renoir painting of a naked woman.

moved planets with the tips of my fingers
and waited on the stars to align, and
wounds from saturn to heal.
dressed myself as a skeleton key and opened doors
to dead emotions,
my hands ripe with benevolence,
days that carousel in seasonal leaves.

i kiss the uncertainty of my future,
hoping to seduce nature into being beautiful again.
it falters,
augmenting the dance of the moon
but i'm left gazing,
not noticing a fall into dreams.

darkness marks my hallway
but the direction out is still imprinted in my mind.
it drowns out a foreseeable vision
but still, hours taste like seawater
and i'm sunken.

ode to spirits.

hearing birds in the sky,
blue and desolate.
extend your reach to the hills,
upon the grass and dirt,
to feel nature's gift.
it reminds me of your soul,
a wildflower painted
and confined to a frame
in which i can view your calmity,
a part of the hillside
that reflects the sun.
a tree settles to the surrounding
sand with the wind;
reminiscent of the spiritual
serenity that surrounds your ears.
i could lay claims of
masculinity in a whisper,
take the skin off your nose,
but you are a seasonal beast
which lays in hope of ascension.
starving, hysterical insomnia,
dressed in intrusion of thought;
sometimes i phrase words weirdly
in a portrait of calloused emotions
but the colours leave me hung.

with your palette of prophets
juxtaposed between speeches,
leaving bones frail
and dressed in opression.
your truth is distorted,
blinded by the punches
in which disconnects you from this plane.
placed a hand on the riverbed
and became enraptured by it's flow,
a chimerical look into what my future entails.
just days moving sluggishly
desiring a more abrupt fashion.
days i have spent pondering,
an impetus for change.
kindred spirit of gregor samsa,
empathetic to the cycle of trying to adapt
everyday
and fighting change,
unaware of the distrusting glare loved ones place.
if your body is ugly,
but your soul remarks beauty
then they will not take heed.
dragging my metaphorical conscience through mud,
flower up my memory and
display my brain as simply a sum of parts
for i can not dowse myself
into expression any longer.
though another form has engulfed me,
appearance stands still,
so what has changed?
a lifetime of taking breaths is all i've
amounted to,
adjusting my trousers to the same part of my
waistline everyday.

counterculture immunity,
a pool of mediocrity hinders my swim.
but alas approaches the creeping of the
subterranean that pales,
pouting "ignorance is bliss"
and i believe it.

hillside.

there's an old house behind a hill,
dotted with touches of yesteryear.
drained of it's family portrait
it lies awash with floorboard memories. derelict nostalgia.
sometimes i visit the house for a sip of repression,
to straighten the lines of my mind
and feed it eternal truth.
there was an old woman i used to visit,
her skin stabbed of history
with eyes cloned from an obituary.

january through to december.

sluggish
and shrouded in hurt.
what words do i say
when looking through watercolour visions?
paranoia and
floating towards nothing.
what pawn i have become towards
limited options,
scratching at the door of ambience.

'i took my shirt off in the yard'.

if i tug at your nerves would you notice?
'doo koo kim' and scarred corduray;
dying for a platform to grasp.
smirked smiles and sepia-toned dreams
where i hold out for simulated experiences
but find myself doused
in the distance of your shadow.
so starry-eyed and wonderous,
you are attached to my hip
and part of my skin.
you are my metaphysical.

memories from the sun.

clusters of white
beautiful acres of green
petals fly through tests of scent.
yellow is just a colour,
filtered through a glasseye kissing the warm concrete.
heat seeps through weaves of fabric,
simmering blood,
sweat.

throw your body in sand,
join millions others in scraped red.
stir yr skin in benevolence,
dry landscapes, a voyeur fed.
turn pages of inspiration,
scattered eyes, all placid.
cut the nerve line and push the ground down.
young minds ripen.
lesson learned as a table centerpiece,
a cruelly played-out puppet,
a careless betray.

hear last whispers,
a hankerchief in the hand of a loved one,
a closeness brought in a static beat,
Summer hospital rhythm.

non-truth, spread through soaped mouths
stories thrown down, like an anchor
on the shoulders of "young adults".
opportunity and potential through the lens of ridicule and fear.
overheading faces,
throw salt into the wound of new living.

