dusts

Butterflies or moths, powdered wings atop
fluorescent lamps, or tungsten
either way, it always meant a visitation
from the after life

the elders would say,
“that is your grandfather”
“this is your grandmother”

i am staring at the moth
wide-eyed and scared
I remember asking my mother why
and she shrugged, with shoulders slumped
towards the boiling pot of water

I was a kid at 8, 9, or 7
and the moth had wings broad
like the neighbour’s shoulders
shielding the setting sun through
the wire-wrapped fence, speaking to
father
long shadows

i remember the old wives tale
and it never struck me odd
maybe because if ghosts came back as moths
or butterflies, i didn’t mind that much

it meant that grandfather had wings
whispering his memories, into the house
fluttering unspoken words,
maybe my parents were quietly
recollecting, from dusts
that fell off the wings

the fan whirs in the smouldering heat
of an equatorial, ancient summer
night. now the moth spreads its wings
guarding the tungsten lamp, wrapping
light. i blink

men without shoes

Men without shoes are
either
crazy or criminal

feet uncovered, on asphalt
built by hands, glittering
in gold

he stole bread
only to have shoes
taken away

men without shoes are
either
crazy or criminal

mad as day,
they’d say
because he has no shoes

in a hand,
a bottle of liquor
and a smile

mad

he is sprawled on a
park bench
drunk out of his mind

who bears to walk
without shoes?

who took his shoes
away?

chasing sunsets

We are always chasing sunsets
before the sky dissolves
into darkened ash
Maybe it’s the thrill of the moment
even
for a little while
but the five cent coin
rolls itself into the gutter
and the quiet recollections
squares itself off
and the AM track is white noise
by the laneway
I don’t see what you see and
maybe that’s okay
Or the aversion of bright headlights
at the tailend of things
and the noise is louder than it has
ever been and we are standing by
a telescope gazing into–
watching fast cars
and street lamps collide

insomnia

“I lost my temper at myself” said
the character from Anderson when
she punched herself in the mirror

What garners that kind of courage
because I am losing my temper at
myself and in sleep I am duty
bound not to dream

Lest I am running
and my teeth are falling out
— fists unfurled to show five
and blood spit in the sink

The heat sways with the
electronic drone of a semi-broken
lamp and I am watching shadows
flee

My eyes are closing though
I could’ve put myself down earlier
but I never do

Digital

You’re my favourite poet
I tell him in
An imagined–
quiet
vague
disguise

The LED flashes
Cyan
And our words matter only
as much as
the screen that glows
A white separation

We are voiceless?

I had the Holy Internet
Tell me that we are each other’s
kryptonite
So I let it set

only because we are digital

And this note on an app
Tapped with letters
Drawled in blocks

What do glowing
alphabets mean?

We are voiceless
to each other

Bukowski never angrier
But only in my head

Written on Google Keep

fuck

All you rich people
leading lives in contempt
with insatiable desires;
in houses too big,
rooms too small;
green eyes looking forward,
thrift store shopping,
in crude attempt to look
well-worn for masses
hipster pride
gallivanting bright shades,
endearing heat for the poor,
in a charity event
whilst sipping a cup of
corporate coffee,
feeling like thrill,
sitting in a car,
reading like you feel,
emotions welling for
the impoverished
in a distant country,
and over your own poverty
‘Where did my money go?’
fuck you.

And I am one of you
so fuck me too.