PREFACE

When a man’s life ceases under water, he becomes part of the wreck.

Through ten night falls his limbs clung to a bow-spirit like barnacles.

His soul, so full of witches, flew over black channels.

With literature rich, and teachings and deep thinkers.

When music softened the streets to insanity.

I eyed a first sprung star, “I wish I may, I wish I might.”

When the gifts of poets and visionaries shined their light.

Words in a ball mill, my nigh halcyon days, decay and forms.

Copious leaves in the gutters of afternoons.

Bless me.

I was informed that the best thing a man can do to prove that he is a man is to suffer in silence.

Then, why now do the stars shoot at me in a manner reflective of hope?

Then, why am I am inferior now and as obnoxious as the next?

I can get with war if my hands shake like this tomorrow.

And then the rain and the still.

I will offer blood to the sewers.

I have mule fingers and my skeleton pulses,

and I line the gutters with noxious weeds.

I once read that I should talk to God instead.

And, I kneel to the Moons every Sunday.

I am a mirror to the shade of grey.

I was born to swallow doves and spit their bones.

I was born to pay for the ages.

My memory leads me to believe that I was leaking hope well before those ten evenings.

I recall catching floating Dandelion puffs in my fingertips.

I gave Volkswagens nicknames that were unique to me. 

I hid behind a giant rock in a sandpit that was once a chicken coop.

I fished a yellow aluminium Gitane from a creek shadowed by willows.

Each morning to He-Man, I warmed my 8-year old bones via a chocolate brown wall heater.

Aloft his magic sword – By the power of Grayskull.

I loved a sickening book about a boy spilling a can of paint.

I slept rumbling nightmares of bedside posters above shaggy carpet and bunks.

Robinson the caterpillar; a blue woollen cardigan, and red gumboots torn in two.

And the murder was a mile behind the milk factory.

I wish to scream singed marrow -  sullies and the gift of gravity.

I wish to force the rot from light, and then write about it in a manner that underestimates ghosts. The ghosts that lay beside me, nestling my sciaphobia.

I

Ideas from the hours spill from footsteps and my scandals. 

Out of fear I vellicate nerves, and this balize is noxious green.

We are after all, descendants of the blue eyed poets.

Drunk from the country’s finest potted skin.

Three sisters in a room of dust weep six knives like vacive daggers. 

And hordes of marching insects cover the dreams of sleepwalkers.

I see a litter of pigs floating from a furrow.

And deep within my retina, a busker sings in A Capella, crying with the city’s fens.

She moves north with the fog and the iron dust, with a gentle dimple in her chin.

She says a martyr must believe in something other than one’s self.

And she spells it out before I can learn to read.

Pastures of Mogul’s burn her sunset rays. 

And we drink from the loss of salt air.

And the lint from Erato’s fraying gown.

Drops from her fingernails like words from a page.

I close my eyes to the mystery of psychology.

There is a vahine of confetti that awaits her.

To their own devices, we are waterless.

Listless, invisible, with fingertips from a muse and mule.

I rove things from sharp pavements full of old footsteps,

and I inform the hordes that it was just alchemy at play.

Thallium perhaps, pale glares, withering statues, and the scent of lianas.

Filming oil in the sky, and six strains distort the Dead of Northern France.

They all calibrate gravity, together with the Lord’s bile.

Lime painted rope, the noose from a burning whorehouse.

Ashes and Mercury exalted from her body.

She has rose water tears, painted nails and wings of ice.

She tasted like charred oak beams and phosphorus.

I continue to lament over fine passages.

I am several weeks of several wrecks.

And, you are HUSH with the flower and the Gainsborough Curl.

Goodness me: When I close my eyes you are a sight for sore eyes.

I signal adieu to the orphans: Wolves I call them. Chapeau my friend.

I enjoy the vagaries of magnificent poetry.

I chase the feeling of nothing adding up. 

Common sense is symbolism and serenity aplomb.

What nonsense! Absurdity clashes.

My ocean or yours?

