no obligations

There are expectations 

But these can be drowned with a pillow

Is it better to self-combust under the strain of too much fun

Or to crawl up inside under covers and ruminate what will or should be?

The days are endless and heady 

There is an end but it is far enough away to enjoy

The dread is kept at bay

By a different sort of dread

Adrenaline which sends one skyrocketing and tears away the rail lines 

This is the end of the week

A week of carving animals into

Cages called work 

They aren't sure anymore what to do with themselves...

Shall they frolic or feed

Bemuse one another with ambling ramblings 

Fall deeply passionately in

Love or collars idly and pass out and pass over 

The carbotinage of strangers

Through their long laborious night.

Friday (87 of 365)

Day 87 of the 365 day poem challenge. 

Word of the day dearth meaning: "an insufficient quantity or number."

Friday

A soft sigh echoes 

Down a long corridor 

This long exhalation 

A fellow clicks his heels

Bounces by eager pedestrians

Exalting the weekend gods

Miserly folks stand at attention

Their eyes are muddled perception

Dark ringlets percolate 

A drawling yawn billows 

Cascading out of bars

This ecstatic combustion

Roamers can hardly tell

Their faces are pebbled

Poor lost souls

Flame-tickled foods and drink

Pickled brains dance about

Smattering the streets

Plagues of hard hitters

In brimstone jackets

Gamble their nights 

Dancers flamenco, salsa, ballroom

Percussion beats on soiled floors

Seducing twisting forms 

The lady folds in

Her land is inside of her

Busily her mind ticks 

Repugnant snacks wished on foes

Pantry woes force Contrived 

Half-baked ideas

A dearth of deceit

Stirs his melancholy just

Prior to sleep...

Thursday (86 of 365)

Day 86 of the 365 day poem challenge.

Glaucoma meaning: "is a group of eye diseases which result in damage to the optics nerve and vision loss.

Thursday 

The sun rises and loops

Back it is Autumn after winter

It is trepidation before sunshine

There are flowers here

There are heavy hearts

There are shards of broken thoughts and scattered minds

Nietzsche postulated why

I postulate why does it continue so

This breath seems so taxing

This destination seems so fleeting

And is it not merely another way-point?

Melodrama was my forte the girl at the bar says 

She doesn't know the meaning of the word

She doesn't know what fortunate means

She understands that in four hours she will be asleep and somewhat richer and somewhat more impoverished 

Warning signs, self-help, sage words, not so sage words, booze, smokes, ciggies, bottom-feeding, dredging.

Coma. Glaucoma. 

Bliss.

Wednesday (85 of 365)

Day 85 of the 365 day poem challenge.

Ebullient meaning: "joyously unrestrained."

Wednesday 

Bells toll 

This is the bump

The mean the median

The mid-point 

Goliath rises his arms

Stretch down towards earth

Now we bawl towards the end

And ebullient cheers are still 

In the distance nagging like gulls

There is no protest

Today is like the rolling of the oceans

And the crescent slides and slips

And falls down

The current is flattening

The harvest is ripe and ready 

The dreams are yielding

The kernels are bursting just slightly from their opaque sheaves

Nearly there and nearly not 

Yawns arrive 

There is little care here 

In this middle mess this mildness

Then away it slides and on to night

And off to bed.

Tuesday (84 of 365)

Day 84 of the 365 day poem challenge.

Word of the day dour meaning "relentlessly severe, stern, or gloomy in manner or appearance."

Tuesday

I like this day it is amiable 

If I were to have a discussion

It would be with amiable Tuesday sensible Coffee soaked Tuesday

Shake me about out of my ruse 

The paths today are brown and golden

The hair on my temples is blistering and my boots sodden with a pleasant fatigue 

My brain is drenched with ideas 

There is a coming and drowning 

Wading through potentiality 

I could be a physicist

I could be a chemist

I could be nuclear fusion careening out of the sun and igniting the earth

All the faces in this crowd are dour

And crushing 

Oppression is appealing though dangerous 

But it is impossible today 

The day orgasms in orange, brown, blue and pink 

The night is welcome

The night is for drinking

The night is for sushi rolls

The night is for skyscrapers 

The night is for warm hands and a cold mouth

The night is for bodies entwined

The night is for hopeless glances and deep looks

The night is for precious embraces

The night is for laughter that warms the tips of ears

The night is for secrets buried and lost on pillow cases.

