Part One  

You say you’re not so sure anymore. 

You can’t seem to ever be certain.

Is this  how it’s  always  been?  You say no way, swear  there was a time of great sharpness.

Wasn’t there?

You recall how tall you were way back when  you were deemed a damn sure thing.  You say  now  you  can’t  be  sure

of  anything. You are you are you are you are you are you are you

are you, mist or fog or spring’s winds? Hovering so slight, or caught looking heavy?  Howling in hiding, or hidden and silent? You’re met as warm sun, how you love to be unknown. Yet  slowly,  surely,  all of a sudden you’re vapour. When they sense you dampening 

their skin  you feel sinful.

When they know you’re dishevelling  their hair  you’re thinking that they’re thinking, She was a trick of the light.

Cause it seems to be that you’re most clearly seen when everything goes dark. No such thing as a crying sun.

Maybe sometimes you see nothing but you feel.

Like how you can’t really recall that childhood holiday in Thailand, but

You still feel the heat

Rising, suffocating the shapeshifting streets 

You still smell the chlorine

Coating, corroding your aqua-blue rashie.

Part Two

Soul-showing? Still they were just eyes, the same as your under eye bags. The sky? Mythical. Like seeing through the screen of worldliness, piercing the veil of base mortality. Night and day under skies you sat. Was it you truly who sat? Well, on matters of self you did reflect. Alas, no good would that journey achieve for you are blue still. Purpley-coloured is your desire. Why? One day, you intend to be a projection of sky unlimited. The solidness of the wombat leaves you but a rock immovable.

That you, born as a wombat reflected, should morph into sky? Too, once supposed, was woman powerless. That you dare… maybe because your life is your fuck. Say, just as city will one day be reclaimed by country. 

“Stranger, hear out I,” you said, “when sense makes it senseless, shall I be sensible?” 

Sea death? Right under the defying sky why surely. Many nights you’ve dreamt of flying ‘round and ‘round stars. These very stars, you and this sky so close, just swirling, this is all you’d see when screened by sleep. Soon must you fall, and by ocean be caught.

Group smoke? A cigarette drunk clears mist thickest. Here and there, adult mouths must dry. How else could the scales be balanced for the slobbery toddler? 

On time. Long ago for lights the at Stared club. a in outline an me, of shadow That perceived. and perceiver piece, art the in present audience the was I screen. the on shadow a was I while a

Forth withstanding. before it of sure made I’d eye; outside no was there exhibition, the of part dark that In light. of beams those faced I as face my over blanketed light the observed have could eye outside an if Wonder slightly? Even me? on visible images moving thee were light, of projection that intercepted I when closer, stood I When inspired. left been had and lonely so was I lonesome. me left departed, They an installation. the of front in other each of pictures taking turns took people race?

Two human the of rest the as shitless scared as just feel and entropy see we do Or story. IG the For creation. of act the art, of sake the For us. like moment-capturers of capture-act the capturing videos his of some caught, McGrath clippings those all of clip a captured I as wild ran reflections bleeds.

Meta art blur, boundaries the So, belonged. I before belong not did I shadow. in belonging was I matter? Newly foreign matter I must dislodge and dispel. Attempts by my body, I am human after all, the like darkness, the into out me spat it had entirely, me rejected it Had land. to place little with Walls White those off reflecting still was it how everywhere, around ricocheting still was it how about think didn’t I Box. Black the in time my during light nearby that about think didn’t I light, pick.

That did I my path second-guess is fodder for krill. No fuss. No see. to what shown be wanna just I sometimes — Father” do, to what me tell fucking “just to Priest Hot the begged she when — confessional that in sat Fleabag when to akin of sort anxiety; choice of) absence (an with do to something had might’ve light scattered of lack the liking my that believe to me Led Walls. White those to thought more gave I Later, it. liked Just… Box. Black the in stay to continued I why out work couldn’t I time, that

At bruises. my nursed room, dark that of clearness the in alone Sat visibility. sharp by distinguished shadow of familiarity extreme the contrast, fierce the to back went Box, Black the Entered curtains. through Slipped pummelling. the from away

Walked ping. ping, ping, Ping, again. me hit then back, bounced it then — me hit it light, the — face my of pale the hit It Cube. White the of vacuum the in absorption light for place little so was there aside, ceiling

Inky Walls. White those was it retrospect In 

Part Three

The hit and kick of your heart's tantrum,  Maybe it's a shit attempt at dancing. 

Dragged your feet through the mud to leave tracks like breadcrumbs dropped, Not a dog pissing on a pole but a calloused raver intent on returning to homebase.   Your bruised bones, your tasteless taste:  body shudders -- and everything you love going out to buy some milk and never returning -- make an invitation into the crowd seem pretty neat.

That night, like many, you made your way into that sea of bodies. 

That place, 

Where your limbs can't be loud

There's no pain to make a sound

Cares can't shout

Cause you no longer have any-- Cause you could be anybody here You are anybody here.

Nowadays it’s just what you do, sometimes. You can’t seem to help it. When you stick the vacuum to your bellybutton, when you hit green for go and suck out the inner contents of your body, you feel everything leaving. Organs, bones, blood, muscle, tissue, brain, every tooth in your mouth, they’re all coming out. Turbo mode makes the process easy, even when it comes to the long intestines, but you’ve only used it like half a dozen times. 

Every clean-out’s different. The effect is, fundamentally, the same. Needless to say, everything’s pretty light. You’re nobody after you escape close proximity to your own bones and what they know. You suck out your insides to survive. Fuckin’ hate yourself for it though. Sad thing is, what’s inside you always comes back, just the same. 

Sometimes memories just sweep over you. 

they tangle up  your hair,  it's all messy. 

But in the videos you share online, anyone would believe that stars don't act like the smoke curling from your cigarette. 

Over there, those faraway places that haunt and hurt,  How might they be captured? 

If they're 

Caught  and contained 

and witnessed within a frame,

Surely they won't possess

The power To depose.

Suppose you moved to Russia and purchased a pack of Huskies. Suppose you finally sailed away and left that country town behind. Suppose you stopped smoking, took up balloon-animal making instead. Suppose you sewed snow jackets for all your huskies. Suppose you got good at playing pretend. Suppose that bird shat on you just because birds shit. Suppose nobody knows until they know in the end.