the perfect seed

weightless she, permeating through a fold
dispersing the saliva of a postmodern toad
burnt acid in his magnet mold
and therein resides a scene to decode
retching gallons
of water gushing down a moonlit road
gallons ethereal
from the glowing hands of miniature souls

blue stepping wild
in the wet caverns of descent


I held the image of him tightly
I felt the searing heat rise from the beneath us
through a broken-down staircase fashioned of stone
as it curved ahead, seductive like a snake
into the distant dust of an infinite horizon

I run after him there, laughing.
we we’re all laughing
All there, in the warm fog, laughing.

Just as he was there, so too was he gone
being what I thought he was, to being an other
being what I thought he was, to being nothing at all

Looking down at my forearms
that bore his inscriptions
his hieroglyphic imagery
of ancient symbol and of distant memory, intertwined
first ink, then blood
into deepening cuts, albeit sensation-less

Images animated there, transforming
shifting and altering their base structures of form
flashing through fragments of memories, long set aside
memories that do not ring true on any real-world ride

She stood alongside me with a look of all-knowing
with a guilt and pain in her eyes
as I stood there screaming at my arms on the path
as I stood there screaming into the sky
as I stood there screaming at the deconstructing imagery of time

In a twilight
In amongst a barren wasteland of deserted powder stone
with low lit trees that bear no autumn leaves
trees dancing slow as the currents of an ebb and flow
howling in twilight


(don’t worry this won’t become a poetry blog)

this majestic unicorn horn is a cheap fucking knock-off made by a child in a sweat shop in India you heartless thieving bastard, the paint is peeling off of the tip for fucks sake.

So as the leaves rot, so too does the paper.
So before I pack up my scanner…

Never nobody

Winston had a kind heart and could paint meticulously with oils, he made a ceramic frog that still sits by the front door of my mum’s house. I always suspected that he really did love her in some way and that her love could’ve been reciprocated had they not both been so muted in the realm, where their synapses could not spark to form such a connection. Not in that (or this) passage of time/space at least.

Lisa had a sly sense of humour and loved her leather jacket, she was destroyed too but well before she could even try to know herself. She was exposed to some of the greatest horrors of the institution that few could ever begin to fathom, but she had a light inside her nonetheless, that never ceased to fashion a smile.

And today they’ve both been bought down by their captors, but finally they are free floating majestic in the cosmos somewhere everywhere. Slithers of light in the fraction of a tragic moment.

I hope one day we find a better way through it, through integrating and overcoming  instead of switching off and shutting out.
Schizophrenia is spiritual, cunt.