Monday (83 of 365)

Day 83 of the 365 day poem challenge.

Word of the day baleful meaning "threatening harm; menacing"

Something different this week - days of the week. First up my friend Monday.

Monday

Mourn-day comes

A nickname

A frosty day a bitter biting 

Hot day a resentful hateful baleful day 

Roller coaster 

Heart palpitations 

Emergency and tedium 

Panic and loss

Sprinting and trudging 

Cardiac arrest 

Aneurism 

Collapse 

Today is for mourning

Of happy times and days 

Calamity, crisis, doom arrives, despair is here, the end of times, the reckoning, the fading into grey, the drawing on of day, the complacency of noon, the monotony of afternoon and the brilliance of twilight and the decadence of evening meals of fat and grease and spoils and the dread of the pillow and the dread of mourning and Monday.

When I was a boy (82 of 365)

Day 82 of the 365 day poem challenge.

Word of the day ostentatious meaning: "characterized by pretentious or showy display; designed to impress."

When I was a boy

When I was a boy

I saw chanting and yelling girls

Their movements were strange

Their movements drew my eyes

Their movements caused me to gasp and groan and demand to run away

When I was a boy

When I was a boy

I saw the freckles, dimples, the beauty marks, eye lashes, wrinkles of their smiles

Their faces were the same as mine

Their faces were shaped not so different

Their faces somehow froze me

Their faces caused me to pause and stare and daydream and conceive ideas and stories and romances and my life unfolding

When I was a boy

When I was a boy

I knew songs and melodies

I knew how to dance and shake

Yet when I saw them

The girls who had always been mundane the same

The melody left me

The song left me

My lips were parched 

My throat was caught between youth and adolescence 

My movements were exaggerated, ostentatious and flawed 

My words became false 

My truth became less clear 

My path began to tremble as I did

When I was a boy 

Whore (81 of 365)

Welcome to day 81 of the 365 day poem challenge.

Word of the day compunction meaning: "a feeling of guilt or moral scruple that prevents or follows the doing of something bad.

Whore

Compunction drove me out 

Back into the night air

Away from the gruesome smells

And the sway of her cucumbers naked 

And hanging down like droopy hoses with dripping bloated nozzles

The grotesque way her thighs spilled over 

And the way her naked dirty hips

Swung back and forth

There was a stink there and a death in her morose eyes

They had lost life 

They were orbs 

crying lust and hunger

That only take

The red chord dividing the droopy flesh of her backside 

Which she rotated so casually 

In slow motion 

her lips hanging open 

Splayed apart like a silent whimpering dog

Her hands were on me

I could not resist she took me like a slug skidding her filth over me

She trailed slime on her afterward

She spat contempt from her emerald eyes and smirked 

So much loathing upon me

The room was hot and humid

The smog filled air parted 

And a light drifted in exposing

All of the stretch marks, the pockets and folds of her 

The gruesome imperfection caused me to recoil and retreat

Her hair was sticky and it was stuck 

To my busy fingers 

The same funk enveloped us both

And I felt the hot touch of her skin

The grazing of us in this horrible friction that stirred me to moan

My heart moaning deep down in my chest 

Moaning to leave

Screaming at the whore to leave

Screaming at the horror of her and the death in her eyes and the hell of this place and the disease of her presence and the irredeemable fungus perfume of that place.

The homeless man in Bourke street Bakery (80 of 365)

Day 80 of the 365 day poem challenge.

Word of the day doleful meaning: "

expressing sorrow; mournful."

The homeless man in Bourke street Bakery

He manifested from the mists of the concrete jungle

The shaman stood before the counter

Talisman in hand whistling pleasant 

Melodies 

He was beyond the pale 

His tattoos were anachronistic

There was an earthiness to him

I avoided the intense earnestness 

Of his gaze as it fell upon the room

He was staring in all directions his eyes were his skin 

He bore proudly his talisman

His pillow over one shoulder

It was so light and mystically clean 

He turned to the manager

The manager smiled doleful 

And with an indulgent nod

The shamans eyes bloodshot 

With incense and of pilgrimage and hardship and memory and kindness

"One more..."

