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.