Counting On My Hands

Goodbyes keep flashing through my mind
I feel its time that I called you back
Did I forget about your birthday again?
I don’t where I was last year
Sitting in the dark again
Counting on my hands

What a time to be alive
I ignore my phone
And act like its not my fault
That I’m on my own

Where are the words to say I tried
And not sound like I’m lying
How do I say that Im ok
Without having my voice break

What a time to be alive
I ignore my phone
And act like its not my fault
That I’m on my own

All these books have made me dumb
I don’t go outside
I don’t know how to run
Forgotten friends pile up around me
I won’t throw them out
I can’t live with nothing

One Step At A Time Lyrics

What’s that running straight through my heart?
Wants to tear from me like an alien
God, now it’s breaking
Not doing it’s job right
I’ll act surprised, i’m not made of stone
Am I?

One step at a time
I make for the shoreline
I’m not afraid of drowning
But being a ghost while I’m alive
I keep on changing
But my features all stay the same
Am I losing my reflection to the ocean again?

Swap my body with the shape of a clone
Trade my face for something the mirror doesn’t own
I don’t mind aching
As long it’s not mistaken for love
All I have is shades of grey
Once my blue fades away

One stop at a time
I make for the shoreline
I’m not afraid of drowning
But being a ghost while I’m alive
I keep on changing
But my features all stay the same
Am I losing my reflection to the ocean again?

Temples


We were told that our bodies were temples
Holding sacred lands
But the ones who used to pray at the altars have not come in years
The last that I saw they lay in the dirt and slime
The filth of the earth and the trappings of time

So, why this longing torment to feel outside the body
Strained to be estranged
Mantras to sanity echo intoned prayers
All this weight for answers
When nothing matters in the end

Fire burns our lungs our tongues and we’d feel fine
If not for the dying pains
Only phoenixes get the chance to rise again
Through the flames

The Mural

“Ok, Cal. Up, Up, Up.”
Dad was clapping his hands around my head. He grabbed the edge of the duvet and ripped it from my body like a stuck bandaid. My body was dislocated in space and time, what year was it? Yellow spunk gunk stuck my eyelids.
“Up and at ‘em!” He picked up two large cans of paint and smashed them together in front of my face.
“No.”
“Get up!” He banged the cans again.
“What if I was naked. This is my room. I’m sleeping.”
“This is actually my room. My money, my house, kiddo. And I’ve already seen your dick. I wasn’t impressed, Cal. Got it from your mother, no doubt.”
“Gross dad. You pervert.” I trailed off, “It’s big ‘nuf.”
“I’ve touched it too! And wiped your ass.” He pressed his nose to mine, “Out of bed.”
“It’s still daytime.”
“What?”
“You. Get. Out.”
Dad grabbed my guitar and started singing an old country song that I hated.
Something, something, whisky. Something, something, my girl back home.
I pulled the pillow over my head and screamed into the underside.
Dad sat on my stomach and pushed his weight up and down.
“Oh…uh…K…uh…da..ad…ah…sto..p”
He stood and strummed a huge open E chord on the guitar, and put it back on the stand.
“Yes. Alright. I get it. Up, up, up.” I rolled out of bed, edging my way across the room slug style to pick up my prosthetic.
“I got a surprise for you.”
“Yipee.”
“Come on, you’ll love it, my lil songbird.”
“Don’t call me that, Dad.”
“You love it.”
“Really?”
“Really.”

Dad took me round the side of the house, where there was a scaffold set up, paint rollers, and more cans of paint.
Across the wall there was an outline of a mural.
On the left, a Tui puffed his chest out with spread wings and beak open singing to the sky. In it’s claws he had a huge limp eel, trapped in a vice grip. A creek, our creek, ran from the left to the right and the weeping willow stood in the distance beside it.
“Surprise.” Dad stretched his arms out, doing jazz hands. His face the picture of expectation. “Well?”
“Well?” I looked at him, expressionless.
“Well! We’re painting this thing. Today I was up all night doing the outline and getting yelled at by your mother to come inside. What’d ya think?”
“It’s great, Dad.”
“Gee. That all?”
I didn’t know how to express myself to him clearly enough. Maybe I was afraid that if I started speaking I would start crying.
He looked at me with that knowing look. Eyebrows slightly raised and a slight asymmetrical grin built on understanding.
“Let’s get to it then.”

God’s Playlist

Practicing Bach with the rain metronome
Which pushes and pulls to recall that nature has its own version of music
One continuous hymn to single blades of grass
The world captured in a sixth symphony from the eighteenth century
By a deaf prophet of timbre
Commit sacrilege by playing the violin sonatas on the guitar
With the page flipped upside down notehead over heels
There are so many black lines and black dots and not enough blank spaces
Debussy was right in saying he needed someone to tell him when to stop
Wade through the colossus composers
On a playlist which might include John Mayer
next to Maurice Ravel
next to Darius Milhaud
next to Miles Davis
next to Kimio Eto
And not seem strange for it
If Paganini were alive today he would be on the cover of playboy and rolling stone
A caption hinting at the ecstatic throes he throws young girls into and around
With the touch of his hands on wood and metal and taught intestines
Musicians are smart in that they trick other people to pay for entertainment and thus become rich themselves by doing what they love
If everyone knew that music was free to learn and perform in private how happy we would be
How much richer would we be listening to our lovers play nocturnes after sheets
To watch our fathers get drunk and perform gigues and jigs
Though there have seldom been enjoyable inebriated flautists
How lucky to have discovered something so free
Dependably free
No one can own God

Summer Haiku Longform #1

In season in bloom
Flowers in our DNA
Cast a fresh glow

Big cloud little rain
The dragonfly plans to stay
Water down the pond

Browned dye dried moss
Under foot in the clearing
Cushions for the bugs

A coating of dust
Seven trees blown outwards
Into the suns claws

Hear Waiatas sung
The tuis write duets for you
Listen to the eaves

Kauri stands by pine
Stands by idly dying
The sigh of rotting