Uninstalling the zipper

It is a most depressing realization
saved for the ungodly
wafted like a septic breeze
until the day they are able to see
there is no greater good
no top down approach
to morality,  that works
and the only good that exists
is the small invisible individual kind
that may never fill a teacup
and will never cause a storm
this is
less a commentary against religion
more a consequence
like unprotected sex

the vigil

undertaken under shady defenses
a cold sense of self
a constant impending doom
and moldy pretenses
I should be asleep now
right beside you
instead of waiting
to hear you
not call out to me
I feel like I should be hurt
that your unseeing eyes
no longer notice me
criss cross criss cross
across your doorstep
with creaking bones
constantly interrupting
your peaceful sleep
I feel like I should cry
it feels sociopathic to admit
I know how to feel
but not how much to

river

muddling through every way
with a pressing need to move
away all the time
worrying at barriers
even as tendrils snake around
after solutions have been found
isnt enough to hear your sweet voice
without the depth of surround sound
how do they slice it
into timetables, montage
dole it out with ads
decide which journeys matter
(the ones that make it, off course)
bottle it and brine it
force it sideways and pretend
it isnt constantly worrying
the way it used to be

readjusting

little by little
to being human, normal
average, unremarkable
no longer subject
to high drama, grandelusion
well, less subject
this wonderful feeling inside
of time, of space, of silence
and I miss the action
of course, I was a tornado
a bad influence
someone you would remember
with distaste and fear
and love, well come on
its all about love right
the courage to
which left after
my glass was full
and I started to owe
fear is all that remains
fear is, adjustible

the curious juxtaposition of idyll and ideal

haven't we all lived
in the day, the moment
soundly asleep
confident and sure
of our own power
over heaven and earth
aka ourselves
for the first time in years
able to see our whole life
without turning away
when accident
brings what we truly want
and design
shows how many times before
we walked away
from the same accident
down the lovely worn winding path

progress, and other urban legends

keep the motor running
I have a path to make
walking right beside the kerb
in circles the size
of not very far
they do not have
the meanings I said
they did, they would, they must
and reason gets hard to fake
harder with each mistake
the years have taught me
nothing but nothing
can spin so dizzy fast
pull me along across each line
with a handful of string
a fistful of fate

sink like a raindrop, parlay like a god

on a gnarly evening
with lights by my window
and a boring font beside me
and the tapestry woven
so thick and beautiful
sonorous and plush
breaths in perfection
the id the enemy
with a password quickener
in the fingers
so the mind may stare
at the lights and dream
of less perfect moments
for trudging through fonts

wafflemaking

steepled in the
criss cross lines of its namesake
hobbled by the paralysis of choice
painted to sunset paved with decision
disparaging of the human condition
of the immortal self
worn with stoic human experience
suffused in the dogged belief
that life is not enough
that tomorrow will be better than today
and so, today is past
but for those who know
tomorrow doesn't exist
and fear is futile
the golden waffle is impossibly sweet

scars

are not exactly how
we might imagine
they are stickier
mired in long forgotten
garbage filled with desolation
futility with a dash of venom
they are the courage of the few
with nothing to give
nothing to lose
they are a slow moving escapade
from the clinging branch
which is the last resort
between you and the void
the glue, the unravelling
the stillness and the wind

dystorporation

it will take
more than wind and storm
to wake the Nightmare Child
lost in a dreamwalking sequence
slick action slaction
without consequence
an insulated soul
sparkling like granite
underwater
under the sun
far too many toothpastes
for one teeth
leaps of faith
that are picturesque
and magnificently virtual
justice and order
carefully divorced
from each other
with joint custody
of emotion
money before sermon
before action
living in an age
of Numbers and Names
that never breathed life
or smelled a rat
ruling human decision
passing human judgement
the Nightmare Child
is lost in a room of echoes
in a world without gossip
talking to itself
just to be heard

dissolve

it gets so hard to think
in moments between miles
of unfettered ocean
formed by a Pensieve
racing along the coast
vast and angry with time
hard to think of freedom,
with wet feet
to free time from immense
pools of tears
expectations
to be an educated productive
properly sized well mannered
beast of burdens
to sink all the boundaries
shake off the sand and wet
dissolve
and dream of distant lands

together forever

and I tried
so very hard
to keep them both apart
object1 was strong and true
a little lonely too
until its neighbours
overrode reason and decided
object1 needed object2
to merge beauty and class
which for a while was bliss
each did its thing
with a midway kiss
no labels were changed
no judgements were made
then a change came along
bounced on object1
ricocheted off object2
and flew away
as they crashed and burned

firelit the suspicion
and the rumors
were they lovers
kissing cousins
or something more
were they merely good friends
or using each other
from end to end
did anyone really care
if object1 stayed pure
simple and flexible
intent into action
or if object2 grew
as a thing of beauty
and joy forever
as long as they did
whatever they were told
relationships are simple
only for a minute

calculus

in mad pursuit
of stillness
I wouldn't catch anything else
at the speed im going
I thought
and along came a virus
to seat me quiet
staring at a white wall
negotiating with a headache
to suborn the self
with magic
be happy happy happy
so it will go away
and I can unpause
to believe again
that magic comes
with a headache
and stillness, is the cure

yellow moat

always in construction
around the primary soul
orbited at the speed of sound
by the soul of a loves
quite as concrete
as its gravity prison
but impossible to deblur
into redolent colors
so, a little sunshine trap
set just in case
hope has to rise
off the sour ashes
of Pompeii

