In HD

I stare into the diced tomato on the shelf

I download the app,

I meet the paper faces drifting past.

I Poured the Bran

I poured the Bran
I sat on my hands,
I hummed.
 
and I saw that face
from my window
before she was lost in dust
in the plastic keys
on a piano
or on a computer
 
equally futile
akin to crabs scuttling from reach
 
I scuttled too
so did you and he and she
 
all scuttling towards or away from…
it’s hard to tell
 
Through every box I fell into
jingled soft sappy Christmas carols
 
I was lost to it
really
I was lost in the box in which I came
I want to come
I never came
this week nothing arrived
 
No letters thorough the slot
just a waving shadow on the stairwell
 
Just as the foam sat in its bag
I fell sexless I stayed
 
until the microwave beeped
Then I got up
opened a cupboard
opened a door
opened my locked screen
 
faces all but gone
implied only in blue bubbles
pixellated chatter
 
I meant to write 30
but I only wrote 3
 
And I forgot to reply to that email
or tidy my room
filled with presents given or waiting to be given
bags boxes bags boxes bags
 
non-fiction 3 ams
staring into the carpet
with videos of more accomplished people
 
and that’s precisely it
– I want to dive into the warmest colour of myself
but I think I’ve already drowned in the greys around the edge
 
Shoes, pockets, mouths
all filled with pebbles
 
Something needs to be ravished
some building needs to be set alight
banality burnt down in wild, frenzied lines
 
We don’t need that sun in the sky
we need that sun in our eyes

The Walk Home

Photo-frame

She sat crying into her hands
in France
 
Wishing to be drunk
in dusk
 
Someone’s veranda faraway
in Australia
 
Spoken cackles
beer-stained lawn
 
Not the ego,
the embroidered façades
 
She got up just to spill her red wine.

Strings

I SEE IT AS BEING AT

THE BOTTOM OF A WELL

WITH MY HAND HOLDING

ONE STRING

TO PULL MY BODY,

WEIGHED DOWN BY POOLS

OF THOUGHT,

UP TO THE CLARITY

OF THE LOGICAL CONVERSATION

YOU MIGHT HAVE

OVER A PLEASANT COFFEE DATE

BOTH SECRETLY STRUGGLING

TO MAINTAIN

YOUR INVISIBLE COATS

OF ENGAGEMENT

OR MAYBE IT IS ME

MAYBE IT IS ONLY ME

FEELING THE BENCH

SLIPPING OVER BENEATH ME

AND THE WALLS

CAVING IN

BEHIND ME

SO I SLOWLY TURN THE VOLUME DOWN

AND DOWN AND DOWN AND DOWN

UNTIL

ALL I CAN HEAR

ARE THE CLOUDS