Lacuna.

Two tones irreconcilable,

Double tide in retreat,

Momentary perfect reflections that slide between two panes of dancing glass.

Personal wounds and mystery,

Are the invocation to the mouth of the Lacuna.

Temporary respite,

Where two hearts in hope form the raft that carries inwards.

In every other encounter,

Breathless and grayscale,

Trying to swim home.

 

I could search your eyes for years,

Like deep pools of a most complex gift,

And search around,

Wondering,

Whether this kind of vital duality,

And the salty taste of could be and maybe,

Are the perfect conditions,

For me to feel the sea in my chest.

 

Besides,

The swim was worth it.

 

 

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Patterns.

The struggle is found in the fine detail of the string.

 

Beautiful things mutate,

Becoming formidable decorations,

Through the lifetime twisting,

Of thought, to fractal, to armor.

 

Not just desirable, but glamorised,

An idolatry of missing the mark,

Early wounds,

Become the full retail package.

Organising as the grain of wood,

And then the floor of theater.

 

The fine surf of stained glass,

delimiting prism,

Projects shadow as form and cycle,

And light as commodity.

 

Redemption is only through exposure,

Of the inside out.

Grandeur reduced,

The gilding,

Of a mirror to live by,

That keeps promise,

Every day.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dirty boys and colloidal silver.

What are you to me, but a blind spot.

Futile concealment in boundary-less wake.

Love on the perimeter.

Interrupted in momentary breakouts:

Cycles through deluge of analysis and self defence.

Wounds spent to early,

Words only spent on fucking.

 

I spend my days looking for you.

Tread seedy low light pathways,

Wondering if you’ll emerge,

Like an adult rated eternal Pan.

A constant playtime.

Scratchy blanket.

 

I wonder who you’re with and why.

Haunted by the masc-lines of hard bodies,

Easy-touch and heart of your foreign affairs.

It surprises me when I cry.

Tears run from such discrete places,

They soak my face like someone elses.

 

You were a relentless periscope,

Into concealed inner worlds.

So rough unbeknownst to yourself.

My anger was still there.

 

Every time you walked away I’d unfold like origami lotus.

Under threat of return, seal up with sharp edges.

From an impartial observatory,

Loose a little bit of my soul,

Every time I saw your heart break.

 

Paralyzed at love.

In and out.

Hot and cold.

Somewhere in between, I think I loved you.

Fuck your family parks.

Fuck your family parks,

For gardens of fuck dust and virility,

Deep and doggy style in strewn explicit litter,

In obvious but well hidden niches – in precarious hill side glades,

What won’t manage a buggy for you,

Is a warren of orgy to us,

Animal counter-measure to your pacifying rose gardens,

And playing fields of meek compliance.

 

Fuck your world class cuisine,

Bad sushi and overpriced wine,

Venue fronts dripping in judgement and misery.

For the adrenaline of muffled thumps,

Of dusty swing doors,

Symbolic popcorn and kernels like sand,

Sticky, tight-chested with close breath

And signalling,

Signalling….

For strobed release and strings of cum,

Anonymous interludes in films never seen,

But waited on.

 

Fuck your halls of trinkets,

Great cement leaches of the cityscape,

Fuck your homeware, cheap garb and perfume.

We’ll reinstate the wild,

In a temple,

Of piss soaked porcelain and hungry stares,

Of mud on toilet rims

And holes for whispers,

Of shadow code across tile and fluid,

Lair’s for the easy indoctrination of your machines.

 

Fuck your churches and your light codes,

Our pew’s are gnarly branches,

Cold stone floors,

The long grass on the perimeter –

Our sermon unfolds in dark room sensations,

And meditation in the silence around heartbeats,

Prayers fleshy and elemental,

We make our way to church as civilian,

Engage in ritual like creatures,

Fucking questions into everything you hold dear.

 

 

 

In me.

Fucked in the night, under a roll down blackout – face recognition disabled

 

but still

 

your arms.

 

 

Not so romantic as ‘I’ve been holding for years’ – but –

 

Tissues moist and secreting, the whole wagon of life complexifying to a wet ecstasy.

 

 

Years of the most subtle, yet obvious, closure

 

Dropping away with a desperate clawing for flesh and tempo.

 

Fucking, primal – pinned to the present through a messy and seductive biology,

 

Fucking, primal – finally, consensus of the fibers of my new pleasure hole

 

Fucking, primal – not so much lost in you, but backing into oblivion.

 

 

I claim my new superpower as a crazy fucking power bottom.

DarkMatter Burn in Brighton

Eaten up by both your fire and inflamed by it,
Left dancing with this ache of an insight,
And a tremble of an echo at a kind of embodiment I can never know,
But then that I know profoundly through my own bodily investment.

I can only burn inward.
Burning outward only by allowance.
Hearing only through exposure.
Seeing only by a kind of craft wrought in the screams muffled to us.

I’d of manage more than ‘it was really good’ if I could have bared all in that moment the weight of that space and circumstances between us,
If I could have breathed more with your eyes upon me,
If I could have been ’emotional in public’,
If I could have stopped trying to explain away my sadness,
And stepped out of a world that denies the foundation of yours.

When I look at you.

I used to know you were in the kitchen before I entered. Not because I could hear you.

Picked at each string in hesitation of your heat and heavyweight.

Took interest in your rage at it all – not all unjustified.

 

The dining chairs were always more present, more uncomfortable.

I felt the delicate fold of my fingers, and the flow of my downcast gaze,

Felt my own frailty like I was meant to.

 

I think I hoped my language would touch you in fellowship,

But you were deaf to it.

I signified only weakness and you echoed at my stare.

 

When we laughed together, I saw a boy in you.

At the time, it was to much to ask, for you to see the girl in me.