a necropolis of placebo

whose time wash
lingers between
case study and fellow
where many paradoxes
sing together
of human faith
loosely held
with currency origami
adorning familiar shapes
transformed with pity,
applause and hopeful fears
into hand touch
night vision
the closest approximation
of life
you ever saw

windchime day

for listening
wavering, in the face of change
tea and songs of missing colors
weeping without paper sponges
the tracks of a baby balm
a solemn gathering,
of all noticeble threads,
of a vague belief
silences and silences
large uneven rifts in time
to invoke at will
an acute conscious still life
to discard goal and reason
for hope and dream

transponder

when the lights go on
a little too quickly
a thin glass bottle breaks
emitting the carefully preserved
pointless but precious
heretofore called "contents"
of a regime careful of the fragile
soulful for the satin ribbon
cavalier with the plastics
contemptuous, but merciful
of the fleeting
and the endless
if only art was drawn
in quick minutes
as wax impression
shaped and reshaped with light

gridlock

but no one understands
the anger of the bees
their geometric maze
and constant drone
of unmatched industry
brushed away
by seasons of harvest
and human whims
the grand plan
heavy on their featherwings
no one explains to them
the principles of pain
when the water is rust
only to be stared at
the incredibly sweet taste
cannot be comprehended

coloring inside the lines

watching a baby run
headlong at an escalator
head thrown back in
suicidal abandon, and a little
a very little envy cloud
forms over my head
until mama holds her tight
whispers sweet nothings
and stops her

ashland

spears all on the rising star
moon and mind in flow
a gul picks at the distant land
where embers of bad mistakes glow
digging against the rising tide
before the sun, without cause
hopes a wing will make for flight
or the will wings through the night
picking dust off and around
the darkness in the ashland
until just before the dawn it found
a silent insiduous lighted shell
a secret crystal past, in tune
of things as they were, should be
all embers cool around the gul
the star fades to the rising sun
the gul feasts on the blinding light
tucks a wing and says a prayer
closes its eyes content to see
ashland under crystal reign
until it sleeps

And ...

I'm going to be writing now also at sincadinna.com.

This is a WIP which among not-many other things, has about the only complete list of my various bloggeries around the interwebs

Do visit from time to time and give your feedback!

tinseltown

that birthed on a bed of irony and grew rapid on the hope of new life, rebirthed, every day, every minute, chanel on one wrist, estee lauder on the other, afterbirth never smelled so sweet. and I havent showered for a day, slept for two, an elephant follows me, pressing into my head and trumpeting.

tinseltown with its heliotrope boxes and bottles, watches and diamonds, goggles and wines, squiggly satin bows and soft yellow mirrors. flashing on the hulking mass of bad decisions, who don't sleep well and wander, looking for manna.

with its constant costume parties feat. wandering zombies all dressed up and waiting, for life to happen. tinseltown that made a destination of the wait, sparkling, addictive, until destiny is but a distant dream, transforming to a journey. The journey, to tinseltown.

tinseltown that became manna. by promising a journey to. logical to the very end, with correct hair and severe black suits, flowy ethnic dresses and mojo boots. they who live in tinseltown have frozen with vigilant smiles, those who pass through, take antifreeze with you.

I used to be just a wanderer when first I found tinseltown, and found manna, for a different reason, one of my last refuges for anonymity, my allowance to wander sightless without reason, without question.

And now after wandering its gardens that stand so still, its passions that wind so thin, I am blued and bored, a little broken and betrayed, by my finest refuge. I am tunnelled through and there is just a tiny trickle of glamour left, my half closed eyes only want sleep and hot water, so I may knit back together and rush back into tinseltown, to compete for the journey, instead of seeking the destination.

the journey is so much easier than thinking about where it leads. tinseltown comes guaranteed, to be its own destination, to lead you true, lead you nowhere. this version of real turns hours and hours away. tinseltown, where life has more meaning, because death don't exist...

but life has no meaning if death don't exist....

tinseltown, kingdom of unconscious irony, far more addictive than it ought to be

my prayer for writing

I come to this desk daily. I come alone, and terrified. I come to this desk without any expectation outside the pages I will fill. I come knowing that a few tea stained pages, a few kb files with my heart and soul on it, have meanings beyond my understanding. I come in peace, in anger, in desperation, in war, in love, in lust, in envy, in happiness, in hate, in fear, in boredom, in excitement, in utero.

I come to this desk every day not knowing if I will ever come again. I come knowing I can never stay. I know this because I come with no recommendations, no baggage, unarmed, unclothed. I come knowing that when I leave the desk, I will feel happier, richer and more at peace. And that is still not enough to guarantee I will come tomorrow.

I come to this desk knowing that I will often not make any sense, I will often be corrected, often by myself. I come to this desk to come closer to truth, my truth, to examine how beautiful it is, to have one perfect moment with it, and never talk about it again. I come with humility, to be granted permission over myself

I come with an open mind and an open heart, wearing my best possible honesty with the most colors, and adding more every day. I come with the power of echoes and the power of silence. As so many have before me, I come because I want to and because I'm good at it

I come each day aware of myself and my reality and its constant demands, I come aware and thankful and unapologetic of the sacrifices I make and my loved ones make, so I can sit here each day, I come to be only with myself, to find my own voice. I come aware that this time is entirely intangible, and in real world terms, irrelevant. I come each day to change reality

Reposted - After a 2 year self-imposed exile, to reaffirm faith