streaming periphrastic conceptions <<<<<<>>>>>>

Time is a hole with no circumference extending into a nonsensical space.
The brain lives in the past. Trying to catch up, in last place the looser of the race.
Metaphorical anchors allude to a centre, keeping insanity at bay, keeping the sharks out of our still waters – until the occasional slip when reality bites.

I look but I cannot see anything at all. Both eyes closed – mouth open.

Even, regular, one way and I am walking. I can see my surroundings, there are no ideas. Alert, pendulum is waving. I am weaving through the seaweed, wading in the dirt. The question is, how visceral can I get before it is harmful? And what do I deem harmful to be? I have put up with so much pain, I’m unobjective – but that’s the truth, in both cases. Realising that there’s no in between. It’s either be myself or remain unseen. Either way I die.

Cemented, unyielding in this
fine weave of

Messed sensation at the station waiting for a non-train.

Defined by arrival.

Cemented, unyielding in this
fine weave of

Lay on cushions like black cats
listen to Sleater-Kinney into the night
from ’95 – ’15
we wont say anything
we don’t need to.
and if it’s raining there will be streaks
down the window.
and when it’s night time
we can run in fear.
and when you’re hurting I can be your cave.
we will smash the lighthouse together.
I’d like to do that with you.


I didn’t know you well.
But I remember your presence.
Like a giant bear with a cheeky smile,
sometimes your eyes glittered,
and sometimes they didn’t.

Rest in peace sweet soul.
Find the peace that you have been seeking.
Rest in peace sweet soul,
A way was found.

We could be pals

We could be pals.
I’d hold back your hair while you vomit.
You could dry my tears at the crime scene,
afterwards we would only laugh.

When, in the morning, we breathe the fresh air,
smiles will consume our faces,
our skin will mask our brilliant souls.

Let me. Be close. To you.
We could share stories.
If only you knew.
But then none of this would matter.



All that matters is experience
All I am
are experiences

When the ice melts
and the river forms
you will only know me
by what you felt.

Funerary texts.

the place where a river enters the sea

I couldn’t speak.
Feelings have no body.
So, I clung to your insides like a cancer and
I concealed in you, everything.

Words are plain,
they are the plainest thing in life.
white sheets always.

But my mouth
without a doubt.
Dry as a desert,
on the hottest day.


She told me I could be an artist.
She encouraged it.

Words. expression.

drawing to an end

Everything-ism umbrageous.
Fluctuating skin flutters, eyelid flickers.
Skittish gills and the neck a branch bearing too much fruit.

Feeling like felling your mono chromed patriarchy.
Just fucking wanting to snap your jaw bone, pierce your fucking
Seeing what you see now.
Sensing what you do now.
Contemplating the next how,
at the apocalypse as the day draws to an end.

day and night dreams

Feeling sick.
I went there with her.
She admitted she couldn’t know, couldn’t feel it like I could.

Under that bridge where no one knew.
Where I was so close to knowing.

Reliving the sentiment.
But that is all. and only. it is only.

day and night dreams.



  1. The study of the forms of things, in particular.
  2. The branch of biology that deals with the form of living organisms, and with relationships between their structures.
Adj. 1. cosmogenic – pertaining to the branch of astronomy dealing with the origin and history and structure and dynamics of the universe; “cosmologic science”; “cosmological redshift”; “cosmogonic theories of the origin of the universe”

Essentialism vs. agency, production vs. perception and socio-culture vs. physiology.


I want to fuck the punk in your hate park.
Cherry dark, smart round bruises.
Taste metal meat lip, stink at the tip,
sink, then rip the fabric of your fate break.

I’ll watch you fade on our date at the carnival.
As the Ferris wheel spins around, eating corn dogs.
Southern town. Remember.
It’s cold so your breath is smoking.
It’s crisp and my desire’s chocking. Chocking me hot
under collar, hot metal burning my retinas then hot metal,
melting my flesh.

Scars. Pork.
Walking down Gala st,
yelling out “Carnies!”

Snakes, when I echo down into the tomb.
Nos then Blade, Nos then Blade. Weed. Butane. So high.
Crowded with spirits who follow me by the day.

Crowded and flying away.
Crowded. Crow.
Dead. Flying. Away.

Flying away.

J   U   S   T       A       L   I   T   T   L   E       B   I   T    .


She asks me what’s around the corner.
I tell her it’s insanity.
She asks me what insanity is.
I tell her it is dying.

I tell her it’s something I cannot have.
I tell her, she is nothing but stardust.

She gets offended.
I do not apologise.
I tell her, she is nothing,
that I’m in the sky looking down.

How to explain that these eyes are not my own,
and that all reality is an illusion?


