SCRAPE

slip into that white coat,
cover your gloveless hands,
protect your eyes from splashback

we are going for a ride

dig your curious fingers
deep inside

shift the folds
to one side

this sulci holds the key,
scrape out this ancient gunk

smear it on the sterile bench,
dissect its essential components

she was the one keeping it there
but not the one who injected it

not the one who let it get
infected

but she was the one who was keeping it there

scrape out this ancient gunk

the microscope projects
dysfunctional images onto your retina

of screaming
of bleeding
of needing

don’t be alarmed,
this is all in the past

you are looking at the past
solidified

shifting back in time
to the only one
she recognised

she didn’t know she could remove it
she didn’t know she could prove her heart
to be correct

she believed too much in
the dead black seeping substance,
strengthening its bond

she didn’t know she could remove it

scrape out this ancient gunk.

BLEED OUT

the indifference begins
as tempting to sink into

but its insidious nature
catches my ankles
and drags all that it can
with it

my plans to be
the thing I claim to be
overruled by the clots
in my skull

anything perceived as dull
raises a shotgun to my
right temple
by my right hand

while my repetitive demands
to end it all
are just a stall
tactic

or are they?

there is no difference
between being dead
or being alive

my only means to survive
is to dissolve
into any substance
within my radius

including the circus
living in my attic

and when the body bag
rolls out
all that is remembered
is what I was unable to give

all that is remembered
is being unable to live
with and without

whatever it is
I think I need

just let me bleed
out

just let me scratch
my eyes
out

just let me gurgle
in the sludge
known as doubt

until I can’t take it anymore

until all the rot
submerges
the blood-stained floor

I thought all of this
was done with

but those moments
of certainty
exorcise
the apathy infused
in me

as each paradox
brings forth
the sense
of instability

extreme left
and right
on the continuum
deny the need to reconcile

for now denial
will suffice
in the absence
of firearms

and true intent.

BENT

I step on the last thought I had
or I watch it
until it dies

it might come as a surprise
that everything means nothing

all of this is just a game

torch everything I own
disembowel the things I’ve claimed
to have known

all of this is just a ride

do I let it become
contaminated by pride?

or contaminated by need?

or attached to identities?

there is no re-creation
without destruction

luckily for me
excavation
and demolition
are my life-long specialties

I step on the last thought I had
or I just watch it
until it dies

it might come as a surprise
that everything means nothing

until I learn the rules of the game

and how to bend them.

UNBROKEN

the only difference between
the fluidity
that lies beneath
and the emptiness
felt on the surface

is my ability to see.

when shattered fragments
encase me
I feel tempted
to flee.

I feel an impending
snap
lurking behind
my back

until I adjust
my receptivity

until I adapt
my perceptibility.

and when all things
reappear as unbroken,
when all things
make a shift within me

I realise the unknown
has left itself unspoken
I realise the unknown
doesn’t care whether or not
I see.

CATSITTING

last night
I threw up five times
after eating
suspicious looking ham
from a stranger’s fridge

granted
I am catsitting

that fucking cat
had no idea
what was going on

when she saw the contents
of my stomach

fill the nice couple’s
big blue bucket

in their lovely
Brunswick home

I binge watched
Peep Show
to distract me from
the pain that would not
stop
creeping up
and heaving out

it did not work

there is no metaphor
this time
even though I can totally
explain the lesson
involved in this ordeal

and it has nothing to do
with not eating dodgy ham
from a stranger’s fucking fridge

we all know that
is very likely to happen again

I won’t explain how
I could relate this
horror of a night
to my goddamn fucking life

instead I’ll leave you
with a poem
about vomit.

CLAY

sometimes
it’s murky in here

as though
the carefully moulded clay
has melted
into my blood

absorbing the venom

remoulding
assisted
by twisting it all together

while I walk
while I pray
while I subsume.

DEATH PARTY

the slides in my projector
have decayed
leaving fragments of
torn glass in my mouth

the cuts taste like new life

sometimes ascending
destroys everything you’ve ever known
because you want it to

talk to me in the shallows
and I’ll most likely projectile vomit
and act like nothing even happened

either that or I will hide
in the corner of the bathroom
until I’m ready to let your words
shoot straight through me
without sticking

your thoughts reek of boredom
and its infusing into me
I’ll try not to send the projectile your way

give me something real or stay out of my way.

ZERO

PART 1 – OBJECTIVITY

on the day of my birth
I was given one way of seeing the world

good and bad
right and wrong

etched into me as though
objectivity is real

carved into me like
the screams that tore me from my sleep

cowering under the bed
was “better” than pretending
to be dead

being unseen
and unheard
made hope for a bloodless day

unless men in black cars
wanted tits of
11 year olds

then I would be seen

any objections
would see my mouth
sewn shut
for decades

a good girl did everything
warped minds wanted

bad girls
toed the line

the girl
heard
everything.

PART 2 – NO EVIDENCE

i am nothing
i am no one

i’m not worth the effort it took you
to spit on me

i am nothing
i am no one

the only line toed:
between death
and sucking the life out of you

without even noticing

i am nothing
i am no one

and there is no contradictory
evidence.

PART 3 – STARS IN MY BONES

the sting in my gut
signals untruth

I turn my back
on threats to my
senses

since illusions
are made of thoughts
I change them

since neutrality
is made of circumstances
I perceive them
through rose coloured glasses

but I still turn my back
on threats
to my senses

how can you tell me what “real” is?

the sting subsides
giving way to a calm heart
full of fresh blood

I can feel the stars
in my bones

the pulse of quasars
in my wrists

the difference between
you
me
and the breeze
is zero

I know exactly who I am.

I AM NOT A MONSTER, I AM YOU

He was known as Ice Man
and part of him liked it

at the very least it covered up the smell
of a Kuklinski-stained existence

stale ethanol breath laced with
death
brass knuckles in the middle of the night
backs snapping broom handles

his seething seeped out of his pores
overflowing onto the floor
drowning others

he only knew how to loathe

he only knew how to bathe in the blood he pretended to love

he now asks for a different future
his tattered mask
hanging from his decaying face

the serial-killer imprint
in the mattress in his cell
lulls him to sleep where his dreams
give him the glimpse of a hell-less existence

“take me forward in space and time
where no worlds collide
where I have never mutilated,
where betrayal’s absence
is at its loudest.”

security meets him at the gate
asks him to open his bags

his veins run with rage
every inch of his skin drenched
in denial

security’s fingers
show their indifference
to defence mechanisms by tapping on the sign:

“how you respond is entirely up to you.”

a sudden urge to search
inside his own baggage
guides his hands to the very bottom of the void

grasping,
lifting to his face:

it felt like twisted cords
of shame

the smell was like
generations
of infected neurons

its surface reflected
powerlessness
into blood-shot eyes

the taste of death
lingered on his tongue

security reads the script
in an unwavering tone:

“how you respond is entirely up to you.

the way you interpret
the contents of your baggage

determines whether you get through.”

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