Champagne astrology on a wine budget

Dear me
That wine was swift
The stars spin in the night sky like they usually do
But faster

By my eye they don’t seem to be concerned with gravitational pulls, or orbits
Alarming?

No, not at all
They dance to the rhythm of my booze thinned blood
The same poisoned liquid that flows through my giddy grey matter
It entertains me and the stars alike.

It’s consumed them like madness
They wobble uncontrollably, swaying in front of my very eyes
Like moth vision, erratically trying to fly into numerous light bulb moons.

I will lie down for just a moment
Surely such astrological marvels come around only once in a weekend
I guess I am spoilt, or perhaps have a drinking problem.

The tar seal is still warm from the day’s radiance
I nod off for a moment
I am rudely awakened by an inconsiderate driver trying to use my bed as a road
What a prick.

It’s cold now
And the birds are welcoming the morning in the darkness
I must get home before the sun rises.
Until next time madness
See you next week.

In a nutshell

Like watching paint dry you’ll eventually go insane.
Walk past it with periphery appreciation.
Feel glad you no longer live in a time where off white is the over saturated colour of choice.
Take solace in the notion that your palate of life is vibrantly coloured.
Worry not that it may not be refined enough to fully appreciate.
Know that you like or dislike and let that be enough.
For the paint will eventually dry and then crack, then they’ll sand it all back and start over again.
As the dust specks of old paint blow away and take flight
It will be as if you were never here.

The only Krisening I require

My brother Kris
I loved you
I still do

Your toothy straight grin is clear as day in my mind’s eye
Like your grin I remember it cleaner than you probably were

A beautiful perceiver of human nature
Soft and warm like the morning sun
I want to be angry but the radiant splendour won’t allow such thought

I miss your eyes
We never hugged
I hope you knew I loved you
And still do

I have little concern for your homophobia these days
I even kissed your cold forehead in that pine box
I hope you weren't offended

I respected your person in terms I can’t explain
I hate thinking about your own self disbelief
It slices my stoic fabric with a cutting and haunting queasiness

I never got to tell you
Or make you believe you were your own version of a genius
You couldn’t write or do math
It didn’t matter
I count you amongst one of the most eloquently skilled, one liner, simplistic shit talkers I will ever meet.

I miss your stories
But I can’t remember your voice.

You were immaculate
Simple and perfectly alien in your environment
Much like that bare pine box that we carried out in
Your presence is still felt but your definition splinters away from memory

I have one picture
It isn’t enough

You’re still around
Don’t leave again
I love you

Your brother.

The day Gadaffi got what it meant to be human

Isn’t nature beautiful?
Is it?
It is.
Oh is it?
Yes it is.

What about Gadaffi?
And his iron fist
The fist that crushed to death many of his own people
A fist that displayed one of our most natural of traits

Poor Gadaffi came to understand this all too well
Sadly a little too late
Reduced to nothing more than a frail old man
That viewed the killing cycle coming full circle
The very murderous wheels he put in motion
Swallowing him up and continuing on its unceasing way.

Beaten and shot to death by his own kind.

Natural yes
But ugly
So very ugly
Distorted to such proportions that it seems normal
Acceptable
Deserved.

I hated all he did
I wish nobody had died
But adding sons, daughters, uncles, aunties, fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters, grandparents, and friends bones to the growing pile only makes the number larger.

I am not defending that monster in anyway
But at his end I watched on a screen
An old man
Gripped in fear
Begging for his life
Like so many he killed
All scared
All people
All perfectly natural
And so disgustingly sad.

Isn’t nature beautiful?
It is.

Is it?

Room for change

Naked and unashamed
Minus these shoes
No shirt
Managing without pants, shorts, or underwear
Negative of fashion
More concerned with self than a fad

Clothed and completely self-conscious
Positively disgusted at the old cow skin on my feet
Correctly fitted with a fitted shirt
Preoccupied by my own shape in trousers, togs and briefs
Concerned with trend
Perplexed by keeping up with this season and my poor choices

Shit, where did it all go wrong?

Under the influence of outside

I live alone cerebrally
Quite happily
Or so it seemed

I took a walk the other day
I saw a mother yelling at her child
The whole time a dog pissed on a tree without concern of decency
The park existed and swayed in the wind in magnificent beauty
Completely removed and un-annoyed by the noise and urination

I in turn sighed with relief as I came across the light bulb notion of an idea
Exodus
Escapism
External influence
Stark and obvious in this moment
But seemingly evasive until right now.

All I need to exit my mind is to open the door and step outside
Well fancy that.

Garden under a microcosm microscope

I admire obsessively the normalcy of nature
The things akin to regular, spectacular everydayness
Physical attractiveness seen only by the interested parties
The sparkling glints that sit at the fore front of lovers eyes in the exact same way as they always have

We are a repetitive, regenerated generation of seed self-managers
Like ingrained insurance policies ensuring the propagation of our species
We buzz around like flowers with legs
No need for the bee middle man
We cross-pollinate wildly

There is no need, or room for colour blind xenophobes in this garden
The whites, browns, blacks, yellows and hues in between will eventually merge into various versions of the same colour.