At times when I read of the poets and their works: they are oh! so familiar. 

If only that ice would melt beneath this island.

My family demands it so. 

I secretly hope that this season’s flu has been underestimated, and when I say that, I refer to how we spread the notion that we will all be okay in the end.

Scientists will predict greater things are yet to come. 

Mothers will predict the death of the family, and a brand that depicts love.

There are three occupations that I fear will ruin the progress my ancestors made.

And so on and so forth.

And of those orphans that dawn in her rays.

Who congregate around a simmering oil drum.

In their eyes are parallel wattles alongside a creek,

miles and miles of sully crowns.

And particles of ash on a field with singed leaves, bug spines, bee livers, decaying picnic rugs, ruins of love, and the sweat of warriors, minors all mingling between their toes.

II

It began with a simple attempt at a grand concept.

She was a tourniquet limb with a halo of gray matter around her neck.

And eyes of an ostracised gluttonous sod.

Faulty letters on all of their faces and lungs woven like a gasp of fear.

I was the prize for the solemn.

72 hours remains in the temporal world.

Two beached whales and a chord in A Minor. 

A boar guise pierces the neck of chance.

I watch the magnificent way you carry the nation’s despondence.

Or a mole climbing the Finestre with delusions of swollen grandeur.

Both boars were born into a major family of writers that grew wheat and had pet beasts. 

You are a special one and oh so close to being a magical one. 

*****

Secondary colours and clay daggers.

Employing Jazz phraseology.

Employing the blind with genitals relapsed. 

Employing the servants with the Eighteen Thirty last hung pirates.

Babylonians with hindsight, and wolves who craned lunar symbology.

Augusta claims to be their prophet; a skilled mariner, and the grandest of Tasmanian poets. 

Who otherwise adored factorable numbers.

Who otherwise divided weeks into seven days.

Who measured the sky with an electronic scale.

Of many drunken outbursts, my favourite of which was The Slaughter.

****

I have digressed a little from my thesis. 

And so often I see myself in the soft angles of a mirror before it reflects.

And when I wash my deputy’s gull like hands in the River Thames there is a ribbon to behold.

A release of orts near the shoreline at Wapping.

Now, I can see that on my death bed, I will help clench your fists. 

As the ox and the lamb conspires for Davis or Watts.

So dream of a morning of no more silhouette bodies in the children’s eyes.

Pa rum pum pum pum

And so on…

***

Let’s dodge the tumbling boulders on the approach.

Spot the disappearing ones or lose a child to war.

Cling to the knives in the stomachs as internal mirrors bare the rust of those that have peered into them.

It was the opening to the ocean floor that made us.

Ladies and gentleman, cover your pearls with mold. 

**

I recall when the twelve months became the music genres that you were born into, 

and those you belonged in forever.

And so on.

*

If I was to mirror to surface grief, then only I would hang with the inspired,

and then I just would be.

You’re a sensitive man with a fine complexion, and a poor sense of social justice. 

And so on. 

But, as a country boy with a fine accent, it was normal to listlessly fondle the splinters from a hollow wine barrel; and promote morbidity as a means to actuality.

III

Dear Henrietta,

The halcyon air around me is still, and I sometimes howl my moods.

Kaleidoscopes in purgatory, mirror stories of our race.

I sink my damp spine into sand mounds.

With your head in your hands, I wonder if you hum hallelujah.

The frail purple feather you sent me was meant to be white. 

I hear screams of The Wasp in fourteen meagre but ravish arcs.

Gravity held you hostage. 

Now you rumble with two jagged pieces of my skin.

The pigment of our twins twinkle in the eye of the English Channel.

Do you still throw pennies into the ebony obsidian seabed?

And then I pray.

I pray the bucear of Neptune murder us a row of ravens.

I want moths to swing with Potassium Nitrate wings.

Networks of fine lucent veins and its slender and fluorescent. 

Antlions and lacebugs.

Please come frolic with me in the moonlight. 

