True Love is as Pure as a Cuckold’s Kiss

true love is only real in fiction

and even then it’s usually fake

sometimes I have the energy to love you forever

until that emotion mounts in height like a terrible Pompeii

and I wanna explode

but nothing ever happens

a silent eruption

an invisible collapse

I bury the thought beside all the other empty graves I’ve dug

then I spend antic weeks hating you

trying to hide from your smile

as full of disgust as I was of love

until I have to dig a grave for that too

so tourists from the future

can’t come ogle my tragedies


Propaganda Department 

I want to work for the government in the Propaganda Department

And manipulate minds

Like a sadistic computer technician

Engineering consent for horrible crimes

I want to paint dead kids in the hue of freedom

And fill factories with labourers

Who think we need the bullets

Because the only way to safety is through the sternum

And between the C1 and C2 vertebrae

With bayonets of strong rhetoric

I want to work in the Propaganda Department of the next Total War

Punching out death sentences on safe white paper

Because life has been dishonest to me and treated me poorly

And now, true to form, I want revenge

Not détente

I want to perpetrate the same crimes on another

That I am bruised with

And condemn them to the same treatment I’ve received

Feeling superior as I watch them suffer


I can be happily blind to my own hypocrisy

I will have successfully indoctrinated myself

Into the world


…And then I will be an asset



Photo by Camille / Kmile on Unsplash

800 Thread Count Drug Highs To Roll Around On

I wake up with a hessian hood of morning fuzz over my eyes. My mind has torn its pull-cord ripping at it so hard and now the engine screams like a buzzsaw in my inner ear. And still people wonder why I wince walking out into morning glare. It’s not my eyes; no, my eyes are fine. They are connected by some nerve bundle to the part of the brain i need them to be connected to. The problem is not my eyes but what I see. Each worried mother, each anxious child tottering off to school, each red-faced driver screaming spittle at the inside of his window. Constant construction noises and building anxiety. It’s like rubbing salt into your eyes and having a staring contest with the sun. I’d rather watch some prehistoric graffiti on a marble pillar slowly rot. I don’t want to be a retail assistant. I don’t want to be successful. I want to be my own man. I want to lay here depressed and only have myself to let down. I don’t want to march on out into the day like another young-boy sacrifice in a war that means nothing to me or our Freedom. I want to sleep the day through, the month, the year. Another cycle of the sun. I want to close my eyes on it. High in the sacked palace of my thoughts I consider jumping into the dragon’s mouth so that at least one of us can get what they want. At some point I will assassinate myself so thoroughly that I will be able to jut my foot from doona cover onto frozen floorboard and I will, I know it’s just a matter of time, put on the uniform and the boots and the cracked smile and the mask and go out into the modern world. I may be late— first I need to tattoo under one eyelid my serial number, my office punch-in, my address and passwords; and under the other some inspirational phrase I can chant like a koan. But right now my bones are too heavy to transfer in this odd receptacle which smells like dust and cigarette butts. Smoke in my eye. Morning goo in my eye. Conjunctivitis of buildup of filth I digest and purify and spit out as pretty pellets of either wisdom or humour. My system is sick with it. And when I march in through those automatic doors so accomodating into the hypodermic fluorescence of the office I will shield my eyes and think about coming home eventually, if I’m lucky, into my warm sack and rolling around on the Egyptian sheets of my 800 thread count drug highs, my eyes getting red and tired again.

My 24 karat molecular vivisection and lego renaissance .

A Colour That Hints At Your Flesh

From an incredible distance I see your pixels dance in my hand, your skin as luminous as I remember it being even if I did have to turn the brightness all the way up. You whisper into the wind that bends the fronds words I hear clearly in my inner ear from this condemned other hemisphere. You are elemental, like I always said. You have more energy than the sun. You are everlasting like the tide; something that cannot be lost. What it means to be a women, whatever occult secret that is, you have it written on the down of your skin—I only regret not learning how to read better.