a clear white flame on a grim dark altar

this is

that special kind of excitement mixed with apprehension and fear and hope and longing and the oh so pervasive worry that this might be everything you ever wanted and so much more but also it might crash and burn like everything else always crashes and burns because somehow you seem to manage to screw things up a lot but this can be different this can be GOOD -

chasing dreams is fun and can be dangerous.

if you could build the perfect human you would mix all sorts of delightfully mellow qualities with a love for important things and a good-natured grin that could melt mountains

a quietly exuberant quality as rosemary-tinted garnish

with a lightly-handed sprinkle of the finest fairy dust.

this

stay home and do laundry night is taking longer than expected, i

find myself washing everything twice

to get out the bloodstains left when my mind was cut open and

poured its secretions onto my clothing

the healing of a psyche is a delicate process during the doing of which the mind may seem

e-mo-tion-less

scar tissue forms only once certain conditions are met,

primarily that its space must be 

cleaned

pressed

folded

and eventually it will put itself away.

sometimes i don’t write

for months on end

because the pain does not form itself correctly and

my keys collect dust as they wait 

(in that special way only non-sentient beings can wait)

for me to touch them again,

make them cry again,

remind them of their place again,

give them existential crises regarding their lack, or lack of lack, of sentience

again

-

sometimes carefully constructed corrugated analogies just set off my allergies

and destroy my will to stay put

giving the heave-ho to the what-for as long as i can stand it

only to crawl into a corner when my body gives out.

we tend to stimulate our faculties in uptime, and downtime, but the betweentime is where you’ll find we need it the most

and though it behoves me to be humble and be decent and kindhearted, and open my arms when you come keening for help

occasionally my tears solidify into a wall that won’t allow me to be low key and hands free and grease the wheels on your rational thought.

so if you could be so kind as to excuse me from my obligations, i think i may just see if i can’t sleep for two days and call you when i awaken,

to herald a shift in my point of reference (which is currently held in a death grip), and accept that the artistry of your tragedy has been purely incidental,

and we probably couldn’t have fixed it without access to the cryptic triptych that you hung up in my mind three years past

like a flash in the pan that keeps flashing

even after we’ve burnt down the house.

three revolutions

and an elephant in the room.

the circumference of this elephant is dependent on the cohesion of my mother’s colouring skill; staying outside and/or inside these lines will make for a less than pleasing paper,

evidence of a condemnation,

a rallying to the end time.

my mother sees much and knows often, unaccustomed as she is to dealing with uprising of late -

frequently her concern lies more with me, and therein you see the distraction, the reason for the elephant.

a revolution must have a beginning and a middle but more often than not these days it doesn’t seem to have an end, as though merely the 

rise up and CRY

negates the need for followthrough 

when in fact that is what it necessitates.

i conceptualise these worlds for fear and flashing held in motion -

and my mother, though sometimes far, is always relevant.

eventually, upon spending enough time with deviants,

one grows to forget that not everyone is a deviant like this.

some deviate from our standard deviation by remaining staid;

their way of sticking it to those sticking it to the man.

embrace the man, they say, 

and the rest will follow.

somehow it is believed that

you can never be caught

if you never have need to run.

listen to chop suey on loop.

live in denial.

-

rivers in egypt are poorly placed to accept the misery of the world,

depending or dependent on an ability to make

important incisions.

a talent for knifehandling required but unacceptable

as ten martyrs write scores for lyric sopranos

using blood as ink.

when performing, this choir will seem transcendental,

through every incarnation

flying

out

and

through.

you can’t keep me down.

i can climb mountains and move wisdom and watch trees as they stand.

i can breathe out and in, lose fifty minds and regain them in one day -

i can ford every river.

i can view myself from many endpoints and internalise your conflict.

i can externalise my anguish and disperse these fears.

i can see.

i can corner people and i can corner myself.

i can mind.

i can be okay with that.

i can -

trust

it’s all about context

all about couldhave-wouldhave-mighthavebeens,

all about the backstory to your pain.

a stranger on the bus could be holding the key to your misery

and not know how to apply it

because they don’t know how you tasted two weeks, three months, five days ago.

the cat sitting in the corner of your trundle bed doesn’t know why you sleep in a drawer

but as long as you let it sleep with you

it won’t ask questions.

i will.

the stranger on the bus will.

you think you don’t want thorough help because it’s harder to process.

that’s why it helps.

the processing helps.

the asking helps.

the cat is tired,

and the stranger on the bus and i

just need

context.

the exquisite corpse game

form from form;

ideas wrapping art wrapping ideals

not-so-random idea generation like frankenstein from a machine embossed with gold,

painted with life,

imbued with power.

collaboration is the highest form of wit when used correctly,

while the remainder of its time is bought and sold for spare parts on the black market.

a deck of cards dictates a kidney for a kidney,

poetry for sketches of the inside of a grave.

and the normal makes its art about the mad

and the mad does not take note

for there are more important noises demanding that attention

and the ordinary life goes on, oblivious

and you educate each other on the problems you don’t face

and the sitting sonic struggle is predominant, invisible

to all preferring to exclaim than study closely

choosing ‘oh what a pity’ over ‘how did this happen’

because of course the normal knows that ‘it could never happen to me!’

and we lock our mad away

and hire normal to appease it

because pills and bars and sealing-wax are potent and efficacious

-

as the tartan bleaches in the sun so do our noises,

every one.