Please please please

Three and half thousand miles apart two people share the same thought at the same time and the premise of distance evapourates in front of them as its steam rises through the same beautiful particles. It all at once becomes real. To be shared. To be held. Within the confines of the bodybag. Discussed internally in moments of bright sunshine. Picture perfect scenes. Moments of clarity. Moments to be experienced, provoked, discussed. The characters are honest. The characters are clinging on and crazy. Pausing in the sidewalk sunshine watching herds of hurried people scurry by. Their faces easily forgotten without names. Figures history is only valid if its known. Bouncing pictures of beautiful serenity between McMurphy's tenderness and my locked eye. Click. Click. Click. Click. Fingers press through screen to hold the others. Fractal images of self interest. Designed to be flawed as nurture draws nature and these parents for one are very much mistaken. These thoughts swept aside for another intertwined crescendo. He once believed that tenderness was developed with the sharing of air. Company time spent bearing witness to shared decisions, opinions and reactions. Where trust builds itself a home in your heart. Growing from tiny seed to tree. Growing for all to see. It built a coffin in his chest. In its grain their name's are etched. For all to see. He needs her there. More than anyone else. For her honesty. Enter a stranger who dreamt of him and his beautiful wife at one of mother's dinner parties. Announcing his baby born jaundiced at a table filled with food. His features dimmed, as yet unknown, the role filled with presumption. Glorious uncertainty. His future was marked in a dusty box labelled now.

All that remains.

My father's anger died with him
At the breakfast table lost for words.
From here it seems like a distant dream
Back where I broke and began again.

And all the good times
And all the laughter
Drift into the ether,
like dissolving particles in a chemical reaction.

As broken english interjects
the cold stone walls.
Painting glimpses of sentences
of tones and textures.
My psyche fills the gaps
colouring by numbers,
staggering forth to a new set of lows.

(my thoughts are too loud to sleep)

when inspiration hits
forcing sleep for tomorrow perpetual workdeath.

when inspiration hits
driving car full of men that make you too scared to speak.

when inspiration hits
driven flacid dull sea in the place that hope comes to die.

when inspiration hits
blame anyone but yourself but believe that is taking blame.

when inspiration hits
dance red and purple across the grapevines of this desolate county painting pictures of time on the windy cliffs of my nightmares.

when the inspiration hits
(still see your face on my eyelids)

indulge me

Back to the old. No fun in the city tonight. Back to the old school. Smeared stumble vision. Chemically forced smile. Drained of resistance. The love is bile. You won't feel anything by morning. The love is a lie. The smell you still feel by day three even after long showers. Curse yourself for feeling. Feel every person you ever told smiling pity upon your shoulders. These people keep holding me. Relinquish your grip. I wished myself freedom. Stumbling. Interaction. Not original enough not to. Take this heartache. no really.