a curated consciousness 🌙

unlike a rush, surprisingly

more like a stillness.

the tacky cold of rice

after all the steam is gone.

bloated and lethargic,

lumpy, clinging, bland.

my skull is getting thicker

more dense, perhaps.

corrosive thoughts, like static,

like white noise.

the walls shuffle in, grunting,

compact, like crushing trash.

increased pressure from the reaction,

shock waves over my head

my eyes yawn too wide, gaping

look for the light

even if it pierces you

bleeding bright onto the carpet

even if it punctures you, and

leaves you broken and dappled.

leave the ants, grappling for fruit

juice, sticky on the floor.

Tilt your ambition upward.

Dare to look the sun in the eye,

just a fragment. Apollo has bad days,

the ticking hands scrape

about the cavity in my chest,

scattering dust and dry dirt.

the sun rolls over in tightening

loops like a spinning penny,

echoing on my ribcage.

days begin yawning, stretching

over me and curling like cats.

i feel seasick.

our lack of motion is causing

my insides to atrophy, tissue

ripping into sheets.

maybe if this cavern swells,

becomes a black hole, it will

the warm discomfort of

someone else’s sofa,

pushing heavy nights off my chest.

resting a cup of

hangover tea,

delicately, on my stomach.

sitting at sticky tables

hands cold with wind,

fingers painting on glass.

mentally debating if

i can afford another

drink. from now on, i always can.

spontaneous hugs,

morning holds in t shirts.

scrambled eggs in pans not

made for me by me.

walking past night time

chatter, gently lit groups

roaming towards their own

adventure. padding through

clusters of lifetimes. the

at dusk are you

craning to see?

squinting at the shapes,

grasping at the fading

light?

or do your eyes,

black and round,

open their arms

in a welcome?

do you let wind rush

past your shape

and whip through

your hair?

or do you clutch your coat,

buttoning with numb

fingers? Take my hand,

rifling through drawers of old crap

sappy diaries and old heartbreak

shuffling through the records

of my teenage angst that

pick fights with my conscience.

guilt and shame sit, gargoyles on

the wall. i sit crushing old trinkets to

make way for some green in the grey.

a closet full of failed attempts,

a plaid shirt? a joke. sometimes i

think i’m still stifled in there,

sometimes.

but there’s so much light in here now

my eyes aren’t rimmed with dark,

there seem to be less shadows

your smooth skin is dimpled by fortune

soft presses of lovers, creases from fresh sheets in late mornings.

your hips hold luxury, richness

of moments savoured, handfuls

of life scooped raw from the earth

your curvature mimics.

you are an ode to life, belly soft

from kisses, wrinkles from joy

tread lightly, waver over shallows

yet drench the whole sea

shroud yourself in brightness, gently; there

draw yourself in velvet

pull seas to your beat, spin regally

blue, at first

with your sunglasses

and a glint in my eye

then naive as peach,

me stuttering

at the bar with you

later, indigo

weight off our shoulders

and into the sky

in midnight black

we crowded mirrors

racing stripe white

pale stretches

scored marks over your skin

impatience bustles at the bar,

rustles the punters shrouded by

the dry ice. The friction, or lack

of friction, sparks up - bobbing

amber fireflies glinting in glitter.

parallel, alcoholic shaman

clink, shake, rinse, magic colours

elixirs of delight and

extorionate pricing. Pacing,

flurries of motion buzz in

a tango of constant service

finally, eyelids droop, hands

rise with a tick and light floods on

illuminating polluted seas

of smashed sparkles in tepid

pools of vomit. The wizards cast

their final spell, stride cold, breathing

steamy dragons onto morning blush,

the only shadows cast, now theirs

vision is constant

blinking

is no reprieve

sounds scratch in skulls

nightmares

lay hot, twitching

relaxing is

foolish

keep your guard up.

nothing is left

unscathed

in obsession

coffee, and the bitter morning scramble

for the next bus to work

after blending foundation, ironing shirts

and washing and straightening hair

oversized sequins shimmying past

shirts and pints, through smoke,

amber bulbs, blue flashing lights

and on to patchwork dancefloors

fair-trade and underpaid, thundering

pollution and traffic, wasteful plastic,

fast fashion and cancerous distraction

local emergency and, ultimately, background noise

and when i kissed you last,

we pressed and left

our bags tossed on the floor,

and when we pulled apart,

we picked them up

and headed for the door

and my tremoring hands

steadied themselves,

though my eyes were leaking

because the only right

decision is

one where we are leaving

I keep sleeping through

the sunrise

midnight elves cram stones

in my head

sleep flows around me

and

I

sink.

Sedated, my brain

unstitches

dusty moths fly out

of open seams,

wings battering me,

dawn breaks.

How must it feel

to place your feet on the pavement

with such assurance?

To smile at strangers

with the knowledge that you've neither

kissed nor cursed them?

To breathe without

a clamp around your chest, or speak

free of the weight of unknown words?

To meander in the day

the same person who traipses the night

and wakes in the morning?

-

How is it to live

without the shame of a life

you don't remember living?

-