Hoatzin

Hoatzin /hwaet'sin: n. a tropical American bird, Opisthocomus hoatzin, whose young climb by means of hooked claws on their wings. [native name, Imit] /








Sumptuous animosity gathered around the table; will I ever see you again? The prayers sent out never got any further than the jam and toast. I am a stuffed toy set beside the fire place for your pleasure.

Sat down on the hill with our lives and the world ahead of us; where's all the perspective lead, to one central point or just shapes we crisscross with our eyes and our lives and our hardwork.

Spartacus sat upright and gave up on himself. In the knitted armchair of your morality a chill went up your spine; was what you were doing goodness or good for you? A soldier camped out in their own home can't call for backup. Self righteousness piped out of your vocal chords as you kept yourself warm. But that chill makes you pace at night.

Floorboards

The delusion crawled across your mind leaving a snail trail in time. They'd all rather put the world on a flat tone and reduce the fires of the world; one stringed up silver bullet of dogma that they can roll across the floor.

The dynamic flowed out of me and I found I could always see the stars if I focused my eyes the right way. A world without memory sees no stars and the bitchin to find a bastard hasn't much to acrue. Constant fishing for an enemy brought nothing up from the bottom of the sea. So singular in their interests they bled the fruits of their own love and left the world dry.

The dual shoes fit perfectly on both feet as you walked the grounds; gravel littered your world like gravy beneath your thumbling toes like a fish out of water. The forest where people played were like the margins. Acres of inefficient beauty that you day today circumnavigated. Going around constantly what mattered the most.

Going for a walk was no destination nor no beginning; a timeless hug against your own arrogance. Playing tennis with the people you despise the most. But that bullet kept rolling over between your fingers and your comrades and colleagues, cleverly sidestepping anything that really matters. So long, I am going somewhere to find something else, something that really matters and something that is really really.

The walls between us

Who ever knew where we really were? There were no signposts amidst this land of bricks, you were right I used as I thought you were the potential scaffolding to the stars. The rations of desire or piece meal pain relief. I feel as though I am exploiting the Gods I don’t believe in. I never knew you were only human.

The Hour Glass

The me and I fell in together as they fell into the centre of you. The and the the came rolling into one another and made a complete sentence. Time was filling itself backwards harvesting its own self awareness. You vied for my attention within my own body and wouldn't let trivial obsessions get into the way. A glass cup of warmth that constantly refilled itself and gave of TLC without ever burning. I roll over and kick you out of my imaginary bed and it's an accident. I leave you waiting somewhere due to forgetting I was meant to meet you at some certain time in my sleep but I was dreaming but i only upset you in my fantasy. I made my way to please you in the middle of the day when it was dark in the real world and found sunshine and you in my dreams before i had to say goodbye and brush my teeth and let the day go by. I and me and you went for walk once upon a time with a made up picnic and I said everything there was that I wanted to say to you and could and you undressed your mind and allowed me to see what it was you were really thinking and if those emotions I caught gleams of like sequins in time were my good guesswork or the delusions of my own self hoping into your imaginary lap to curl up like a cat that needed you.

That picnic in time that never realy happened seems to have left as big a mark as anything that reality could throw my way. Like a bruise from the inside out forcing my blood to the surface. The moon keeps making faces when my back is turned as though it somehow had no idea that i knew what it was doing. The distinction turned on a head that somehow my dreams were squealing that these dreams should be out in the world. Like Pandora had leapt out of the box with something good to say. But seldomly Pandora got let out the hole with something to say as she'd ceased to speak years ago and was only a spoilt child. I had no nightmares to share with the world but only my nighttime singsong celebrating what hadn't been and my diary of delusions spun together as a potential bluepint of the future.

The Shared picnic ran out and the dream said yes but you had to go and i was left in the forests of my imagination with the hanging tree's of my creation lost without you the human cup of wamrth at the centre of it. But I light another cigarette and your gone. Can it really be true that it was actually it all coming true that i was so scared of all along? But picnics don't make themselves do they? I made and make patterns in the minds as a nice derailed train journey to actually geting on the right path. Roads feel so small and even with their goodtimes I can't sing walking down them. There's no jazz in the tarmac and maybe all along I should have just given up and gone back to bed. But can I bring my Aztec love out for you? I can't even from my scewed balance see things to argue about and I'd give anything for anything for that one argument over nothing for me would be the vestibule of nothing holding out against my own time but second servings of peace are nothing compared to having a mistaken ruckus with you. The stills of you go in and out of focus like a memory in the dark poorly lit. The photographs in my mind aren't good enough so i skip breakfast and leap over the table to find you. Before the cups of tea and the squeezed first breathe of hearing you I stay here amongst my toys in my imagination workshop where kisses against recalled images in the air will do.

Vertebra

It rides through your flesh like a snake in search of something in the middle of the night. Like a winding stairs that holds your head from your heart. I climb all those blocks of bone with my fingers as if my hand were a spider making its way to some safe haven over rocky steps of flesh.

That thing would kill you in the night. As if it were some problematic motorway through your body that you hadn’t designed. No one had given you the road map. In fact I was the only one who had journeyed down that path with my fingers saddled next to my thumb. It kept you together yet it caused you pain. It created hell for you but allowed you to keep moving. It was a physiological bridge that no one but me could walk down. My fingers and my eyes were jealous over whoever may have walked that route before. I’ve tried furtively to own your back with kisses but tenderness wont get me a passport into the feelings that crawl amongst the sea under that bridge. I’m in the same room as this house of ligaments but I still don’t know what it is that animates them into moving every day. I’m wondering all the time what goes through your mind and through your bones when you’re excited, what feelings are propelling you? What is that motivates you to get your spine moving and go running? The more pain that snake causes the more you seem intent on wanting to move its nest.

I sometimes wonder if in a thousand years if archaeologists were to find your body trapped and frozen in ice that had survived some second ice age what they would make of you? What would they do once they had dug you out of that hulk of ice? What would the twisted vertebra tell them about you? Would it say something about your own personal neurosis you tried to run off every morning or would they take it as a sign of the twisted qualities of mankind in general? Would they make a killing and display you for children to come and gawk at some ancient human prize. What will the children of the future make our little human ways? Will we horrify them like some are frightened of the ways of the medieval, will we appear medieval to them, or will our back aches be a source of nostalgia for something they never experienced? Will they still have love or will that be too costly for them to afford? I can see those future archaeologists seeing your tattoo glowing black through the ice as the frozen box melts in the future sunlight.