Pipework

Phantom, I
drift through the silence and the city,
charcoal outposts of the fallout,
crumbling black and
fragment
on shirt starched white.
Mind over matter:
memories spilling burgundy
torrents from ruptured cranium,
burst pipework
gushing black onto curved concrete
and sliding into storm
drains.

The brain and fuzz:
I thought dust storms in that
crawlspace:
claustrophobic,
barely ventilated;
until
all of a sudden
the moment expanded for an extended second,
the monologue quietened,
the present re-emerged,
the atmosphere emptied
its contents
and I could breathe.

The flame and flicker:
smiling soft across the table,
slender like satin,
your fingers grasped blindly
after nervous words
stolen
from apartment people
trapped in TV sets
that look through to solitary bedlam,
and the words trailed off
on another
coda
for my thoughts.

Now, vacant is my chamber
but for the breeze that lets itself in
and clears the
debris
in empty day
after empty night
after empty lullabies.
And anaesthetic are the images
that evaporate into
the ether of my imagination
as her spectre
shrinks from sight
in the floater in my eye.

Phantom, I
walk amongst the wreckage,
taking care and aim at onlookers
encased in impenetrable shells:
a million universes floating in quiet oblivion.
But there’s hope
for new futures to be forged
in the fire of our failures,
there’s hope in destruction,
promise in the new,
we martyrs to the dream,
searching for an
end.

Resonate

Fallen alien
wanders through my
woods,
stepping on twigs
in the dark.
Blindfolded,
I let your sound
guide me to your
chamber.

Foreign ghost
drifts across my
room,
floating formlessly
into my arms.
Elusive,
you cease to exist
when you fall out of
frame.

Looking away for a second
could shatter the illusion,
break the fourth wall,
wake me up from
the dream.
You resonate
like tones in the tibetan,
raindrops boring holes in my brain,
water accumulating
in a tin can,
singing
to me.

Pressure

Every night alone
it comes,
every seed sown
spilt over cold ideas,
over nothing:
ghost lovers.

Sleep urges me to
start anew,
wait until the waves
lap at my consciousness,
lull me into ignorance,
wipe the slate clean,
until the residue
accumulates
again.

How soon is now?
I never believed I could
empathise with Morrissey,
but the pressure,
seconds steady ticking,
is hard to comprehend
when you don’t know
where the
end is,
when you don’t know
how much time
is left.

So in silence I sit over skyline,
pristine and gleaming in
black and light,
sip a green tea and
reflect
but the glass wore out its reflection
and there’s nothing much left
worth dredging up from
before,
no steps worth retracing,
no more mileage that
meditation can
make up,
so the only way forward
is through no man’s land.

Every night alone
it comes,
the pressure
breaks the surface,
ghostly fingers
of imaginary lovers.