"Not today."  The manager replied terse, his skin was tight to his skull 

Which seemed to ripple like the markings upon this musty shamen

Who then unshaken strode out 

The bristles of his beard catching

In the wind twitching this way and that 

And I watched with bowed head

And waited solemnly for a moment

Before I approached the counter.

The Shark (79 of 365)

Day 79 of the 365 day poem challenge.

Word of the day periphrastic meaning: "( of speech or writing) indirect and circumlocutory."

The Shark 

Jack of all trades

Gift to humanity 

Sales person extraordinaire 

The sweet music continues

Like a biting sticky balm

The trawl of periphrastic verbosity 

Wags it's ugly tail

Sunshine out their arse

Glory be to them

Saviour of my soul

Sloppy reptile lines on top 

Of grey suits 

Digging down to the refuse

Shovelling it away like coal

Paragon of the people

Master of the world

Knower of all

Powder keg explodes 

Word vomit sticks to the floor

Verbal diarrhoea both stings 

And caresses ears 

Like a poison draught for youth.

In the Waves (78 of 365)

Day 78 of the 365 day poem challenge.

Word of the day conflagration meaning: "a very intense and uncontrolled fire."

In the Waves 

The sand is hot on their feet

The boys pause and observe

Dutifully the three girls beside 

Them today they are on the cusp of something

They laugh and their mouths are wide and shrill and jubilant 

Into the waves

Their Awkward pre-adolescent calves 

Crash up and down in the shallow water 

The air is cold here and goosebumps form and eyes are confused and lost it seems there 

Is nowhere safe to look and nothing

Safe to feel or think

The boys look and then look away

Pretending not to see changes in

Their companions and one will find

Them to be angels and one will

Protest and wrestle them into the water all the while wondering

And knowing what that aching sensation is that dark impulse behind all the smiles and laughs

The last boy will watch and pray the day will end he shall have the darkest fantasies of all 

A conflagration in his heart and groin burns powerfully and silently

There are images where the girls mouths are twisted open and adoring lost in something he does not yet have the words for

All this plays out 

As the group stands Stationary

With waves lapping up and down

There is a fascination in simply 

Being present bodies near each other

One boy notices a girl shivering beside him notices the goosebumps from her neck down to her chest notices and then looks away 

It may have been ten minutes or less

They return to the burning noon sand and nestle their deep buried desires as they lay back and watch the sun pick at their skin.

Hicksons Wharf (77 of 365)

Day 77 of the 365 day poem challenge.

Word of the day arboreal meaning: "of or relating to or formed by trees."

Hickson's Wharf

The barnacled posts 

Have no time to them

They lay and bake in the sun

Their labour is their life 

The wood gently rotting

Under their lips

As the caws of nearby gulls

And the stamp of feet on wharves are easily ignored

There is a beautiful calmness 

Written on this afternoon and the 

Way the light dances between the peers and the rippling movements of the tides and the straight lines of shadows and shafts of light 

That mimic their arboreal selves

That anchors this world together 

There is dust and lichen and moss

The world never moves here

And it is always moving.

The abrogation of sense (76 of 365)

Day 76 of the 365 day poem challenge.

Word of the day Abrogation meaning: "the repeal or abolition of a law, right, or agreement"

The abrogation of sense 

We are here to help

Please fill in form A

Sorry did you say that you had 

This type of problem

Please also fill in form B and

Ensure that you provide a signed copy of the important document 

With your face on it

The same face as in this picture on the back of form guide AB

What you want to know what you should do

I can't tell you that 

But if you take these brochures

You can find out other numbers 

You can call to get help

But before you get help you'll need to complete form ABC and provide 

This statement and that statement

Why

Well we are not they

In fact they have their own forms 

I'm not sure what they are

That's not my department 

That's all I can help you with today

Now is that all clear 

Great have a nice day.

Absence (75 of 365)

Day 75 of the 365 day poem challenge.

Word of the day privation meaning "the loss or absence of a quality or attribute that is normally present."

