July 31, 2004

There was a death. They buried the soul beneath the shadows and walked away, holding hands with the body. The songs and dancing commenced, a wedding of monotony to flesh. A robotic kind of repition.
Plastic bottles and plastic people walking around the outskirts of the reality, the question, why?
Only for a physical moment, only for a few handfuls of flesh and mouthfuls of air. disrobe and reveal, a moment at a time. Lies. Lines. Fall. Smile. Shed.
Fuck yourself clean and call it a morning, you walk away, hands held tight with the purpose that you came here for. Second best second chance left in a heartbeat when she says “okay”. A probability, you left surity to fend itself against a raging torrent of believable pain and blame.
Basement stagnant, such mind games you humans play.


July 30, 2004

Grasping the gun gasping.
These are paper foil stars.
razor sharp and beyond perfection.

This is how to hold a gun.

Buy yourself a new.
throw that knife, perfect aim
because it was never seen.

Everyone considers you a climber.
they can’t love you anymore.
Drowning in the poisoned well, she ripped through the ripened lies and threw herself through the shredded window. the silent scream echoed through the deafening defying feats of an acrobatic sound. Songs to a sickness.

No flowers for your measured pit.

July 28, 2004

swimming through all the smoke and lies.
I’d hold this gun to your head and pull the
trigger if the words that tumbled from your
mouth made me mad.

A power of three.
Simple connection
through a complex concoction
of metal slivers
all shapened to a fine perfect point
to split through the grey lines.

Let me out
I’m not screaming any more.

At you.

July 28, 2004

An odd selfishness.
No amount of gauze and sterile needels
will quell this storm.

Having you here wasn’t enough.
To embrace something
as foreign as that
was nothing more than another
time slot in a schedual
to fill.

Socially shredded,
baring fangs and wild eyes.
three perfect cuts.

Night is nothing more
than a battle burial ground
for the sorrows and the angers.

July 27, 2004

Coming down on fire.

The phoenix sat, his beak was nothing more
than a charred remain.
Her hand twitched, the anticipation of fingering the last remains
of an estranged avian tingled at the tips of her
prosthetic imagination.

Coloured discs were tossed carelessly
like tears and soiled rags
across the raging rooms of child’s play.

“It’s only war,” she said soothingly. “Soon they’ll fall asleep again.”
And the light clicked off.