sailing ships with
my eyes,
toes firm upon
land,
birds circling
until dizzy,
braced in sudden
a breeze,
summer rests its hand
upon my shoulder
to remind me
i’m seen
and stained into
the scenery.
abstract
is it drowning to
take in too
much
of a taste like
elation?
bliss
become
suffocation.
may i be that thing
again?
the one with
a use
that fit in the
hand
of a warm blooded
man at play.
’twas upon crooked
hill
that our house
leaned
as though to watch
us leave
for flusher
scenery,
as cracks turn
break
and paint becomes
flakes
may we never
glance
back
at its sorry
old state.
settling into
strange bathwater
i swallow soap
bubbles to
float
but drift to the
ocean floor
as though i’d
died here
before.
i turn my
head
to alter my
view
and notice you
turning
too.
ever humming unsettled
these hymns of
the mad
in a key that
could strip
the shine from
life’s tip.
the harm and deep
hunger
demanded much
louder
and every last
second
rang with
alarm
as clocks went off
between the
ears.
this place is for
holidays
only,
we live in a room far
more dark and
empty
where walls hold
generations
of intentions confined
to frame,
portraits snapped at
different
times
all boast the same
ghastly grin
in grey,
but we’re on
holiday.
i drift sky
waves
like they know
my name
and mend in their
embrace,
while atop beach
rocks,
swimmers pause to
gawk
as i’m carried
off into
space.
hands in the garden 
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