MESSAGES                                                             
They come caged in blue-top bottles, bottle-necked beauties
braving the tormenting tides and mossy bitter brine; they lie 
on cobbled paths, chasing the cracks of heat-smacked streets
that filter our withering worries and whispers; they drown us
in a sweet-scented melody, numbing thorns and breaking dawns
that dwell on far off wintry hills; they topple soldiers and 
grapple shoulders sitting side to side; they lick the colour off
painted faces, removing the traces of burning charcoal flame.
Now we falter, stagger, jagger forwards to break our fall.
Can they contain us - can they reveal us - can they prove us
bolder than our fruity fears? The horseman riding upon
the starry stream gallops forth into the unknown mist, and
on his back he carries his heart, sleeveless and brave;
while all the sheep stare dumb at this selfless knave.
BELLS
Heavy hanging bells toll swiftly through the land
crevassing snow-dusted vans and dim-lit diners
until darkness blazons our daily suits and masks 
our stopping breaths. Ships wreck ships and planes
crash planes, turning this snow globe the wrong way 
round. The copper-smitten bells prepare their final
voyage, into distant seas and withering plains – 
their sound shall never return.

joyful quixotic
                       furious dreamlike
                                                   melancholic beauteous

Crack open the tortoise shell and reveal her treasure!

Whan that Aprill, with his shoures soote,
Kicks and grinds that March to its roote.
ISOLATION
Years before tomorrow I find myself at a mountaintop
counting each wind-withered peak

when a frost-bitten thorn drags me down 
over mossy crags and parched straw reeds.

The coldness delights and the grainy pools suffice and
a burgeoning hunger grows inside and lurches forth:

“Give me that pen, that paper too!” – ghosts don’t heed to our pleas;
but the ink spills all over her gentle pages and —

Fuck. 

“Gather your senses!” – they are angels now, not 
cadaverous spirits beckoning over linen canyons to my aid,

unravelling the blinds and inviting the outside in –
my hand thrusts out in rebellious eclipse before 

the sunshine sifts the somber motes as they fall in soft repose:
deep into the floating night, my day has just begun

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