Relieved of service

The weight I miss
Is the burden of love
it made a crook in my back
Now I have no use for my cane

trip one

The sound of swing jazz fades from my ears and I find the world spinning around me like a  tuesday morning hangover and the forest is a polaroid narnia,
the lamp post the rabbit hole falling into the swell of my lungs,
dumb dumb dumb

and blind to the tunnel behind the eyes
I see roads through the trees and oils in the mould and I wander why it is I can't go in that mans house
or what the world would look like without eyes
or why I know not anything or what it is to know,
not in some lecture room philosophy proposition but in the cock thrum of the numbers in the universe or the strange feelings that trees ooze,
which paint my vision orange as sun like renoir fills my nostrils and  mccahons pigeon cries TUI TUI TUI in the thermonuclear pink haze of my absent-minded-self-absorbed finger nails digging through the soil,
burning my soul in a plastic manufactured crazy single beat,
that drives me and fills my ears and drowns me,
dumb dumb dumb

I am the fundamental madness of my solipsist self
which sits in a shut door room with a floor barren of cigarette ash but furnished instead with the tequila cough feeling of not being able to think of something and feeling guilty of not being able to think of anything, nothing, trying to find mystery in that tunnel behind the eyes or fullness between the keys and guitar, and finding instead only that they have work tomorrow
and work for the rest of the week
and work work work always as some ill defined illusory weight or cage,
the idea of the fryer shackle or the business suit designed by a texan oil baron with a hard on for al capone,
grotesque and grotesque as my reflection,
drunk and high and silent in apprehension and daftness,
dumb dumb dumb

I let you down and blame it on a strangeness which at least fits well on the tongue,
I drift in silence,
I am daft,
dumb dumb dumb

missed the point,
but got the jist?
short hand notes
down on your wrist
captains log
on an open fist
washed half off
after you pissed

Hot Potato Hot Potato Warm Potato Cold Potato Bad Potato Bad Decision

I muddle my words
and muddle my life
My matters are frantic
what matters is fleeting

A man I saw at a metal concert in an apartment flat foyer

Jo the Bogan
Head like a hammer,
Hair like a jammer.
Blue jeans, bared butt.
Black shirt over Beer gut
held tight by love manhandles
it screams out
"Just Fuck Off"
in stretched white print
You don't squint
But if you did, you would see the lint.

A haunting

Do I linger,
Like a bad memory?
A chill'd wind,
fingerlessly
Raking dead leaves
into mounds on the surface

Unwelcome, unwilled;
Are you bought to the plot
That you paved while I planned to sow.
I lie here with the seeds
now saplings starved for the sun.

Is there a headstone standing,
in the index of "others",
or is it left unmarked
only monumented under "mistake".

But these questions,
are formed on assumptions.
Pieces put together
which make sense in the dark

To be forgotten is mercy
To haunt is far worse
For I know I am dead
To live on as a curse

i bought a fish today
cool, eh?

Well...

I guess that now (but)
I can’t say for sure;
That
Nope.
No idea
to be clear.
And so,
Fuck.

that with a flick of my wrist

the trees lose their superimposition

and you find there is no flesh

like that of light,

that crystal and charged metal

man's prism in my hands

makes primsms anew in the air

depth of field and apeture

drawing out gaia anew,

green and yellow and falling

through my fingers 

the sky as fickle and

hard to trap in this

glass game of light and

divine geometry,

the shutter clicks