this regret machine

They look very, very cool. They wear clothes the colour of sunrise. Tops and sweaters, not going to be sweat in for a longtime. The prying cold is coming again, and they feel as though it’s going to last a lot longer. now, they are not going to watch themselves grow, but instead, find themselves again. We watch, absently and lost, knowing who they are, but never saying a word. The birds caw with us. They walk on, their black skirt cold. Their boots crunch of unseen gravel. This is morning. An irrefutable, beautiful morning. They walk with a fleeting energy, walking with the rising dew. A small, but unique gift of morning. They make sure to wear long sleeve shirts underneath their jumpers, otherwise their arms will itch. They pull the sleeves up into the palm of their hand, letting themselves be hidden by the colours of summer. Maybe they are holding onto it, they think. The air is crisp around them. The world is shadowy, with a morningly blue sky above them. The sky is made of lines,...

The daylight is deep and disknowing. We are above, looking down, somewhere far beyond all seeing eyes. Nobody can see us. The sky around us is untouched, unimpeded by anything. There is us, invisible and immaterial, and the Blue. Above us, something cold, something waiting, something ready to fall upon the world in any waking moment. We do not give it spare thought. Today will just be us. We descend today, like a hot iron moving down a button-up shirt, ironing out all creases to the hem, sharing all we are with the world that feeds us, dowsing our abilities and our notions of self into creating a whole new identity. Invisible, forgotten memories fly around as we delve, letting lose our vertigo, becoming a part of the never ending blue. The wind scatters the warmth around us. We see, from our great height, water reflected back onto us. The waves sail past small, dense beaches. We will not be visiting them. We move, down and through, fast and quick, emerging from where memories rest, ...

I know you’ve got allergies, but please come back soon. I started taking new hormones. Without discussing the specifics, they were an acceleration of a typical process. They came in a small white packet, sealed like a breakfast bar for your lunchbox. The intention being that this snack would give you tits. The pills themselves are one milligram. They are small, white, and easily lost. They were a new addition to the evening routine. Their packaging has a day-to-day record. Like a calendar for poorly rationed emotions, you would always stay on schedule. The first week had been taken by a mouth not my own. Though, the first Monday had gone untouched. Nobody eats Mondays. Garfieldian. I started on the pills without problem. They were high in ambiguous, medicinal content. They had an intentional direction of use, prescribed for one reason, yet they sat on the edge of my throat for parting reasons. They sat, waiting for water to come, while I wished for growth, development and change. I too...

A Magpie Feathered and brushed, alone and glimmered tail Looking for bugs in the same green I’m sitting in. He worms through the ground, Snuffing food, shuffling in small, Grassy hops. Daisies and thistle, Sweet clovers on sleeping soil. I make eye contact with him, I know he sees me too. He got close before instinct shot in, and he Shuddered off. The sun is Oblivious. They don’t care, nor do they ignore. The blue is unawakening. I message my girlfriend. The company is appreciated. A Magpie I miss flies away. A Magpie I pray kept a shrewd distance. His eyes stayed set on me. A Magpie accomplice arrives. They purr at one another, With small warmths between them. They are daisily sapphic. In search for matching glints, a spark caught in twos. Both have beautiful feathers. Opal feathers and the grass, Populated by equally avious bees, flies, ants. Sparrows crest and trough their plateau. They swell the wildflower walls, Spying me and simmering back. A Magpie scours for bugs still. A M...

The sent signals are going nowhere. Nothing has been coming through the letter box. I can no longer visit the post-boxes. I’m doing everything I can to listen, yet my eyes are swamped in fog. Everything is unclear. Everything is vague and unspecific. I find myself waiting. Waiting to hear something, some difference in tone or sentiment. Still, there are tones around me. Notes that are chiming with bizarre repetitiveness. They are frequent, but never often. I have been burnt out for the past month. Once the bowls are finished singing, they begin to speak. In the air they leave behind, in the openness and in the space they separate, they leave open a temporal mouth to speak from. I listen. I try to listen. I try to clear my ears but my right ear has been blocked. I took one bath and my ear became stuffed full of nonsense. I am not hearing mathematics, nor am I hearing words. I am hearing a minute tone, followed by a small scratching inside of the ear. I am waiting to hear the bowls sp...

There are twenty-seven episodes With Milhouse Van Houten. Strange boy of blue, The reflexive friend, Favourite of the writers room. A father found in a red racecar bed, Divorced of all age, The same, as ever. Glasses round, veering from an ego, dead. Is everything honestly coming up you? There are twenty-seven episodes With Milhouse Van Houten, None of them redeeming. Nothing is that clear. Still, to Simpsonish sensitivities, Be thee without Bart? The moment shows that as I sell my soul, Our touch is similar. As blue as you are, we are the same. Sensitive to all illness, You are, in the end, the roughshot winner. Experience has taught me To stay in your corner. You are not a plot-relevant lackey, I have in you, a friend. There are twenty-seven episodes With Milhouse Van Houten, I’d watch them all again in a heartbeat. (I have burnt out, like a final Thunderbird. I don't want to write any more words. This is a poem I wrote for a beloved friend, but something needs to be ...