Knowing very well they were whispering for the last time.

I can cherish a follicle of your choice. 

Shhhh! listen to the waves in your voice.

Waratah feathers and dawn putrescine. 

The Pallas scuttle for rich Avon hair.

Poetry in piles and six rusty harmonicas. 

Au contraire, a sloop of war.

Witching hours use the trees in parks in playtime and bend them into treble clefs. 

Creaky hard wood floors and forest prints.

Good lord, what a wreck!

On two walls hung three naive scripts.

Damp skin in the puzzle of news.

Love letters with the scent of cadeverie.

Two frameless photos of a bridge in flames.

Au contraire, my love vessels, The Orange Boven.

A charming array of gloom souls and cleft lips. 

Cluttered rafters and scribbles of muddy wishes. 

Moss covered mantles once blanketed by ash and whiskey. 

A drone face chimes with the sight of youth. 

The morbidity of Autumn signals to the congregation.

Violins ring in their pockets.

And EARS run amok with the dusk.

Broken strings clung to worn bridge pins. 

The rapture is the seal _ SOUL _ or the priest’s glass eyes.

The mold from an offshore breeze. 

To make the owl into a moth requires patience.

Pa rum pum pum pum.

Vigour of mortis, I entail thee. 

Shall I seek malice?

Or wet the voice of a line:

OPPOSE - my one lifeless rose. 

This fort with pity hurls cupids in fashion, and I am with you! 

Dropped pearls, and ripples appear in the well. 

And you raise your voice at a sight, and a shell that had been buried meant zero. 

To the gorgeous at least. 

Those tortoiseshell tiles drip crimson tears. 

Windows through to the dark southern smile.

And a cataclysm of horror moons and fruit for the heavens.

Address me as a mere mortal, or as royalty. I do not mind one bit. 

I have approached all of the hollows with gore.

This will be my final day, and I would like it to start with rain.

IV

I suspect that you are responsible for the reddish hue in iron dust.

Because, I have seen things that only the souls of the dead have touched.

And, the mire of this is scorched on Mycer woven rugs with patterns of palmar flexions.

I was born looking like a Coyote, but with the eyes of a child.  

The tenderness of my retinas are lavished and callous.

A swollen bay of gray, wrinkled, and there is still odium in the sky before the bombs.

It looks like the creases in the hands of the strongest or luckiest men.

While the skeletal oak roots beneath my feet rupture roar with Modern Gods.

The hush of a shadow behind the lamp in a corner.

A faint deer silhouette appears behind it with iced wings.

And pink cockatoos fly with the knives mentioned in a chapter I can’t remember.

And with their claws to the sky.

Holding something borrowed, and something blue.

Never mind the taste of rose water, or the invocation of Vulvaire.

Mary, Mary, quite contrary,

How does your garden grow?

With silver bells, and cockle shells,

And pretty maids all in a row.

I digress, and I recall the study of Revelations as a row of fiction books.

When three fellow pupils threw sulphur powder at stained glassed windows.  

And the frowns they received were incorrectly glued to the hard wood floors.

I awoke at 2.16am on several mornings with all my toes broken.

And my fingers were like motor cortexes, long enough to expel caddisflies.  

I now fear the dripping of the sun. 

What do we make of those indolent echoes above the Salisbury Plain?

People are walking into old crime films like it’s tomorrow. 

Ladies and gentleman, I present to you part of our new King.

I will send a letter to all the men in the world and demand that they leave my women alone (plural).

Did you notice the commotion at the table with the pleasant peasant? 

Those urchins were never born with enough art to thwart vultures.

And Mara steals their pretty prayers with a kiss before the colour in their eyes run.

We are flowers, and this is the horror beneath her.  

Ring-a-round the rosie,

A pocket full of posies,

Ashes! Ashes!

We all fall down.

I digress again, it’s Satan after-all, and the redeeming qualities of the Devil.

The stranger of Drury Lane who dreams of The Pseira Wreck.

Its a harbor my girl, and a master of the seas.