Absence 

Serenity came knocking one day

The emergency of the moment 

Faded and in its absence came clarity images of waves and water and glass and drink and wine and clouds drifting lazy 

Seek the absence a voice said 

There was a void opening and it was like a glorious bottomless chasm there was no sound no feeling nothing 

There was no violence no poverty no guilt no expectations 

Today there is blinding light the nerves are frantic trying to process the boards and the voices and the words and the sounds and the clutter of it all the see-saw of jerking trains and cars and the tumbling up and down of boats and oars laziness is a remedy 

The desire for privation of company is now fixed in me

In this meditative silence is my bliss

In this selfish space is my eternal gratitude the rays of pollution and chaos cannot touch me here in my own blank canvas my void my solitude my absence 

The Mythology of Friday Afternoons (74 of 365)

Day 74 of 365 day poem challenge.

Word of the day quotidian "of or occurring every day; daily."

The Mythology of Friday afternoons 

The quotidian ritual would offer some surprise 

The terminus of the day would approach and with it an end

The gulf of possibility would shrink and by so doing expand 

The hopeful would transition from hopeless 

The wishes of persons behind desks would equate to ambling freedom

The pretence of authority would dissipate in leisure

The cavern candle light would dissipate before the glorious sun

The melancholy trudge would be consumed in gallant strides 

The motion of persons would slow and horizons approach 

The fickle would become intricate and perplexing instead

The tantalising would grow fascinating not merely distracting 

The quiet whispers would become loud drumming laughter

The caucaus would turn to their adversaries and chuckle at insults exchanged in jest

The gates and doors of assemblies and councils would open up and bloom in so many colourful voices 

The bored and disenfranchised would look up at the tapping of shoes 

The young would be lost in each other and taken with thoughts of lust and possibility 

The old would cradle comfort near and adventure close in equal measure

The risk of equality would be found to be false

The myth of otherness would be found to be discredited 

The fallen pink lady sky Apple would give way to the creamy milk of the moon

And the tethers of the quotidian ritual would crumple and fall and shatter and then ...

Anything might be. 

Maunder (73 of 365)

Day 73 of the 365 day poem challenge 

Word of the day maunder meaning "move or act in a dreamy or idle manner."

Maunder

I wonder what it is to be a star

I wonder what they must think

Blaring so bright 

Is it pressure or arrogance that keeps them burning so tall

I wonder what business atoms have 

I wonder why they insist on behaving so erratic are they indigestion 

Or something more insidious 

I wonder how they are part of me and I am not responsible for them

I wonder at the sky

I wonder why it is blue and know there's an explanation but laziness is fun and I delight in silliness 

And the sky in my imagination might be just as easily pink, yellow or red 

I wonder after cats

I wonder about dogs

I wonder at birds

I wonder before lizards

I wonder regarding centipedes

I wonder around peacocks

I wonder of cowbells and of cows

I wonder on monkfish

I wonder upon crocodiles

I wonder soon too much

I wonder why does morning follow night 

Because each night happens before or after and time is relative

I wonder and ponder many things.

Garden of Eden (72 of 365)

Day 72 of the 365 day poem challenge.

Word of the day celerity meaning "swiftness of movement."

Garden of Eden

Please yourself she said

Though I knew she did not mean it

She did not mean to give me freedom

She did not mean 

She did not

She

I shall please myself he said

And so she bit the apple

And the snake bit her back

 and everyone knows the joke

And that metaphor

He never intended to do wrong

He never intended

He

So temptation called

In paradise this was difficult 

Nevertheless it moved with serpentine celerity 

Everyone knows the story 

No gratitude

The father punishes those who have no appreciation

The father punishes 

The father

There were two males and an apparition 

That walk all together 

I wonder from whose womb all these bearded fellows sprang

On so many stain glassed windows

And how long it took them to cover their shame 

And How many juicy apples were consumed 

Juicy apples

Consumed 

The gates are sealed 

The vulva is closed 

All is descended from one

None are virgins yet all must be

Original sin is scary for children

Scary stories for children

Scary stories 

Scared.

Journeys (71 of 365)

Day 71 of the 365 day poem challenge.

Word of the day jaunt meaning: "

"a short excursion or journey made for pleasure."

