not to dream

telling people not dreamand wondering at the fraying seamas they unraveland have nowhere to travelbecause nowhere seems interesting anymore we are garbed in dreamswe are the light from starswe are the exploration and expansionof our own maps feathers to weigh our heartslike waxed wings under sunlightfalling into a thumbnail swirl of mazeand waking into a

eat a little differently sometimes

you don’t know what to eat and then yougo out on the town and find a menuthat is going to satisfy you when you want something to eat that is easyyou know it will please thetastebuds and your hungervariety was the thing when youngerbut maybe comfort plays a bigger rolethough being boring isn’t your goal

played out

the cliches catch in the throatleaking pen in the pocketpratfall morningothers smile like it’s cutebut its idiotic dumbdistilled into half worn smiles routine can need routing outwhen you get roboticheld still hypnoticstill not stroboscopica picture turned necrotic trying to be novela barely capable haikua crippled fortune cookiean aphorismyou may get there one day

eighties state

in a mixtape frame of mindfeeling decidely eightieslike being thirty in schoolpretending to be teenjohn hughes scripting medance and cut between scenes every day rainedevery day was school uniform greygetting beaten upand used to knowing morethan the average bear it felt realer than the ninertiesnot xeroxed throwback dreamsthat taste like processed meatwe were quicker on

burgered

buggered by burger culturesat by the dumpsterthinking about coffeeopting for a donutsomething like that what is left that is bespoke?stitches get droppedbut you sacrifice itfor an illusion of freedomyou take a breath mint and an indigestion tablet it seems pre-packaged

wearing the story

where do you find yourself in the story?kneeling in the ribcagetouching the dangerous side of the iron maideneyes peeled and onion wateredsaying i am a collagejust a torn up magazinea venting of spleena snowstorm screenbanana skin greenbecoming a pickledreaming about the gherkinon the london skyline of nowdreaming about the northern linei am everywhere

hands and ands

photographs can detonatelike smiles in appropriate placesand invites not sentyour special occasion as source of abrasion this is a jousting match on high horseswhich haven’t found their coursesand learned from unreliable sourcesabout foreign unseen forces you withdraw the army of youtranslate the fist to a calm seaand shake away the enmitybecause you want to hold

lean into

age bends the dickstraightens the willdeepens the heartasks you to lean out over the abyssjust a little morewith the weight of all you ownbalancing on your backand sometimes thing roll offnot like water off a duckmore like lemmings off a cliffpushed by walt disney

shit no one wants to walk about

your tongue does not rememberbeing fitted to the grooveand bucked from the purposepoisoned by the tastememories of the sex are a bruiseare clouds in bloodand the broken beat of the heartthe palm pressed to the glasstrying to erase the steam drawn diagramof what you are, until you cut yourself

into

we edge into the profundityof our simplicityturning oranges into still lifeand daily routine into poetry the blisters on our fingersfrom handling the heat of our intentionand the burning failure of momentson the path to realisation we are shrugging into mythic templatessisyphus rocks or prometheus liverwhile the others seem proteantrying to act medusan