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