They both spit at the descending Moon.

Au contraire, she does swing from the corners of Asia. 

A new way to write about the music in your mind.

Au contraire, her lungs do wither with the echo of faith. 

Slouched in her Mercury body and Saturn shade brow.

Iron dust hues like the blood of my ancestors.

Now for your reading of The Slaughter: 

It was the gore; a hollow virtual maze; where all the pretty women fancied to shower their painted souls with ash - an astray but powerful touch of joy. 

As our maker led them down a well full of flowers. 

They danced with wine, and they lost the function to scare or love. 

As Mary and Augusta crowded around a follower and sung an elastic verse; a tongue of opera framing; a conquest within a promise; to tease their bones to void.

V

From now on, we will encourage idiocy over sacrilege. 

My mistake, archaeology.

And Saturn’s core will be used as an organism in the ocean as well as a faucet.

A roaring winter fire dazzles in the darkness.

Those were the times of the pure at heart.

And together, we were nothing unlike no other, an outline, and an illusion of transience.  

Nebulae born ravens feasted on chlorine soaked leaves and charcoal powder.

Interstellar colleticut fonts.

Who are we to forget any of them?

Upturning nests onto cities like it was a glass dome.

A new and intimate front running nightmare that promises Demiere to be the theatrical experience of the year.

It is 9.36am, and the pearls I dropped into the well are now reserved for science.

Nets and hands form the ewers; they are secrets with their own scandals.

And clouds look like crossword puzzles; and then it rains calcite crystals.

While oaths from the strongest men quiver with the waves.

Under our porch in Ohio, we stumbled upon one of the greatest fossils.

Anthropology to be exact. It was haunted beef. 

Dismembered and left to hang by a willow branch near Augusta’s home made into a swing. 

I have never understood friendship.

Nor the femur of a Megalosaurus.

What do the poets; the visionaries; the politicians; the musicians; the scientists; the greatest makers of wine; and the extra terrestrials use to extinguish their pain?

After all, what is the meaning of life?

Anything that calls upon love is bound to be riddled with flaws.

Anything that uses faith as a beacon (NY) will be lost at sea with a wounded Sabine’s Tern (LA).

Letters are now spheres to whom she paints the Body of Christ.

Good lord what a crime it is to ignore the patterns in Revelations.

They are nestled into the boulders of fury and all within an ancient text.

Burn the fires until there is no darkness left to hide.

Well before barbers performed surgery, our immoral skies fell,

and we quoted from the elliptical, with questions about the sky’s vice versa.

Then they ground the clandestine plans of the Gods into particles and away we went.

We chained atoms to a bedpost, dipped our ankles in tar waves, and our knees dangled from Titanic’s deck, with sunburnt necks.

I stole the little drummer boy’s drumstick and now I face the gallows.

My poem’s font is a faucet in the Andes sky.

Nocturnal backwards is Lanrutcon: The fifth constellation beyond Ursa Major.

I pray for a day when the flood hits in A Minor and sounds like A Capella.

And then tumours will erupt like the roads do, all for new reflections.

May your consonants peel my arm into the form of lips.

He heals the broken bones and binds up wounds.   

As the paint dries, I turn to the blunt prey.

Wistful sheep are the ones chosen / slaughter us.

An acerbic taunt Moon, with a chamber of love and light.

This epoch in time, where being sober is an arrow through the heart.

I pick scabs like barnacles on the hull of a boat.

And, he plays a quena on one leg, and petals beneath his sleeve act like fire and ice - the wrecker of faith.

Those really were the times when I recalled the glamorous scent of Spring.

But, here…

But, here…

We swam in the gutters because the mornings were a pastime.

Where the bones grew into a quartet of years, or a periodical mess.

And, the air was a piercing skeletal view of nothing but amniotic shame.

This refusal of regression is like flinging dust during an orgasm, add rage.

But, will Swiss crepes swing from the corners of the Earth?

And, blanket the Atlantic.

