Learn to be softer,
Like the head-on surge of a
Tsunami.

Embarrassment is Shame’s second cousin
Come to stay for the school holidays
And never left
Inseparable
A buddy movie
For life.

Where
Everything is a simulation
A standing vibration in a multidimensional membrane
Traveling through time
Direction unknown
What is the I
Experiencing it?

Having to say “Trust me, that’s funny”, trust me, that’s funny.

Sleep tousled, both inside and out.

Where
Everything is a simulation
A standing vibration in a multidimensional membrane
Traveling through time
Backwards or forwards
What is the I
Experiencing it?

Like a snapshot of the river, cast on flowing waters, threatens to snag the weir downstream.

Or the cheap pun in the title of a self-help book, like: It’s not yours, it’s mind.

Find the monster, find the child.

Where Connor the Librarian Dreams he’s Conan the Barbarian. 

Even when we have no choice, we have options. The multiverse splits and splinters along non-cognitive variance, and only such arrogance believes each new universe a creation of choice.

If all life is meaningless, and even this observation has no meaning; why then does it hurt so much. (That is not a question.)

Tripping over the inarticulate, oh to be really heard.

Never let the truth get in the way of a good story.

Just because it’s polemic, doesn’t mean it can’t be wise.

Mediocre, is a more common colour than most people realise. But not so common as burnt-umbrage.

Ah, but, my dear: the waveform has already collapsed.

Living my life as if it were an inelegant critique of the etymology of identity, or: why I cannot be me without you.

A festival of centro-medial hesitancy, fuelled by the analysis paralysis of a perfection projection paradigm. In service, it fails to serve. 

I want, or so I have come to realise, to be OK as I Am
Not by who I replace myself to be.

The Sun sets in the West 
There’s no West in space.

You are the winter snow to my morning, the echo to my mishearing 

She didn’t marry, but if she had, it would have been to a chimney sweep

With an appetite so voracious, he would eat up his own heart.

When not on duty, Mary Poppins, I swear, lies semi-comatose obliterated on a cocktail of heroin, cocaine and tears. Ugly, snot ridden, bloated breath-gagging tears.

Heated like the green grass of Trinity. 

Your gaze hits the side of my face 
Smacks with unbearable shame
But it is not yours 
It is not mine
And it did not start here.

Broken slivers of shattered hiakus 
Litter the path like daggered glass.

Jaundiced yellow and bruised black
Covers the night sky
Congested with slithering monsters 
Cold boiling turmoil.

I recall but 10%
Like a fading dream
Cold belly awakening 
Obscured insult after morning.

I was lost
But now I am found
That I am still lost. Only 
Now
I know.

I have forgotten 
I feel it gone
And all that’s left 
Is a pain shaped hole 
In its place.

Voyeurism is like
A hollow tooth
Infantile Inexorable draw 
Like mud pies
Of your own shit.

I could almost believe 
But for the smell of
Is that burnt almonds 
Or maybe just peanuts
And a feeling of sick
Deep within
Un clear headed
Cold inside and without. 

Ground seeds don’t grow
Bred for consumption
Bloom to a crust under
Knead
Pity in-sated by nourishment.

Been through the mill
In the hopes of losing my husk
And
In the grind
Become refined and
As meaningful as flour.

But I don’t fit the oven
Dough for clay
Unpalatable biscuit
Unglazed
Over Fired

Insert name here
Now insert purpose
And watch the mirror neurons 
In the sun
Brightly shine.

When I am a bird
Wings opening wide
A dream of gliding
I am a volcano 
Slumber
Dream of being a mountain
Snow capped
Breath as deep as the roots of the Earth
Slow as serenity 
A cat settled on the feet
Of a meditating man
A turn of a planet round a sun
A chance
Fleeting
Of peace.

In love,
Noncompliance
Is a bitch.

Everything is meaningless
And I find no joy in the lie
That’s why Sherlock Holmes does laudanum
When my bladder is full
I need to wee
There is no more meaning
Here
Than that
So it goes.

Truth
Is made a liar
By expedited
Convenience
Who does not
Wish the writhing naked
Raw ugly nest
Of intricacy
Unkempt
Matted and dredd and locked
Unwashed 
Have it scrubbed 
And taken up to my chambers
Is its cry.
And do stop crying.

In this world only you
can see you,
but not
through our given eyes.

Fear, a polite fellow with fine manners, is a bit of an introvert.

Poetry, the love child of precision and vaguity, postures pathos over her vodka and tonic. 

A concord in the cacophony
How the flowers need someone to miss
Between the layers
Fills-lament laminated love.

Still waters lie deep
And there is some depth to my surface
Like the thin sheen on a puddle
But most of it is
Reflection.

Catastrophe, unlike predestination
May not be ordained
But, with our aversion
Mote it be so
Or predeterminedly so.
We’d never know.
There’s to rub
To strive or not to strive
And take up arms 
Against a tide of sorrows
Or perchance
To dream… 
So it has been.

Eternity is the Forever
That lives between moments
Infinitely long 
And
Infinitesimally fleeting
At
The same
Time
Could last right to way up to
Next Tuesday.

It starts with
And ends with
Love
That 
I suspect
Is what my life is for. 

My heart’s beating with insecurities
Time to draw a new face
And laugh 

Somewhere between guilt / shame
(Terms as interchangeable as scopians)
And indeterministic fate
Lies the breath
Of hope
The fallacy of agency
An alchemy of probabilities and chemistry
Collapses 
Crashing.returns to the sea 
An aerosol spray of energy and froth
Seagull flown
Salt air saturated
There is no home

The merchants of dystopia
Will inherit the Earth.

