Poetry

Sparks is a city in the Nevada, United States that is commonly associated with the comedic podcast "The Thrilling Adventure Hour" is a fact as cold as your living room when I thought of the perfect metaphor for how you are destined to hurt me which you won’t find interesting. I wasn’t even conceiving a poem A healthy person would not be attracted to electrical sparks that are signs of faulty components She would not be writing a poem She would rather hug a moist tree or be screaming gliding down a water slide and get very sunburnt and text

My consciousness afloat in the stiff air of darkness Ever-expanding loneliness permeates my body My chest stings, even from just your platonic caress I can imagine light, yet I can never see An ember emerges at the corner of my dimmed universe All at once, with my soul brightened, spirit aroused, vision restored, She gleams like a star, sparkling in my cosmos, Resurrecting my hope that’s long gone Her fervent touch of passion, my one and only Eros, My universe’s long-awaited dawn The purity of our bodies against the ink of night My eyes of darkness illuminated by her star-kissed

Little spark, what do you do? "Ohhhh I don't know," it said, so blue A tiny speck of light, that's you A good for nothing, through and through Little spark, what do you say? Resting on that strand of hay "Just having a seat, if I may, No one would miss a little ol' stray" Little spark, a breeze is near Your time has come to disappear "What a life," it wept in fear "With not a soul to shed a tear" Little spark you're still around! And the hay you've sat in seems to have browned! "It appears you

She is hunching down on the roadside of a suburb, hoodie thrown over her head. She rummages through her bag and you can hear all sort of things thinking, twinkling. You find yourself asking. “Are you alright?” “Yeah, sure. Why?” “You seem cold.” “I am. Shivering!” She laughs, all raspy and memories of ancient days. “But it will pass. The cold. The wind. I just need to sit in it for a while.” She is then really sitting down on the side of the road. Her things spill over: breakfasts and dinners and lunches, toads and lizards and skeletons, shards

Looking back had turned Lot’s wife into a pillar of salt, But she returned as a magazine, as a new name for Chaos, A reincarnation, a second Genesis,  (Her name was a cautionary tale,  But she ignores that part). Now, she looks back again Over sixty fiery years of life,  Surviving the wrath of God and man.    For the first ten years, her daughters stayed In corners, letting her sons take centre stage. Was it by their own choice, Or does free will become muddied when Society speaks lies like a serpent Into innocent minds? But in 1974, Sue

Tiny yellow flowers  Perfect little bulbs  Canary feather fairy lights  Strung up like crumpled gold  Yellow as Taylor’s acoustic dress Radiant daffodil poised for surprise Yellow as the messy crayon sun Children draw amidst blue skies  Tiny yellow flowers  Perfect little masts  I’ve been chasing yellow so long  And still can’t make it last

we tell horror stories holding one another’s hands, sitting around fires in the open air   for our houses have been destroyed.   the air is smoky, but that’s not from us bigger fires are burning elsewhere fires that end stories, fires that turn hands to dust.    we live now in white tents beneath a blackening sky, like a marshmallow held over flames for too long when will we crack?   there is sewerage in the streets, the water is dirty, my mobile phone signal flickers, my Instagram feed is not loading, we are falling off the grid, gradually

Coming back to myself was Your birthday Sitting at the counter, watching you all in a busy kitchen:  Faye Webster on speaker Pasta bubbling on the stove Cream & strawberry sponge cake in the oven  Frosting-licked fingers & paper people cake toppers  My hands in dishwater    Coming back to myself was  Nothing more than a knowing smile No ceremony, no discernible shift  Just new friends sitting on a new floor, watching Ratatouille together - Me, leaning with my back to the couch  Mug of tea cradled in my hands Thinking: this is right, This is me, again

“Mister Speaker,”  he said, “I rise” – amid the stare of waiting eyes he rose –  “to ask the Prime Minister-” saw the hungry journalists, “Sir- What’s the government position-” Can you feel naked ambition? “on this or that moral outrage?” Headline writers, op-eds engage, with heavy guns, artillery, turning shit into millinery, forcing ammunition onto heads. Every trace of trust that he sheds Is pleased, knowing soundbites secured - Media, public, all skewered, One simple piece of mockery.  Who really wants democracy? Please, forget your apprehensions. This is how we win elections.

sitting in the dark, i would wait hoping you’d come back heart on your sleeve, apology ready some semblance of guilt, empathy plenty crawling, tail between your legs back to our glass house, empty   desperate, i whispered eulogies months passed waiting by the phone entwined your name in prayers ‘just a temporary high’, she swears in every laugh, every torment i’m sure it’s there somewhere   always in my peripheral, yet never meeting the eye desire, the naked temptress  chased after it nevertheless marked for perpetuity, still you left better off they’d say? never, i protest   i stalk

And for the next, I worry. If the past is any indication of the future, My fears are justified. But we will see. May their efforts, our efforts, Make a difference. For if they don’t? What next.   When all is said and done, And the pieces lie scattered and broken, How far is the way back? How hard to search, blindfolded, bound, And dream of the sky.   So, I wrap myself in Country, In possum skins and the wisdom of my Elders. I soothe my scarred heart with the whisper of the wind in the gums, With a

You decide He says Anxiety rises in my chest like nails Do I have to? I don’t really care I say, or maybe I just don’t know And it seems overwhelming to Assess the options Have the conversations Read the books Reflect on my life And say the prayer   But not making a decision is a decision too And Love will not impose itself on you.