I do not intend to offend the constitution or the interests of party alliance. 

I do not intend to turn my back on panic room benefits.

We were all born into the right body at the wrong time.

Oh! How good it would feel to run away, and invent new ways to make the heart beat.

VI

With oak frames, it sails onto the second plate.

It was a soundtrack to a nightmare, and just a little delusion. 

Awkwardly though, they all hang in tact with Watts in his white veins.

The hypnotic buzz of the Haem Brothers. Their iced wings and corrupt dagger eyes.

It is what they don’t show in the movies anymore.

They couple with the warped squeals of mire pigs. 

Purple shades of the dark gallows sink into the wreck.

Humphrey’s shoulders in triangles, she was all luxury with sharp ideals.

Lamenting the many fine passages of AWOL.

Minoan seals swim, or those that are gray with droll frescoes.

The Abyssinian curled up inside a rusted wire spaghetti strainer.

A Great Dane opened our morning with a wail.

A streak of tigers and boulders roll like hysterical tears.  

Feathers and shame, brides and patriot fear, occult leanings and blue offerings. 

To favour a new way to weep in silence.

The owl and the moth possesses the form of buried skin. 

Once were frail wattles beside a creek bed. 

In the wild and natural areas of an ancient mind.

Flowing with the wrists of speckled frogs – the gash of glacial loam. 

Legs athwart and navy bathing in the deep verdure, south of the flood. 

With fervour to burn and the zeal to hassle a shadow. 

Like the brown rivers, she rose with Pseira. 

With the kids of seven playing handball over chalk stripes.

Two of which were carrying acoustic guitars.

They chance each other with fine dining, coupled with ambivalence. 

The others dance to Watain, with the pearl chords -  singing in A Capella. 

There is something fine about being lost in the September weather.

This is a party, and I am here for the FLOOD…. But, here…

Sweeter musical skins of six boar fleece rugs.

Shattered portraits of Kings on tortoiseshell coloured ceiling bathrooms.

Glare or we freeze, plying singular and dry bare with what we were led to believe was a new path in literature.

Full with dispersive qualities that were difficult to quantify.

All of them without the strength to handle somniferous mornings.

VII

Smoking a page from The Flowers of Evil and reciting a line about caressing heaven.

With the depth of his cerebrum, the regressive hypnosis recounts.

I lost my virginity to a ceiling, somehow. And now I stare at it every night while I cry.

I clean lean fibre optic cables, all glossy with ultralight lies.

The supreme ruler of Ethana and Zu.

We can recreate the distance between empathy and grief if we learn to blame ourselves for what is wrong with others.

At it’s finest we count 75 miles to the Well.

A shattered spyglass points to the fallen Moon.

Seven amorous glances from opaque scleras.

The gloom sunken hearts and a severe dawn light.

The sceptics gather on granite mounds with sharp witted reflectors.

My nurse is here in tatters.

Allow me to elevate these aluminium bones.

And military drunks appear in poems like history etched over and over.

I was the one that stole the photograph of Brazel on his knees, 

his arms above his head clutched his cloudy ewer full of bitter wine.

His selfish travelling migraines brawled with the ulcers and the wounds of his mind.

Venus slept through it all on the comfort of base deceit.

Berlin 29, and those contemporary phrases on the walls.

Satan; the wonder of life; the eye drops of The Pseira Wreck. 

They used paint to redden the white patches of the Alps.

They wrote names in the gravel behind Salem’s lot with the feathered end of an arrow.

I filled all their baths with acid, and then I laughed at the news.

Now, as I laugh again, this poetic nation has tested my veins enough. 

And, I conclude that I am not a God.

Ripe with blaspheme and astonishing gravel eyes. I have

renamed 300 odd days to darker shades: gray, ash, gainsboro etc. (NY & LA)

From this evening, I will conclude that the apparition adorns:

The hypocrite;

The hunchback;

The wretched soul;

The wanderer;

The Tupperware container;

The drunk;

The prostitute, and

Gehenna with her trembling bird, so vulnerable, and so pathetic, it lays in prayer.