Journeys

While jaunting a familiar cove in my youth 

The men with the villain teeth

And villainous intent 

Came and stole something precious 

It required a journey 

It requires retribution 

There was rape and plunder

It was heedless and forests of

One type or another burnt

However I retreated for a time

To feel cool lichen and moss 

Around my feet 

It tickled in cold places

And the cave into which I was led

Taught and shaped me

I found glow worms dangling 

Idle and in them the haunting memory that had forced my hand

On this voyage

I returned from this cave and my love was the sea

It's often violent unpredictable nature 

And my love was by the sea

And they engulfed me and I hungered and basked in sunshine

And on gentle nourishing shores

And I started to forget the purpose

Of journeys and of good and evil

I forgot all about villains in that

Warm embrace and the sense

Of comfort in two beings drawn so close

It seemed my journey was ended

And fancies of youth of rebellion

Of courage and of crossing 

Tall mountains and riding Rapids

It was behind me

I settled down but the nourishing 

Sand turned dry and it was scarring

On my scaly skin and I grew internal sores though I could not see them

A child ran among my legs and the face of my love grew long and

Age did not become my loves countenance 

Another child follows and a predictable path is sewn

Surprise and wonder became metaphors for the trail set before us

Wrinkled and lost 

The world was a desert that turned cold at night 

There was little hope

But the end of the line was approaching

And so that became the goal 

To shuttle up into tortoise shells

To feed and reproach risk 

To forsake the journeys and seas

To avoid any sharks 

There were no villains save those

In my senile mind and between the senile folds of my senile skin 

I recalled the many choices

That led me here so blind

To all else 

I considered the villain and the allure

To hunt and suppose oneself superior to another

To assert ones morals upon another

To be cruel 

To be harsh 

To be apathetic 

I lay then and awaited the final

Coaxing shut of my eyes

My journey would soon be ended.

Pyroclastic (70 of 365)

Day 70 of the 365 day poem challenge.

Word of the day pyroclastic meaning: "relating to, consisting of, or denoting fragments of rock erupted by a volcano."

Pyroclastic 

One

Memory

One moment 

Suddenly spirals

Down and out and on

Lies explosions exposures 

Ending dynamically and treacherous

Betrayal 

Longing and lust

Bound together torn asunder

Jutting out into the chasm and void

Tears screams and squeals quashed and dragged to hell

Shell 

Solitary and lone

Demanding grieving and Spartan

Breaking cataclysm apocalypse

Pyroclastic flows and eruptions debris and chasms  

Slurry 

Grit and dirt 

Tar and sinkholes 

Bitumen black and brown

Starvation parched earth cracked

Faded dirt dead fossilised extinct waste

Spike 

Piercing eyes

Grandiose entitled 

Red maws rogue claws 

Mountains quake and river churn

Machete curves and dismembered grace

Headstone (69 of 365)

Day 69 of the 365 day poem challenge.

Word of the day Monolithic meaning: "formed of a single large block of stone."

Headstone

I considered today my headstone

And it was square and set

To the ants I imagined it would 

Appear to be a great monolithic superstructure 

I had not contemplated it before

It was a dream 

I had not contemplated doom before

It was not in me 

I had not contemplated significance

Significance was reserved for others

I had not contemplated relativity

The time I have here is an abstract notion at best

I had not divulged this to anyone

It is a secret as sure as the final

Words and testament upon the stone

Will be left to the mason

I do not imagine any number of words will suffice.

Corpulent (68 of 365)

Day 68 of the 365 day poem challenge.

Word of the day Corpulent "(of a person) fat."

Corpulent

Cockroaches crawl on grease

Slicked with human bile

Sores burn and blister and bubble

The waddling quake of flesh

The couch eternal

In still dim light 

The vastness of solitude 

The decrepitude 

Puddles brown and green and yellow

Eyes lost and red

Veins burgeoning bulging

When will it shift

Shall it sit and rest and stare

Out from its high judges chair

With its insectile eyes within 

A mammoth skull  

Sit and collapse inside of this 

Brown-lit suburban doom

Fat

Grotesque

Hideous

Bulbous 

Rotund 

Moribund.

Country Storm (67 of 365)

Day 67 of the 365 day poem challenge. 

