I don’t know what your story is

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I don’t know what your story is

but you could have done more planning up front
you’re already in the third act and there’s still no sign of climax

I don’t know what your story is

but the writing’s pretty bad, you better find a more charismatic lead
or there better be a twist, or all this build up has been for nothing

I don’t know what your story is

but casting should have known you’re more of a character actor
with your particular skillset it’d pay to focus on something more niche

I don’t know what your story is

but your leading lady is killing it in a much better show
maybe you could take some notes, shadow her for a while

I don’t know what your story is

but could you edit out all the crying, and all the love scenes, please?
if I’d wanted to watch some body horror I’d just wank into a mirror

I don’t know what your story is

but I’ve seen a few like this and I never like how they end
maybe it’s time to bone up a bit, try something new

I don’t know what your story is

but you need to get out of make up and start the scene
the theatre’s mostly empty, even the groupies are walking out

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Return me

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Return me

to the yawns of slumbering pets
to purrs stretched endless across my neck
Now echoes only—in groans of dinner bloat
the squeaks of gasses escaping middle-age
in wheezing bedrooms, in pulmonary strain

Return me

to nights anticipated
to shapes and sounds uncovered every morning
Now known in the grinding turn of the ignition
the route to work, the blare of horns
the dread of knowing, in futures unarrived

Return me

to a father strong and sure
to a mother convinced of a child’s genius
Now wavering, now frail—peering at the edges
searching shadows at the feet of most brilliant fictions
dumbstruck by their family resemblance to fact

(Echo) Chamber Music

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You’re preaching to the choir, but

the tenor’s voice broke some time ago, in June of ‘97,
when the dihydro test came crashing in
—since then all he wants to do is find new ways to fuck.

You’re preaching to the choir, but

the soprano joined a screamo band together with the bass,
who left her for a grindcore act called desiccated face
—she felt so bad she just gave the music up.

You’re preaching to the choir, but

the two best tenors turned out queer
—they’ve been trying for an in-vitro kid all year…
and no one from the church have wished them any luck.

You’re preaching to the choir, but

the lead OD-ed on some dirty, home-bake smack
—his girl insists he’d still be OK if he’d stuck to crack.
She says it was an accident, but perhaps he’d just heard enough.

You’re preaching to the choir, but

the hymns we all once sung out loud
have been echoing round and round
—the sounds make very little sense, and the melodies all suck!

What time is wasted?

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There are no oceans on the moon—
that’s why I want to swim in them.
Listening to a dead man’s voice,
willing to believe his lies.

We are never where we think we are.
I am eight years old…
sand in my teeth…
I hear laughing.

Imaginary gravity

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on this rock
round this star
through space and time
I pretend to orbit you—
another hurtling speck

Here

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we have been down every corridor
each door we open
holds a different scene

but we have been
through it

we search for an exit
from this maze
a door to some new place

but it is endless
here

Declension of pain

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He is in love with someone’s eye.
She is in love with a prosthetic history .

He is in love with places he hasn’t visited.
She is love with feelings she hasn’t experienced.

They are in love with someone else’s loves.

I am in love with your sensibilities.
You are in love with a curator.

We are in love with something to be deleted.

Dream woman

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A woman floats through a dream.
In your dream, she dreams of you—
in hers, another floats dreaming through.

No more luck

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Another mirror in a thousand pieces—
sweep the floor clean,
leave the wall bare.

Another river

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The moon does not cast our shadows
into the water. The pebbles do not watch
our shadows drift over as we leave them.
That river has been dry for years.

Sometimes I’m still scared

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I might go blind
if I look at you too long.
It’s like I’m holding audience
with the most holy thing
my godless brain can invent:
you emit this religious kind of light
that touches me in the same way
the sun touches plants.

If Jesus himself busted in on this poem,
in an explosion of sunbeams,
rainbows, and neon angels,
I’d probably just glance over
at that whole dull scene,
put on some dark sunglasses,
apply some SPF 50,
and then turn straight back to you.

Taupiri’s warning

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The light abandons us
to another night.
Tree tips become membranes:
Sky and Earth share skin.
Ink mists gather:
blue blood bleeding
into black horizons.
We fold senseless
into it all:
a boundless origami
of forest and river,
their creatures and their filth.
Hills and mountains rise:
Igneous whales
from lava oceans beneath.
Up turns down,
and inside, out.
Another cataclsym:
the void reclaims us.
Do what you can now:
The light will not return.

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A wild wind swashbuckles in, irrepressible—
vases deflowered, scuttled tea boats, dressers laid bare!
Mended dishes still reminisce, cast aquiver in its wake.