Poet’s Corner

You are the stream of dust sparkling against the asphalt in 30 degree heat, You are the cobwebs that rebuild each night in the corner of my window sill. You are the tickle in my throat when I try to sneeze,
As I wait,
Half expecting you to choke.
When I am not even the other half, But less,
And maybe was even never enough.
As I am but space between each of your fingers,
Coffee stains on the counter,
Loose change that jangles when you walk,
Takeaway receipts stuck to brown paper bags.
I can never be torn away.
I only exist at night,

my eyes open
i wake with warmth incarnate to my right
all delicate and light
arms clutching the sides of my body
touching skin
tangled tight like my headphone cable
this cradle of angelic embrace
ever such a shame what i must face
to leave your place…

With this six blade knife, I pierce the darkness. A bubble of light bursts. More darkness, a deeper black charcoal fills my lungs. I feel this metallic screen press up against my chest. The walls closing in. In the moments before eternal darkness calls again, I scramble down into my carpenter jeans. Finger for the wooden varnished handle, rubbing my index against the engraving. A layer of my skin grips onto its grooves and stubbornly holds on as I free my hand from the pressed pocket. The six blade knife refusing to be awoken from its slumber tries to fall back in to the deep well of a pocket I own. As it begins to fly inbetween the canvas walls my fingers reach for it and slip around the handle. I feel my spine beginning to crack, my knees bending back under the pressure of these obsidian walls closing in. I attach a bit of thread, with my magic fingers (masters of the small eye), to the end of the handle. I release myself from all I wear and the thread attached, like a theatre pulley system on my shoulder, sends the knife upwards. The sandbags of my life disappear into the darkness…

Sunrise
Relax yourself a cigarette
The cobra swings
In the carriage of the train
I sit on my head
And stay for one last song

With a heart of gold
You wish it would form all the same
As if no one who came before didn’t work
So I’ll say to you the worthless whisper
Work head with a miss and a mister on dial
Write the rite of passage like night calls it a day
No ones watching…