Thursday, 17 July 2014



all their faces seem far away while my memory fades.
to be alone and to be lonely are concepts whose differing attributes
i struggle to comprehend in a sustainable way and any
given day the logical mind can fall at the feet
of the deeper root, the circular and ever circling core of
(??) H u m a n // what it is to be
                                                ------‘i want to go to the party because i want to be around more people than just you.’
i said-
to myself-
and struggled musing and remusing the definition of what it is to be cruel and
the conclusions i came to eternally slipped through my grasp.
standing in the mirror the only thought that seemed to stick
was one of vague and                       almost hopeless
understanding that my reflection and i
should treat each other more politely.

today i stayed in bed with the firm
belief i was doing what i wanted and i fell
into the same spiral of asking myself
what it is i really want and answering
with an incomprehensible description of a memory that held a stable contentedness, a memory
attached to no person or place but closely linked
to the average and quiet pride one feels when doing something
as mundane as washing one’s week-old socks.
in the malnourished state of imaginationless stupor this
was grandly, and cyclically,

a month after turning eighteen three and a half years ago i tripped acid
and experienced a seemingly tangible (yes) epiphany
surrounding a concept I had
coined the ‘sunday feeling,’
meaning feeling
blue and rather depleted and rejected
by the never ending expectations that seem to take and take, as if what little
control we had over ourselves to begin with was slowly
being chipped away, and on top of that sits a somewhat
esoteric preemptive
sense of failure, like a blanket over what
could only be described as a husk of our former selves,
all the while contemplating with a general resolution and yet also much disgust
the (always looming closer)
monday to come.

            today i stayed in bed with the fragile belief  (as if to believe it any harder would make it too painfully true - and so as not to drop it, i held it in tentatively cupped hands in favour of my sanity, lest it completely dominate and destroy all that I have carefully set up in my internal world)
            that monday (employed here as an arbitrary placeholder to signify both the day of the week, and the general failure that is to come, both within the following days and generally within life, in an almost constant but not necessarily consistent, or predictable, pattern)

            is always coming.


Wednesday, 2 July 2014


i live in the House of the Sleeping Goat,
i answer to a different name, these days
and they send me flowers wrapped in prayers.
i am my only god.

my body practices the art
of imitation. i’m learning to be more
than a reflection sitting on another’s cornea.
today i’ll be a shotgun.

forgiveness, they say, is
a slow and quiet walk, a sigh in the dark that
no one applauds. forgiveness, i say,
is the courage not to run.

the blood in my brain is forming a wave
and i’m soon to flood you out. say goodbye
to the carpet and the paint
in the House of the Sleeping Goat.

i spent months scrubbing the
floor of my womb and it
took a long time to get here. all things,
love included, are scoured off today.

my mother grew my body inside her like a flower
and i’ve sucked the sunlight from this ugly place.
don’t run, little dove  kneel to the water  after all,
it’s coming for you just the same.