Whilst Saga
Implies long suffering, endurance but
Adventure
A Saga Holidays implies
Something different.
For most the Saga of our lives
Lies
Somewhere in between
The living and
The telling. 

Navigating by the stars
At Noon
A singular point of reference
Outshine obscures
Unrelenting glare
Of being
Lost

Life
Is like
Suspicious stew of insecurities
And poison
Insufficiently cooked
Green raw
Over-hung to the bone
By
It’s hard not to look like a lie
When there is no
Actual
Truth where it falls
There are no lies
Just a lack of listening
Never knowingly understood
Good joke
A tragedy
Way too close
To provide relief
This is arguably why
I
Live so breathlessly
Without breath. 

Something lurking
In the Solipsistic mirror
Where all that is different
Pads
Mad, sad 
Or incredibly bad
Rad-icalizes
Valid
Invalid
Dates any ego-less 
Purpose to influence 
And, all there is left…
Is love. 

Thus,  I claim
This space
As where 
I
Stand.

For
I find 
I claim I am not interested in
Legacy
I am interested in Love.

I would not presume 
To tell you…
But if you are reading this…
Something’ has caught your 
Eye.

Children of a lesser god
Stand on the shoulders of midgets 
But it still lift them up…

How many words
Does it take
To cast a shadow?

Beauty writes itself
I contend 
That every flower enjoys
Each breath it takes
You are that breath to me

It is a sad human truth 
That
Every time we label a person 
A spirit dies.

Any attempt at
Poetry 
With out context 
Is just meaningless 
Words 
So I’ve heard
Unheard

Reduced 
Out of frustration 
To writing broken hiakus 
Less of the construct
More of a plaintive 
Hi

These are just words 
Nothing more.

Ok (in my world view)
You can never really get to know 
A person 
You can only ever
Just form an opinion 
About them
And maybe present a impression 
Of know ing

Best not let that opinion 
Become
Frozen 
Categoric in Catatonic fixed
As to so do 
Freezes the possibility 
Of the flow
Of their river
And yours 

But
As a side of interest 
In the field of
Support and even friendship
Your know ing of another
That’s not actually needed
All they need
Is reflection
Enough
To firm a better Opinion
Of themself

What
Then
Maybe
Your opinion

Sometimes 
What you need
Is
Someone who wants to 
Hold you
Without seeking to
Change you.

The I
My Ego’s half sister 
Weeps for the I
Who
Sitting in
I don’t want to be 
Sees I self 
From afar 
Ego in 
Observed
Engendering
Inspiring
Pride as base
As a Shakespearean Bottom
Ego in naive
Hubris
At one
All one 
Alone with all things
Dry tears.

Sometimes
I wish I had something to say
Uncomfortable in Silence
Feeling so unheard.

Life can proceed in ticks of
Stress
Each an escape of common
Ground
What if Life proceeds in ticks of
Peace
If calm and joy
Curve
The pendulum swing 
Can we live in the
Ticks
Of a note pleasant time 
Slow swing
Inexorable swoop of
… and breathe.

I’m melting a bit too
Didn’t help my brain
To contemplate 
Munchausen’s Trilemma. 
A lot of our stuff challenges the core
Assumptions that we base 
Our objective ‘truths on, and often that helps.
But knock out the base to truth 
And all ‘knowing might collapse
(fun)
Leaving us with the logic puzzle (wait for it…)
Of
If that is so, why do I occasionally Need to go pee? 

At the start
Of the book
He wants you to know
He doesn’t care 
About you
Because 
He does. 

Not my words
Though
None ever are
And
Understands the fundamental rule 
That seeing is not believing,
Rather, 
Believing is seeing

When
I remember who I am
I am not formed 
By
That external
What I expect
Others 
To expect of me
And
I just am.

Here’s the thing
Some day I will die
And
In the grand fluctuations of 
Chance
It will be before you 
And
Given, I have noted
My inner “Greek-style chorus”
Left alone
Festers into a culture
High (and mighty)
All of its own
When I am with you 
The choir speaks with
Honeyed harmony
Kinder
…
And it does so with for you
So you show me
So 
What, that which is important 
Is
When I am gone
The wave returned to the sea
I will not be leaving you
I would be
The sweeter whisper of
Light breeze
To kinder the syncopated 
Dramatic Voices  
Harmless
In harmony
Let there be love.

Truth
Is rarely simple 
It is often nuance
It is rarely clear
It is often specific muddy and obscure 
Complex
Subjective
Situationally ambiguous 
Contra dictated
Thus
In the adage
Live as close to your
Truth 
As you can
Which does may very well
Reduce life’s pain
Don’t expect it to be
Easy.

How short
Is your
Exceeds 
The spam
Of 
Attends 

For them that wish
To be hear
Where the same applies to 
That which is written 
Who do you want to hear
And what 
Do you wish
Off of them
In there hearing?
It was, in the 
Asking
Of this 
I realised
I had nothing to say
Only to hear.

There is no reality 
There is just Love. 

A little of both
And no small part
Some of the other.

I realised I’d been living in fear
Petrified I would lose you
But to live in fear
I’d forgot
Is to live with
Something to have
Where the fear of loss
Is
A celebration
Of and to hold.

It’s hard to be
Stoic
When you need a 
wee

This poem is a lie.

Some of the most
Intimate of things 
A person can hear
Are the minute
Details
Of how another
Imagines 
They would kill themselves 

This is going to be 
Interesting 
I have had
Four coffeesToday. 

On being with 
The dying
Being such that
They feel heard
Feel accepted
And 
Feel 
Not alone.

Wow
That got dark.