Dead Bodies

Lyrics: There are ticks inside her bones they have made their homes, and the blood is curling like her hair. And all the times that they screamed her smile gleamed she liked to lick the itch, to clean. And all the hairs on her neck, why they like to check, the wreak at the crime scene. And then she saw the claw it was gnawing at the door, and she was hoping for a death… Dead bodies, dead bodies, dead bodies, I don’t care. There’s dead bodies, dead bodies, there’s dead bodies (and they’re everywhere) Sensing change in climate the nomads of the air return. And there’s a crack outside the shell, she’s descended to her hell while they settle in their nests. She’s put to the test with her ointment in check to wet the salt on her palms, cos she’s a ferret in disguise and I can see it in her eyes and I can see it in her eyes.




The industrial revolution saw a great movement of population from agrarian communities move to urban centres – this had the effect of producing both a new kind of individual and a new mass society.

Join the neurosis of wasted energy. Mistake your application,
miss your bond in the lack of light.
Messing in the mind shore, the placenta is outlined.
In the nebula science falls apart.

Knowing where to put our hands, when the wind came from the mouth of an old man.
Watching water murder ice, no where but our pockets.

We are all playing hide and seek, but I’ve lost my eyes. In you.

My means of transport is sparse, so I let my mind grow legs. I’ve now become obsessive, following the fault lines.

The effect of love is freedom but when I talk to you I am a falling tree.
I realise I want to commit suicide to prove that freewill exists.
In the end, irony will kill us all.

“Exploring the solar system will be a preparation for interstellar flight – testing the power sources, the life sources, and the thought sources (the new means of communication, including telepathy). It will mean touching light-speed  and perfecting cryogenics  It will take our technologies to the point where the only barrier to leaving the solar system will be our own minds”

The whole is greater than its parts

Saturate yourself in,


If you revel in the stigma, you are the stigma.

It is responsibility that keeps us alive.
The fact is that without you I would have died.




Lyrics: And I still get the crippling condition. I try hard everyday to connect. But I still have the crippling decision. It takes my time and a lot of my strength. And I find little solace in the redemption. It’s like they only come in crowds of three. And I get numb at the forceful conventions. (Stimulation and naming all the facts)

Implosion. Punches. Convulse.
Degenerate torus porous pores sores transfuse open wound.
Your epistemology repels my ontology,
the topology, veined, bi-forcating translating translucent animus.

The anathema of my anatomy atrophy,
Collapses. Collects. Relaxes.
Collapses. Collects. Relaxes.
The anathema of my anatomy atrophy,

Left successive again, together again,
with you my friend. Left together again
Alone in a galaxy of trust.

vigilant villain


The pink.

The pixelated face is de-robing its code.
All these years, self diagnostic outcomes.
The here and now is changing, I feel it coming together like a wound.


Feeling. The. Feeling.
Being the wink. Skating in shadows.
Embracing the pink.

Trying to slow my heartbeat, it’s 9am and I feel like I’m having an anxiety attack. I leave the office, the air is cool, I walk towards the library. I feel like I’m often on the verge of a breakdown. I have a fear of loosing control, I want to loose control, I’m not allowed to loose control. Now is an inappropriate time to be writing about this, my operational self needs to function.

Words flow through my veins like leaves fall from tress. I am everything all at once and it feels too hard to bare. You warn me off speaking of death.
I warn off you warning me.

I’ve finally stopped thinking I have cancer or a brain tumour, I know the truth. It is raining right now. All I see are angles, pre-determined structures we are suppose to live our pre-determined lives in.

Know thyself.
Thou art that.
is   is   that.
that   it  is.
is   is   at.
at   is   is.

The trees are dripping wet as I cast my glance through the window. They cannot shake themselves like dogs from the ocean, their rain is lacking salt. They must drip.

Where is my place? in the middle womb? an infinite chain of bloom, into the here and now and waiting for the next.

Life really is poetry in motion.

loops loops and loops. Bloom.

brain meat

The bones of the fingers start to ache.
they wonder up the thigh towards the void.
The warmth of the water is neutral,
the fish transparent in disguise.

What of all that is unspoken
In the wrist cutters mind. All is full and birmming,
in a red acoustic tide.

Fighting against alone time.

Dreaming with melting metaphores.
Crumbling cliffs and heights.
Every night the drowning.

Measurement of brain decay.


Things in themselves, othered.
A bleak morning. The street vanishing up the hill, into the mist, guise distance.

The smell of Ivy after the rain, damp moss, blocked drains.
The pain of growing older and away, farther from the ground.
Issues of stability, self and societal architecture. scared of it falling down.

