people are having a drink,

souls are

semi-permeable

semi-convulsional

not at all

conventional

why must we

intoxicate

this thin

veil

in order

to unveil.

realise your

flesh is

transparent

and

your veins

run with

naked

passion,

inexcusable.

 

 

just take

your coat off,

its all too

transient

to bake

in these wooden

sleeves,

so intrinsically

intricately varying

in colors,

shades

tones

so different each

precious soul,

encased in

this humanity.

i just want

to hold you

and raise you

to the next level of

consciousness

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humans

Humans are so intricate, like finely tuned violins. If you strum them with enough fragility, they’ll sing you tunes that are out of this world. And for every phase of the moon or mercury, they’ll bathe you with their sweet little personalised melody. At times, these tunes full you up to the brim with melancholy hopeless despair, then they’ll tip you over like a water bottle as you watch yourself spill out your tales. Tales of how deep a cave your heart is and how many shadows splay upon it every time moonlight crawls in. Other times, it’s as if their tunes were to empty you all out. You’d imagine them place a straw and suck you dry when you never even realised you were a full bottle. They sing to you lullabies with a voice that dips down, then arches high with peppermint breath. All you do is lull your head back in pleasure, hands waving in the air, intertwining with all the magic around you.

bip bop (lonely) future

stip

step

boots

stampeding

over

plastified

cellophane

faces

 

blip

blop

ro-

bots

you forgot

the smell

of books replaced by

blink, blink,

blank

screams

blank ego

inflation

(followed by deflation)

bright

light

bite my pride

like my fluorescent

lies.

 

scrip

scrap,

wrap

the world up

with

me

me

me.

 

mommy where are

the fish?

(the ocean seems

far too empty)

oh honey,

no matter,

only we exist (now)

scrip

scrap

the rest.

 

it’s only

us

us

us

and maybe

a bit

of

bip

bop

ro-bots…

AGENT OF SELECTION

“experimentally

assessing

the need

of such agent”

 

agent of

selection,

the hands pulling

your strings

you realise,

you have no spine

no skyline

nothing divine

just sloppy

soppy

floppy

veins bending

(regulated)

blood flow

 

agent of

selection,

you were never

the one

in control

run back

before the patrol,

make sure to

disintegrate your

soul

 

agent

of selection,

and so “the organisms

that are better suited to their

environment

survive

 

the pressure”

 

pressures that

squeeze you into

a drop of oil:

pull, tug and

grind you up into

a canned shaped

compressed

version of meat,

not you

anymore.

they’ll put a

label on this

can:

not your name

but your

dolla

dolla

bill

worth

 

agent

of selection,

only the

most suited

survive

so open your mouth

and give them numbers

upon numbers

of only the highest percentile

promised of

how you’re

“flexible”

“adaptable”

“always ready to

learn”

 

 

3 words

to describe

yourself,

tell me about

your biggest

challenge

prove

prove

prove

you’re worth survival

in this maze

of green paper

 

“selective agent

picking

the

better

suited

for the environment”

 

between

two tectonic plates

small organism,

will you survive?

 

between

polished shoes and

ticking time bombs,

small organism,

will you survive?

 

will you survive?

will you survive?

will you survive?

spring clearing

polish our kitchen

tiles;

they gleam with

incandescent

neon

green

 

 

clean up the mess up

from the floor

made by the cat

 

 

clean the air between

us

clean my dirty hands

in the presence

of your purifying look

 

 

i’ll clean the mirror

for you

and as I wipe that

reflecting surface

i’ll wipe your tears

and ropes

of hope

 

 

break my mug in the

process,

pick the bits up

only between early morning

and the town outside the

silent windowpanes starts

its engine

 

 

bit by bit

we clean the kitchen

bit by bit

breathe in sliding

socks over marble

and sinks with running

water:

finally the plants

have something

to drink

 

 

spring clearing

your soul,

all those dirty bits

like beer cans

left behind by tainted

people

don’t let them

stay for too long

dear

or the mirror

will get  too

dirty

 

 

not that i mind

coming over

every morning

to feed the

cat.

Dragon’s breath//inspiration

crimson

vehement

red

passion feels

like a dragon’s exhale

on your skin

and

when it hits

in parallel lines

below your brows

you light up like a match

and burn

burn

burn

 

 

and that’s when the mystical

starts

hands take control

neurons breaking

synapses connecting

clicking

collapsing

electrical inspiration

whether it be

with a pen

or brush

or C majors

you tailor

your own little

reality

incapsulated

with your essence

a fountain fuelled

by the immeasurable

past future,

space time

the giant climb

before you

 

 

this newborn

baby

born into

creation

born out of your

hands,

born along

the arborescent

wrinkles

ridges of your fingertips

and time

 

 

look closer and

you’ll mirror

reflections

of yourself

staring

back

mystical speaking

she spoke of realms that exceeded the world and overflowed your mind, sprinkling evanescent glitter on the top of your head with the tips of her fingers. Open your mouth, she’ll place a pill behind your tongue; and it spreads like acid as she speaks of these unknown worlds, mouth shaping sound after sound oh so majestically. now you’re in a state of bliss questioning whether space even exists or does it only appear between each blink of her incandescent blue lashes. she speaks in elision and you also wonder if she’s got human blood flowing in her veins or does she come from mercury or some other elegant planet? one moment or another you’d expect her to turn taciturn, lean over, slice your tongue in half, pocket the pill and replace it with sugar.

you want her to teach you how to see sunlight under leaves or count how many arteries a tree has compared to a wave because you feel like she controls it all, controls how strongly the wind blows or how many clouds there will be today and what shapes they will form. but you know she’s most enchanting under an eclipse’s moonlight or early dawn, barefoot on your terrace. jaw slightly slack, eyelids too, and of course, speaking. you’ll make her soft fur accent into a pillow and fall asleep, dreaming of all those faraway realms she says one day she’ll visit.