Quivering in unison with the faint echo of the valley wails, a soft waft of smoke and pink ribbons that look like embers.

VIII

The haughty creature is on its edge, and we will hold hands with its horns.
Shall we choose poetry my dear, or an imposter with a horrible posture?

Mere blasphemy feigns with the mute eulogy of Kings.

Who is this creature, and who can fight against it?

Little did they know, within my right fist was the key to a bottomless hole, full of the city’s blood and much much more of its apparition.

And within the core of lateral and cuspid is a mire soul.

The hung mother of Gehenna.

And, who would pray for her youth to raise gumption at the Mount of Olives,

and exact remorse in her dream.

Muster me that strength in order to go on with much of nothing.

I shall swallow the sand from the shore of every lagoon we raised a glass at.

Then dream to disappear in a row of split petals by the crab’s peckers.

As luring as her waves were, and to the master of the seas, on a fourth intercalary day.

I address the masses of open space with a kindred spirit.

My mark has scarred many foreheads, as your your neck is marred with dried Dhalia.

Feet like prize bears, eyes like the whores of the ocean, the purest beasts risen, seized then sealed.

Digress… old newspapers hurled their prose. And, we believed it.

On the 13th of January, I turned this image into a shadow of six days of wandering around with nothing but a mild sense of direction, and a tendency to fumble verses about something that was never really meant to imply a thing. 

A Pterodactyl you were, with a silent P. It was the promise to shale us to the witches at sea.

Where Christ praised a massacre of grand scale fails by raining upon us nothing but wilted four leaf clovers.

Perished was the daughter of the sky. 

She meant to cover the city’s narration and the street queues with bleeding horse shoes.

And then show genuine warmth at napalm in a new Cimmerian city, buried with moons.

This was the column’s image of Neptune as a future orbital wound.

This was maiming the discourse and killing a year of variable ash.

This was the genius that carved a crop circle in a holy murderous sky.

This was the speck of ash you dragged into my closed eyes.

IX

One does not sense their rationality en route to the frail, 

nor does one identify themselves as an apparition, when in fact it is so.

Then what of its intervals? And what of misery’s thick will?

How was it so that I memorised the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire at the age of ten?

When others of a similar ilk convinced themselves that a red Devil lived deep beneath the sea. 

But I, The Gentlewoman of America, in subtle strokes, will dare to slaughter their hindsight.  

Somewhere deep within this sciomancy is the heart of a lost and wounded lion. 

Those almond shaped stars that I drew a line through were many times a wish. 

Clenching the curl of a forgotten slave’s quilt. I sail north to the sky, alongside a patriot.

My heart now lays in the words of letters for a generation to decipher as beauty.  

I will live on in the souls of the women, a thousand centuries forward.

As palmar flexions become the study of witches and calculus. Algebra perhaps.

What have I done here but stumble into, or onto nothing?

Yes, I understand nature as I have been stabbed many times by the light.

I will eventually torch this ten-chapter divination into a beacon for the New York sea line.

The sea bed, the skyline, oh what have I done?

A question mark can kill a man.

With the saffron hue of the autumn land and the smell of salted lilies, we will see her sink with time. 

At the base of a rocky shore, the lightning sends sharp angles through the eights and zeroes of her age.

And, then there was that time when I dropped my favourite poem into a muddy puddle and cried. And, flocks of thunderbirds drew self portraits with a noose around their necks. Meriwether Lewis paid us thousands for those prints. La pirata, you may take my wine and sanity, for you are just another hole in eighteenth century prose. Roots of the night, mayflies in torment, and prayers of the strongest men all quiver with the waves. Come and kill me Wagner, and let me drown in this wreck.

But, I am Theodosia, and I shall approach this shore as a meandering fossil in the pattern of your nightmares.

I clutch my portrait and enter the sabliere. 

I see a crestfallen swirl of tears, and they drop into the lime green bay that engulfs a frail leg. 