Word of the day changeling meaning: "a child believed to have been secretly substituted by fairies for the parents' real child in infancy."

Country Storm 

The wind howls in my ears

Fetid lips ring 

And my child wails and cries

Whispering cruel high pitched notes

Like a changeling

And I pray that the cacophony stops 

That the blast of noise, sound

Energy relents and stops

So that I might catch up - so that I might yet persevere 

My element is survival 

My destiny is the bland re-iterating 

Of thunderous cries 

Of faecal matter on nappies

Of faces scarred with smug indignation 

The kitchen is my demises 

The floors are sticky with my sweat and toil

And all while the storm rails on

The Windows beat in

And the rain powders the sill

I collapse down 

I collapse and sag like a weeping elm

My arms and gnarled and will 

Yet hold strong through this storm.

Travelling on Trains (66 of 365)

Day 66 of the 365 day poem challenge.

Word of the day transpose meaning "cause (two or more things) to exchange places."

Travelling on Trains 

I know a bit about travelling on trains 

It can become confusing and hurt ones brain 

It is often a place for an idle moment

It is often a place of bemoanment

It can be tiring to be sitting so long

It can be excruciating listening to the monotonous song

Of the train wheels or when the train stops

The wheels turn and I think electricity makes it go

A rod is pushed and it traverses rails rather slow

It can go straight like a rocket 

It can navigate bends less so

The world of train tracks is grey and also brown from rust

The broken bones of the tracks rattle and turn to mush

Or so I imagine

A lot of imagining can be accomplished here

Take that man with the ring on his ear

His mouth is sloppy and slipping

The woman striding to sit beside him meanwhile is tripping

And the girls and boys are laughing and clicking their mouths

The crone flaps the next page of her paper

The mother and father both pray it is some time later

So here I conclude 

While I rest here in solitude

That trains have a habit of transposing a lovely person

Inti something tired and lonesome.

Coda (65 of 365)

Day 65 of the 365 day poem challenge.

Word of the day coda meaning: 

"a concluding event, remark, or section."

Coda

The end is in the beginning

If by chance we encounter each other again

What would you say 

Jump down and free fall with me

Shoot For the ceiling

Platitudes are painful and 

We are forever suspended 

In a mirage of happy times and things

Aim high and fall further

I saw the gloaming and in it 

We were reflected

The light refracted off our bodies

Turning our skin crystal

We are shards of a destiny

Destiny is static and I have moved on from it

I am driving towards the Unknown now

My beginning is the end.

The Mesial Line (64 of 366)

Day 64 of the 366 day poem

challenge.

Word of the day mesial meaning: "relating to or directed towards the middle line of a body."

The Mesial Line 

I am in no persons land

No cock nor slit have I

No ability to give child 

No ability to birth child

No parents who are proud

No love that is not suspect

No identity that I can claim,

Well not so readily

I am alone

There is no one exactly like me(?)

No there are others,

But others in proud gruesome caves

Or in peculiar gouache shrines 

But I am scared

I am transferring 

But that implies movement

And instead I have been dumped

In this chasm whose sides are ringed

With man and woman

Each is alien to me now

Desire cannot complete 

These fragments of my identity

I am the glue

I am the only glue 

But I was never trained to hold it all together 

I was never trained 

I was groomed to hide

I was groomed to be ashamed

I am ashamed

I am embarrassed 

Ending seems like a release

It is certain and short

And maybe there is a door 

Maybe there is magic and wonder

And heaven beyond it

But no one talks about heaven for me

And yet what release is death?

Never ending darkness and blackness

Suppose that is all...

Suppose that nothing is better than suffering

Science says I am millions of parts

Why then is it so hard to be mentally two parts 

Because it's not real

It's as fictional as the lines of a road

We follow them but it works only because we want it to

I do not want parts 

I simply wish to be one

But I am not

Perhaps I am 

Perhaps perhaps perhaps

A thousand perhaps 

That might perhaps me into tomorrow

Defer what comes next

I am lost

I have no course to follow

I have no role model

I have no model

What can companionship be?

Will they love me

Will they love that part

Will they love both simultaneously 

Can that happen

Am I doomed to crack

Cut down the mesial line

And the tissue on the inside

Will look just as gelatinous and pink on either side

A comforting thought.

