It cut across the corner
Into my trajectory
I braked. And banked.
It came too fast. Too close.
At first my rapid deceleration seemed sufficient
Yet seconds later I felt the handle bars vibrate
I was simply mass
Movement determined by physics
My sentience irrelevant,
My course determined
Flying into the arms of pedestrian strangers
Leaving behind a mangled wreck of steel and spinning wheels

Each morning arrives like a punch
You must fight to become
Form identity, reason, purpose
You hide beneath blankets, dreams
Begging for 10 more, 20 more
Minutes without reality

Its the feeling I get when submerged in hot water
When mentioning past transgressions
When thinking of a certain man
My stomach caught in knots
Emerging unpleasant thoughts on the edge of waking
Memory never fully recalled
When runs of discordant notes fill my brain
And make me think uneasy thoughts of you.

Insomina

I had forgotten the cold clear stillness of 3am
A world alien with quiet depth
Silence so still time seems frozen
Refusing to believe in anything unseen
She always knew when I was awake at that hour
A little clatter outside my door
Then we would sit and stare
Me: her hands
Skin crinkled with age
Circling steaming china
Her: the garden
A day slowly unfurling
Spreading shadows across the lawn

The first time I heard of Hunter S Thompson was the year I turned 19

He was an advertising guy I met through work 

High rolling with the edge that comes from having your ideals ground away to nothing

On the brink of a second marriage he clung to me, a girl precisely half his age

With fresh libertine ideals, an open heart and youthful beauty

I must have seemed like the perfect excuse to ruin his engagement

We had been out that night, drinking till we stumbled 

Sobering up on lines of overpriced cocaine heavily cut with MDMA

Useful in disguising the quality of what  passed at our end of the world

By the time we made it back to his apartment we had reached some sort of equilibrium 

We sat in his window seat watching the city, battering tides of weather lashed the building

The passage he chose was so appropriate it can't have been deliberate

Looking at him, I could almost see the high water mark

That place where his wave had broken and rolled back

6 months

I wonder, she said, why it is you don't fit

The sums make sense, perfect alignment

And yet there you are, disjointed from reality

Like some phrase to the left of my tongue

One that feels right, but cannot be articulated

I can feel the machinery grinding over

The misplaced bump of your existence

Smoothing away rough and raw emotion

The world is getting smaller

Soon it will be christmas again

Once again I sit

Awaiting your pleasure

The rain pours through my eyelashes

Down through my brain

Drowning the joy of past encounters 

Wiping the memory of the sunshine from your face

Life is a series of throw away lines

Those you remember will make sense

Somewhere later

Down the track

When the context kicks in

Others are lost

Nothing more than dangling threads

Silken lines wafting in your wake

Nothing to adhere to

Something I'm struggling with:

The urge to blame past loves

And exonirate oneself from blame

Whilst analysing excessivly

What could have been:

A) Said, and

B) Done

Better.

In order to have kept the romance alive.

Perhaps a desire on my part 

To have some rationale

For my actions and situation. 

It would be nice for the blame 

To be his.

Or mine.

If only adultery had come between us 

Rather than that murkier text

Of theory and politics

Perhaps then, the cause and effect 

could be plotted within the social frame. 

Is the ability to write of a renounced love 

And refrain from tears a sign of progress?

Or is self-depresiative analysis merely another form 

Of narcissistic rumination?

Illiteratithon

Inarticulate alliteration of emotions and verbs
You break my breath as you break my English
My voice sounds strange around you
Reduced to shrill laughter and stammered sentences
Wide eyes and stumbling steps

Time to say good bye
To forever everafter
And accept happiness
As just a state of mind

In a reality untempered
By meloncholy
Or fear of being
Forever alone

Bohemian Yuppie

Saving scribblings
As draft text messages
Removes the romance
But undoubtedly
Improves the spelling
Of impromptu poetry

my dreams are a victorian melodrama

I meant to tell you something
Of the choices I have made,
Of the twists and turns and trials,
Of the prices I have paid.
But in the end its nothing more than this:
What ever life gives you, it does so with a twist.