A Matisse-painted sky
Dawned this morning,
So that I could peer,
And see, Rembrandt-esk
Trees lining the Murray River
As I crossed that bridge that joins my two towns:
“Twin Cities” Albury and Wodonga.
Banksy’s streetscapes then brought me into reality:
Worktime.
Who paints that?!

It struck me,
When my phone asked, no, demanded—
To back it up,
How machines claim their needs...
Sometimes, more often than not,
better than we do!

How is it that the bath gets cold,
Yet, my love for it never gets old!

You crafted a shrine for me,

adorned me with wings,

elevated and sacred, untouched by your secrets.

Your last chance at redemption,

a sanctuary where you hid from yourself.

Your perfect lie—

an illusion of salvation.

Once shattered, your adoration

twisted into disdain.

The hand that shaped my wings,

became the force that broke them.

And now, you watch me fall

from the heights you once placed me upon.


Yet I release you, I forgive you,

Love, a quiet thread that ties us still,

A spark woven into the fabric of time,

Never truly gone, but transformed,

gently fading

into the glow of what we were.

I return sometimes to those moments,

not with longing, but with reverence—

like that stolen kiss—

unexpected, breathless,

the words "I love you" spilling from me,

uncontainable, truthful,

your arms, holding me,

an electric hum between us.



This is how I'll hold us—

in the warmth of what we were,

not in the sorrow that followed.

When you remember me,

let it be the quiet depth of my love that remains,

the warmth of my hand resting softly on your

cheek,

the steady, unwavering gaze that held you,

unchanged by time.

Let that be what stays with you—

not the deafening silence that followed,

not the weight of what we lost,

but the light that we held, even just for a moment,

so close to perfect but fragile.

Not perfect enough.

The surface of un-charcoaled moons
street dogs drugged in daily stews
lays down for a carving intoxication
Bones lift in a wind & haphazardly
press play...so I can slow it down
try & understand softening of clay...

Stodgily in the dirt and Cravens
of such pretentious-ness of pretending
of self worth of such clapping praise,
the parasites lap up the demonized,
joint edges of a bathroom mirror
a record presciently will stop playing
It herds until the final of warnings,
Almost discretely with the attempts,
Can't breathe like you are breathing....

I'm in need of more than bleeding,
I need so much back-yard weeding,
I can only survive my mentality
if one day I can be forgiven
unlike a witch of heathen
past the ocean poisoning
of the vile repressed toxicity.
Yes, I do confess my sins,
Sails past a boat to Bethlehem.

Paint with red creation,
white skin tightened grip.
She's grown too sharp with patience;
a ***** to let it in.

Come on if you please.
Stay here if you need.
Pray on bended knees.
(I'll say the rest is due.)

The good men all are taken,
they've taken 'til it's gone.
Sordid imagination,
is this the man you want?

Come on if you please.
Stay here if you need.
Pray on bended knees.
I'll say the rest is due.

I went to bed last night
With a little square of chocolate,
And woke up with
chocolate sheets --

Today I am sporting spotty socks.
That would not seem that obscene.
But under a pristine cream suit
They poke fun at the ‘proper '”
At the crème De la crème.

Maybe that’s the theme of my curly locks;
Subverting the straight-jacketing of everyday life?

In You, I am alive —
In You, I can try; thrive —
In You, I can create,
In You, I know my fate —
In You, I can fail.
In You, I can see all,
Now, truly.