Media types perplex my everyday as I battle with screen full-time.
Forced ideas and synthesis – squeezing creativity from the lemon mind.
Rinds through time, if we truly cared about sustainability we’d simply do nothing at all.

Letting it be,
in the morning.
relaxing the neck, thankfull and blessed.

And windy
as the umbrella snaps inside out
cracks it’s spine, it’s fingers.
I can taste the metal
in the morning.


I feel like I am 20 different persons.
And all I hear is the dripping.
Of time.

I like movies that re-affirm my psychosis. I experience this in a dark and seductive manner, I get lost inside my self, day dreams real, my body externally numb. It is fleeting but I am left feeling notorious, wanting to run away, wanting to self harm, wanting to drink straight liquor, wanting to experience extremes – burn or shiver. My experience is a fantasy. Edgy and pathetic. Left with an anger over nothing that I can’t place. Left with memories of the same feelings, left fighting old addictions, left breathing again.




Lyrics: And you’ll find when I make it that you’re breaking it with your axe. And you don’t start to fake it when you’re taking it right back. You start killing me, you start killing me, you start killing me with your axe. You’ll start thrilling me, thrilling me, thrilling me, you’ll start thrilling me with that axe.


I have found the hidden present
she was lurking, deep in cresent.
Amoungst shed snake skins and photographs,
an endless maze of open paths.

The holes which make us.

Deeper structure is notoriously perfect

Certain blocks are missing
Yet we, still stand complete.

You are oblivious,
(as a child searching, all eyes glanced on candy)

to the holes which make us.


A bone debating membership
equality to fight
a metaphysical plight
to give identity to a height.

Red rocket finger tips,
when they think of you
hear a halt, a palpitation
the patient and real silence.

With national matter on the mind
how can they be patriotic?
when no chalk is used
for presentism.

God left gaps. He Cares. Who cares
(he doesn’t realise I am the fishing line)
Addicted to buying fuck. Fuck. Well fuck me.
(clock faced, raking through shelves of attached emotion)

There’s a commotion in the perplex of neutrality.
It is now a choice not a necessity to believe.
The government won, media gun-
rediscovering faith without the label of religion.

When stress turns to syrup
The solipsist’s attempt at synergy;
The knowledge of the intrinsic significance of every existent;
isness be.

A Cheshire Cat moment,
now seeing through an artists glasses.
their existence beyond a meagre controlled, emperical objective.

A schoolbook torn in time by fingers. Sonic and bordem. Bode.
People them and melt their me-sides by qualitative measure

Ointment on an itch, the wind
when they rise in the morning like a wet blanket.



Snow Black

Snow Black, she climbs, keenly.
Over and amongst her thorns.
They line the lava flow inside her
frayed edges, memories torn.

The viens search
Snakes lurk, her eyes,
zone in.
Into zee wolf.

A fireman burns
A dog attacks the postman.

Dry throated
His fur, itchy on her heat.
Her hood is lost, she is blinded
her children are thalidomide giants.

(They loose themselves in the clouds.
She wanted it that way.)

She freinded a dying gene in the scheme.
Snowblack she climbed,
She climbed away.

Through and into a mirror,
Through and into her shadow.

Torn and starting to mend
love is strewn and dusty
yet she knows she must


“Ending is better than m…

“Ending is better than mending. The more stitches, the less riches”

Sleep-teaching, Chapter 3, pg. 49, Brave New World, Huxley


To the boy with charmful woe, an untruthed smile.
Presented Escher-esq, to the girl with blue eyes;
deep in notingness. deep in lovelyness.
To the boy with charmful woe, an untruthed smile.

To the silk of skin around, wrapped seaweed loosens
To the milk of kin so sound, warped whispers ripen

Feather dust a grave, crack: a glitch; an unattended stitch.

claws playing the dangerous melody, fair lady;
was she, weightless,

claws, oh my tissue!

oh glisten rain!
To the leith’s blinking
her sinking, dying, trying parobols

Drying – until the flood.

To the man with lusty whit, an untuthed smile
Presented Pollock-esq, to the girl with the thighs;
Deep in sultryness. Deep in spaciousness
To the man with lusty whit,

an untruthed dissapointment.


Lyrics: In the past I was a peacock, you were a lion, we caught on fire. Like two cats, seeking to unravel, unwinding in the travel, searching for some wool time. And it’s a shock, when you hear it halt, for action is revolt, and everyone’s at fault. You’re addicted to the chalk, you’re addicted to the talk, you’re addicted to the chalk. You’re addicted to addiction. It’s your… And you like to share your pain when you’re sick of your brain. Cos there’s nothing quite like it, sharing the blame, you’re sharing the shame, you’re sharing the pain.