The Places Where We Live

One road is much the same
as any other,
furcated alleys,
scions in night-tamed colours,
connecting one
neon cell to the next,
a neural net
to catch the city’s
consciousness.

One city is much the same
as any other,
conjoined children
in a worldly womb,
heaving in
amniotic culture,
throbbing with life,
systolic existence.

One life is much the same
as any other,
each mortal debt
settled
when the fragile vessels
that contain us
crack
and we bleed
into the places where we live.

Dogs in the Kitchen

It was cool but sunny
the day he felt the apron strings
tying him to his guilt,
the padded cell of comfort
around his impressionable mind.

She nourished his fears,
fed him spoonfuls of doubt,
gifted him with insecurity
and sent him out into the world.

The day was cool but sunny,
He heard the dogs in his kitchen
sniffing and scratching at the door.
They must have found him,
jumped in through the open window,
caught the scent, the stink
of a son who never loved his mother.
He wondered
what the neighbours would think.

Waves

There was a man,
he was warm and friendly,
bright light filled his eyes.

He sat alone
and laughed at the wind,
great gusts of merriment.

Rolling, viscous sea,
tide of indeterminacy,
waves crashing over me.

There was a man,
he was cold and angry,
darkness clouded his face.

He walked alone
and glowered at the sun
in his muddy garden.

Rolling, viscous sea,
tide of indeterminacy,
waves crashing over me.

There was a man,
he was all and nothing
in the ebb and flow.

He lived alone
and changed like the seasons,
like waves crashing over me.