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?


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

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

Visions of Monet

Are people looking at me strangely
Or is it only my eyes
I like to make strangers of my friends
Recalling only faceless people with indeterminate outlines
I have visions of Monet
Vivid and emotive yet nondescript
Where I don’t remember any details
The twitch in the top corner of your lip
A hook tooth grin from the man selling ice cream cones
or cup
Out the back of a dirty van
We question the sanitation but not our sanity
Buying two soft serves each
One dipped to wear melted chocolate waistcoat
The other with questionably coloured sprinkles and crushed peanuts
You joke that they should offer a meat shavings topping
Or skin flakes from the sunburned beachers backs
We know the white slop contains ground up chicken feet
We don’t speak of that
It was only a rumour everyone on the sand talked of
When you come across cartilage you spit it out discreetly
Fearing the embarrassment of something that isn’t your fault
It rained and we jumped on the bus
In my mind we were dancing on the roof and the driver shouted like Our mothers when we did the same in our beds
I hold dear these fabrications of mine
Of us amidst some frolicking fabric fantasy
Under the sheets with my heart jumping
We did not jump though
Sitting at the fingerprint window
In front of the obnoxious back door
That kicks the seat swinging open
Where the heater rests underneath
Above us a persistent leak
Drops fell onto your head and you put out your tongue
To taste aluminium shavings and not worry about metal poisoning
The bars under the seat around the heater heat scalding
The number of times I’ve left the skin of my calf behind
Goes unnumbered yet still I persist in taking tally
I swear some skin is left behind
Sticking to the slightly rusted stainless steel piping
That feels breakable if I was one of those sushi stuffed sumos
Now we know why no one sits here
A slow torture comprising a torrent of stale gutter water
With a side of burnt leg hairs
I wonder how you remember this day
Would our stories be the same similar in detail
A facsimile or facade
Nameless friend
I have visions of Monet
Though now you and I dance a waltz to Satie
I read you O’Hara and my favourite parts of Walden over mulled wines midwinter
You dance along the living room carpet for me
Edgar gets his canvas and oils to cast you in one of his immortal performances
Colouring you with pinks though you hate to feel beautiful
Colouring you with youth though you scorn it
Colouring you with all the nuances of your dance you never see
I’ve worked to paint the stock-pile of my mind
To accurately depict once befores
They have no borders only the acid wash of ill-prepared preservation
I’ve scraped the layers to fall away like discarded scales from some luminescent sphinx
I can not discern ordepictt the scenes now
Left with a growing pile of destroyed art
Laughing about the frailty of my remembering