They will never dry/die/dye again.

X

Will the square Sun act out droll prose for a scent of gibberish?

Or curl daughter’s outline to a question mark above the dawn red sky?

Clouds of crossword puzzles and ellipsis in the child’s eyes.  

Befell decrepit poems of war, and ghost stories so well, infirm and gray.

A mirror, and two empty bottles by a dry side river.

A bed of breathing fish with no sign of life.

We moored hopeful at the graffiti pylon just south of Blood Moon Bay.

Above the lighthouse of a thousand melting snowflake bones. 

A canary seabed path scattered with lime green mortar shells.

Toxic rockfish, mussels to be exact, all of the purple kind.  

And the wingless Yaquina Thunder Gulls swoop the ocean perch where our art was all mangled up. That was the day music died in the streets with a beast of the sea; and robots gazed at the knee deep women singing with feathers in their hair from the same morbid bird.

That was the day you left for more and it rained nothing but skin and clover leaves.

The day their nonchalant leaders reeked of blue cheese and medicine with somniferous qualities, but I smiled and I opened my eyes, and I held out my hand to the antiquated tomorrow.

The sounds of the speed of love that I loathed to express.

I am well aware of the danger that I pose to a noble man.

I would rather keep quiet and be led astray with all madness.  

And they cry rough sand drops and cough rocks. Maybe one day I’ll bleed black rainbows.

Into the windows of moronic ash.

In rhythm they circle actuality, in fronts, and always the fonts resemble genius, or a fossil of awe.

The femur of a Megalosaurus - the true creation of a habitual Neverland. 

My single famous creation, and my astonishing parting gift. 

If opportunity was appropriation, would it be a crime to take it?

Why can’t I cherish opulence, or sway in the deep with my patella in the mire?

Like the rich dancers of the music dried streets.

And all the singers with the black umbrellas try in A Capella. 

Bodies in the vanilla eyes clinked spare molecules.

Internal monuments to nothing looked at the sky when they demanded you take control of matters.

Your often outlandish glow commanded Hamlet.

Must we so often be frowned upon?

Say it just before the knife. 

Squint at it with light globes.

Distort my shards of mangled art.

But, it was only for a moment that you truly believed they cared about human nature, let alone your own path to the stone morgue they labelled: living the dream.

You see, the many that were there were never there at all. The seven dressed in silver pretence, and the ginger bearded brutes were all green with envy, and were painted in pin striped suits. And all the world’s sin; they asked for the tickets to their own festival of dreams. Yet, that was never an invitation at all. It was just a promotion of something more or less categorised as promises. They summon indifference, and poverty.

These are relics shining their light right through you.

Merrily merrily merrily merrily, life is but a dream…

I was once told the best thing a man can do to prove he is a man is to suffer in silence.  

Things fall apart any minute now.

This is more than the materials required to make gun powder.

Haven’t you been listening to the ignorant storm clouds with their moribund nano particles? 

Or the promise that was the width of the HULL, with its fading blue Helvetica:

WE ARE HERE TO TAKE YOUR LIMBS HOME

I close my eyes to the mystery of  psychology.

There is a vahine hand of confetti that awaits her.

To their own devices, we seem waterless.

Listless, invisible, with fingertips shot from a muse.

I rove things from a sharp pavement that is full of regretful footsteps,

and I inform the hordes that it was alchemy.

Thallium perhaps, pale glares, withering statues, and the scent of lianas.

Filming oil in the sky, and six strains distort the Dead of Northern France.

They all calibrate gravity, together with the Lord’s bile.

Lime painted rope hanging from a burning whorehouse.

Ashes and Mercury exalted from her body.

She has rose water tears, painted nails and wings of ice.

She tasted like charred oak beams and phosphorus.

I continue to lament over fine passages.

I am several weeks of several wrecks.

And, you are PLUSH with the flower and the Gainsborough Curl.

Goodness me: When I close my eyes you are a sight for sore eyes.

All artwork by Quinton Farrow