Disgust

I came home and saw myself in the mirror.
I understand if you don’t want to see me again.
I’m a failure of humanity,
Or perhaps a success.

Year Three Spelling Test

Number five.  Neighbour.  My neighbour used to think that she had a pet flying unicorn.  Neighbour.  Number six.  Umbrella.  My neighbour was very sad when she found out that her imaginary pet flying unicorn wasn't real; so, I got a horse, stuck an umbrella to its head and gave it to her to make her feel better.  Umbrella.  Number seven.  Transport.  My neighbour's favourite mode of transport now is via umbrellacorn.  Transport.

Fire

Only just green,
the new vine wide-eyedly sprouts,
bursting freely – ready to soak up the world –
from its nursery-for-one.

A tangible shadow,
sculpted by the wake of the
tiny, guiding torch light
that bore the nursery exit,

the vine trails that little flame
that senses which way is forward,
that sweetly burns and turns
only through kindling so dead

that it is unborn, unseen, until
subsumed, in the moment that a
wave peaks, by that luminous speck
before settling freshly aglow amongst

the rest of the now greener flesh
map of countless past frontiers
of revival – a comet’s tail – still
glimmering with always scarcer

reflected rays from the astral bead
up ahead that winds on, following its
kindling path, its pace imperceptibly,
gradually slowing as it unnoticeably

loses its breadth, as though the beats
of its heart have been left behind one
by one and – as mud never knows
thirst – without ever knowing hunger,

but still contendedly depending on
finding its fuel, which, to the left,
is not yet but soon will be prime
and must wait to become green,

while vapour departs the soil below 
and the lambent rondure slightly,
steadily, softly recedes into itself 
until even the very death that was

there to the left has faded, its echoes
long lost, leaving a blind and ready
silence that now touches then joins
then blazes then flows into the wake,

anointed, green, candescent, resting,
soon to be companioned by that
almost ripe, almost bare blot of
cosmic decay to the right once it

too sheds every last flake, not of
life, but of death; once it returns
to the pure blackness that sits at
the bottom of every one of your

outward breaths.

Only half done...

Contemporary Messiah

Perfectly in orbit and permeated with the grace of its own gravity, it welcomes every wave and particle that comes its way without exception, orders them all intricately, symphonically, and so reflects only the beauty and true greatness that the outside already had.

Form

Wide eyes jab my bright flag well into this manure mountain's peak, for what ever grew from a silver platter? A burdensome load is invariably a sack of diamonds. No redwood ever resented its soil.

Distant Tension

The ground shakes a little, and foolishness and wisdom look the same, but that is not because they wear identical masks; it is because you wear the cloak of uncertainty – uncertainty of yourself. Marry your soul and body, and see that it is not whether you choose foolishness or wisdom that is the problem, but that you just need to take off that stupid cloak!

Parasite

Twiggy is your saviour. Your unearned, bony “beauty” is not loved elsewhere, not that you seem to know what love even is. That’s right; gorge on the First World; let the white male’s American English glisten as it dribbles down the sides of your smiling, goofy chin, and smear it like the shitty mud (from the sties of the sows whose pleading squeals of desperation you gladly drown out with Lana De Rivative) that it is over your A-cup breasts of censorship and your librarian's clitoris of privacy, before taking pride in polishing your parrot-coloured regurgitation so that it will look great in your ivory tower. Revel in the filthy pleasure and egotistical obesity that you deny that your meticulously ornamented depravity brings. Only keep and only output that which feeds your bad faith, and snip out all threats. You pose as a delicate parasol, but you’re just a voracious