maybe one day,
the yellow dot will shine brighter,
and cold memories will touch the ground and melt.


note: very old.

placed in wings.

i stop gazing at the moon,
and see dances in the concrete.
deep in a utopia,
i draw my last breath to look at the stars on your face,
to take my heart and place it in a
lightly woven silked sheet.
for it to caress the delicate wings of a bird
ascending to the highest peak.

upon this i may dive into the sun's ray
where your silhouette sits against stone.
in the mountain i hide you away.

all flowers flourish.

my head rests in a particular state;
upon a beach wrapped under twilight.
transient hopes boulder onto my conscience
in a flash of light.

a dreamer who wishes for nonchalance.
i am left a withered,
melancholic fool.
my life is death as a young child.

i am wide awake.

revert to 10 years old,
disengagement to everyone.
i lie reclined on my back, face up to the blinding sun.
blades of grass kiss my back in their infancy.
blonde hair reeks of summer youth.

but nostalgia is futile to me,
memories left hidden in my tongue.
it tastes of bitter sweet.
those splinters still stick in my sides,
an attempt to mend them into origami shapes
marks dissonant with their structure.
sequence events in my head
with a collection of still frames.
the advent of youthful serenity.

would you pass me your face on a blank canvas
so i could paint you with blemishes?
your painted face put side to side with polaroid photos.
they don't match up.

maybe we'll all stop breathing stale air,
revel in our cerebral thoughts
but that leaves ruins untouched.

and wounds shine like diamonds.

where people reek of near death,
smoke cigarettes and set off hand grenades
to the days of youthful adventure.
and to retreat to a comfort zone would be a safe bet
but it lasts as long as your candle to a burning match.
i often find myself in a state of denial for days
hoping everything would turn back.
but our clocks are manual, and turning them back would make
living lose it's flow.
we put our heads under water to obscure voices and their
expressionist tone.
i'd like to think my mind is so clean you could eat off of it
but days of endless TV advertisements and listening to people's phonecalls
have left my brain dry and seized.
dirty minded from even the most prestigious of their words,
it pushes me into a vegetable life,
like an ice cube,
sitting there melting away.

swans.

aspiration;
oppressed by those who bound us down,
raped only by our sole interaction.
it's the last vestige of drawing your eye.
i'm blind to loneliness and regret.

upon this tabletop was when i first cried;
a soul left to wander amongst spirits,
all united in the chant of
"never enough".
i slept upon that table for days in a seamless dream;
swans passing in their infancy,
the sun slowly kissing the clouds away.

scenarios reek of youth,
where hours are spent in a daze,
where my slumber is scheduled,
where the mind is not impeded by the world.

and this is where i ask,
why can't i shake the hands of God?
our creator is not shy.
we spend forever traveling to his garden.

schizoid king.

saw the moon on the water
and all that surrounded me was reflection.
am i here just for existential reasons?
are my dreams just another addition to 'unfulfilled'?
my body and mind are not compatible -
they always reach for different finish lines.
but i grab onto something nonexistant,
like clinging onto precious ghosts.
you feel them, but they are not there.

and clarity seeps in with the sun
but the sun leaves at the end of the day
and euphoria fades into confusion.

and in the end,
maybe we could stop living like ghosts
and be human.
maybe you will see that your
beauty is art.

conceptual nautical.

breathing solitude,
i descend the rocks and kiss the ocean bed.
wax poetic upon the tempest, retreating to
set down upon thee place of rest.
i would forsake today's sleep
but days swim by in delicately placed intervals.
there is no time of sleep,
no time for bridal engagements.
but time is a shell,
a crack conjures absent sunlight,
absent dusk.
age is a lullaby,
washed thereon the lighthouse.
a visitor sees the light
but is blinded.

sea nymphs dive through,
a child's game to the higher plane, the
higher current.
thy breath is stale and apathetic towards
the breeze that carries me.
i kiss the cheeks of rain and dilate.
blessed only by those who flow my way.
i kiss the cheeks of rain
and dilate.

the ocean,
the waves, so textured and melodic
in their passing.