too many beginnings and
too many ends,
as usual

take two - 2

fluidity is found

not in the grapple of exclusive certainty

but in the acknowledgement

that we
are separate entities

fluid in our mutuality

gifted by our diversities

finding our ways

around and through each (an)other 

and shifting alongside each (an)other

with dedicated peripheral

our eightsandfives implore us

to get-give as much as we can give-get

trip #8

All the things that have manifested are

ugly. (but they are beautiful at the same time). 

And they are not so different
from what I know of myself
in the light. 

I'm the same but with a new opened channel

to articulate it all, or rather:

the mode by which I output

becomes unlimited,

  ideas are free to flow, just as they need.

even here, now in this morning-after writing.

That's why wrath for self and/other 

were made from June, 

though I'd intended something different -

because I had opened.

and fortunately I stayed opened long enough
to pray the pretty pictures of my head

onto the others' bodies

and they danced the dance that was made in me,

they told everyone that which I couldn't speak,

not for lack of ability or words,

but for fear.

That tiny 'Fraid which resides in me,

she underpins everything -

she's still hanging around. 

Sometimes, when the right song is playing, it feels that it would be beautiful to step out into the traffic and go walking with the red man.

new ritual

I was birthed into this year

screaming into the wind,

drowned out by the storm of myself,

hurtling through the hours

and there, for seven days, 

I've stayed.

I'm still lying in the grass

next to the rickety fence

that knows to stand the gale

the tears in my cheeks haven't healed

in fact, they're

splitting wider

I wish they were smiles.

there's something awful in me

and I don't know what it is

there's some terrible

self-loathing

that manifests staccato 

bursts of breath

open-mouthed speech that

doesn't bear words

a foreign language announced by 

caustic 

silence

I hate it.

I hate mostly

that it makes me 

hate myself.

There's something awful in me

and I don't know what it is

I can't imagine where it came from

except, 

that 

it's riding on my back

escaped from another

a parasite transversing 

not only

bodies

but 

time

it's leapt 

from the year I couldn't

into the present

(so)where things are different, but 

still

the same.

I want it off. 

I want it out.

I've told it to go.

It's still clutching and leaving scratches

I saw them on his back

I knew it was it

when he said, "you did this",

pointing at the claw marks and

me, without recollection

"No," I said,

"it was the other way around -

you were the one

taking the back of your hand to my face

while it dangled off the bed -

I never marked you."

But he insisted I did

and I knew

it was her

that creeping little parasite

that sits inside my throat 

and glides between

my forehead and my belly

when she is bored

- and she always is

we gave her a name,

after he

and those colours

woke her up

Her name is 

Vanessa

She's got to go.

bflood

my brain is flooded, swimming in my
thoughts leaking out of my eyes

flooded blood-red fury
that blurry spot begging to be

re-energised
between the heads of my femurs

drains an achy relief
already laughing to crying

sugar cubes made redundant
I've resolved to alone

but I've not resolved anything
my head can't keep up

with my churning womb
my history burns itself

for what's at stake
(little more than my mistakes)

there's something breaking in me
much worse than spilt milk

leaking eyes the first fissure

haven't seen what
I need to see