The Tickle of Time (63 of 365)

Day 63 of the 365 day poem challenge.

Word of the day edifice meaning: "a complex system of beliefs."

The Tickle of Time 

The man greets time

Time does not know what to say

How to respond

How to end this exchange

There is only one cruel swinging way

The stalks of his corn crumple

Under the force of so much steel and magnitude 

Time pauses and removes his veil

The man pauses as though he's seen a ghost 

The man begs please

Time hesitates 

The thin orb of pulsating life hangs 

Before his gnarled hands like

A flashing gemstone a jewel enthroned upon the edifice 

The man begs and pleads

Stinging with razor blind wrists

Time drinks like water 

His soul and Lifestream are dissolving into him

Time hesitates he is not base

He takes a hold of the scythe

He edges away and departs

The man rises from the grass

His feet feel each thin stalk

Anxiety rises in his chest that they might be broken and crushed beneath his feet

Meanwhile the dew tickles...

Flimflam (62 of 365)

Day 62 of the 365 poem challenge.

Word of the day flimflam meaning:

"nonsensical or insincere talk."

Flimflam

The singing Noll turned 

It's jubilant cheeks to

The Cheerie face of the cow

With the Jowls to match the 

Old lady in the pink corner house

Whom Divulged her most secret 

Possession in whispers to the 

Full lit moon on Sunday afternoons

Which are always preferable to

Noon days walking on spare rabbit shoes who hop like kangaroos

To broken hills who sing sunshine 

All the way down the coast while washing out the line of sad re-used tissue boxes that make good bricks for mouse houses of such grandeur of mansion parks and primrose ladies and portly gentleman who sip off the port bow of a passenger liner that skims the surface which one should never judge a book by and flying seagulls bite and chew on bread stale day old bread and butter pudding loaves for ducks who swan and quack and what a pack we make the women who know too much and the women who are smart and pretty and not beautiful like roses on a summer day and the skyline is glorious and the skyscrapers are a mirror like the one in the bathroom the exquisite tub was purchased some time ago swindled by a peddler who traded in stolen things including a fine bicycle like my papa had who used to sip on old beer bottles and let his socks turn to lint and the mice would come and scoop it up and make beds for themselves the alderman nearly died upon glimpsing the sight the marmalade on his toast which was manufactured locally at a small stove and the stirring was arduous and the blood and sweat of her did not compare to that of the soldiers except in spirit which there was never a lack for on top of that grassy knoll at the end of the street.

Ivy Street (Greenacre) (61 of 365)

Day 61 of the 365 day poem challenge.

Word of the day Eicastic meaning: "imitative"

Ivy street (Greenacre)

The cottage feel of weeds 

That subsume the stone 

And turn terracotta tiles into

Cosy homes for moss

The gentle hum of electricity

And gasoline as mowers chew through the inch thick infection

Of bright spring flowers and weeds

Poking out of front lawns and invading the streets 

Potted plants seek purchase and mooring on tender white and red bricks 

There are sedentary cars that cram

Up against each other like deck hands on an immense invisible 

Cruise liner

There are boats too they tie their moorings to the asphalt

There is the silence here of contentment and monotony 

The narrow glass windows 

Covered in a small crust of dust 

Are voyeurs to the gentle late afternoon firing of pots and kettles

And cups chink pleasantly

As heads fill with pleasant delirious wool spinning tiredness

Leather lounges accommodate and cushion 

A bird chirps here or there pottering between the vines between tall steel electricity poles

Or tall telegraph posts 

Nearby the highway carves up 

This green blooming world

There is a rebellion 

The waves of dirt and sound both ruin 

and preserve the tranquil ire 

While the grass and trees slowly crumble the gutters and crack the 

Roads 

Neon signs, Shopping trolleys

Malls and the clutter of feet 

These streets are not made for human feet they are made for slow burning wheels and the lazy stall 

Of weary tyres

Amid the shuffling life this quiet can erupt into an eicastic 

cauldron of the world, the foreign is ever simmering here 

The throng of the strange and alien

Thrives here and the bricks and its people are moored into the benevolent earth.