Christ.

The music and the words don't match up yet.

Yet.

In my

Head

Everything is green

The whole world

And the statues

The people

Houses

Everything

And though I

Can't force my eyes

In my head

Everything is growing

Like trees

I twisted my own roots

Up to meet the sun

And they were so scared

I still don't know

Where to put my roots

But they grow

Under me

In a

Triangle shape

I just want them to be

Green

Inside of light

(or so I've read)

The colours are infinite

And small

One day I'll find

The right

Green for you

And me

I won't

Force my eyes to sprout

But everything is green

Inside my head

Diptera.

The gnats, the flies
The flicker of tiny lives
Pluck, hairthin
Little mandolin strings
And even thoraic
Crystal veined wings
A full-body whirlwind

Engulf me, like the lamplight
And the fast-paced swarm flight
My minutiae friends
You make me feel like I
Might be dead without even realising
Diptera, you flatter me
But my sockets are closed
For business this evening

Imagine the giants
Slow-foot monsters
With no more than a pair
Of clumsy flightless wings extending
These inelegant
Artless things

The bugs, the bugs!
The success is stifling
The pitter patter of those
Tiny many feet
I feel so insecure
Amongst the evolutionary elite

"So, your pressure is dropping..."

I have a storm
Of infinite recursion
Hidden in my eye

The clockwise south-bound
And its tropical counter
For the purge at the center
And we are both so reciprocally
Low pressure by volition

Where control slips
Out of the spiral
The whip-wind hurricane
Just look into my eye

If you are the storm in my eye
I will be the eye of your storm

I give you a hamburger.

Transcription from a Tumblr post.
Good gods don't let me forget this.

Let's make the cule a unit of measurement
One cule would be
One level of abstraction away from the reality
Of a situation

For example:
You ask me for a hamburger

At one cule:
If you asked me for a hamburger
And I gave you a raccoon

At two cules:
If you asked me for a hamburger
But it turns out I don't really exist
Where I was originally standing
A picture of a hamburger rests on the ground

At three cules:
You awake as a hamburger
You start screaming only to have special sauce
Fly from your lips
The world is in sepia

At four cules:
Why are we speaking German?
A mime cries softly
As he cradles a young cow
Your grandfather stares at you as the cow falls apart
Into patties
You look down only to see me with
Pickles for eyes
I am singing the song that gives birth
To the universe

At fives cules:
You ask for a hamburger
I give you a hamburger
You raise it to your lips and take a bite
Your eye twitches involuntarily
Across the street
A father of three falls down the stairs
You swallow and look down at the hamburger in your hands
I give you a hamburger
You swallow and look down at the hamburger in your hands
You cannot swallow
There are children at the top of the stairs
A pickle shifts uneasily
Under the bun
I give you a hamburger
You look at my face and I am pleading with you
The children are crying now
You raise the hamburger to your lips
Tears stream down your face
As you take a bite
I give you a hamburger
You are on your knees
You plead with me
To go across the street
I hear only children's laughter
I give you a hamburger
You are screaming as you fall down the stairs
I am your child
You cannot see anything
You take a bite of the hamburger
The concrete rushes up to meet you
You awake with a start in your own bed
Your eye twitches involuntarily
I give you a hamburger
As you kill me
I do not make a sound
I give you a hamburger

At six cules:
I give you a hamburger
My attempt to reciprocate
Is cut
Brutally short
As my body experiences a sudden
Lack of electrons
Across a variety of dimensions
You are dis-made
John Lennon hands me an apple
But it slips through my fingers
I am reborn as an ocelot
You disapprove
A crack echoes
Through the universe
In defiance of conventional physics
As cosmological background noise
Shifts from randomness
To a perfect A-flat
Children everywhere
Stop what they are doing
And hum along in perfect pitch with
The background radiation
Birds fall from the sky as the
Sun engulfs the Earth
You hesitate momentarily before
Allowing yourself to assume
The locus of all knowledge
Entropy crumbles
As you peruse the information contained
Within the universe
A small library in Phoenix ceases to exist
You stumble under the weight of
Everything-ness
Your mouth opens up to cry out
And collapses around your body before blinking you
Out of the spatial plane
You exist only within the fourth-dimension
The fountainhead of all knowledge rolls along
The ground and collides with a small dog
My head tastes sideways as
Space-time is re-established
You blink back into the corporeal world
Disoriented
Only for me to
Hand you a hamburger
As my body collapses under the strain
Of reconstitution
The universe
Has re-asserted itself
A particular small dog is fed steak for the
Rest of its natural life
You die in a freak accident moments later
And your soul
Works at the returns desk for the Pheonix library
You disapprove
Your disapproval sends ripples
Through the inter-dimensional void between
Life and death
A small child begins to cry as he
Walks toward the stairway where his father stands

Perchance to dream.

I've started taking these drowsy antihistamines before bed most nights because of reasons. I say most nights because I'm not supposed to mix them with alcohol and I've done a fair bit of drinking in the last couple of weeks, so I don't always get the chance to. I wake up much sleepier than I usually am in the mornings, and I feel myself getting physically tired before bed whenever I take them. Properly tired, my eyelids struggle and everything feels like I've been up for forty-eight hours. Proper drowsy meds, so that's kind of nice.

And so every time I take them I get nightmares.

I've taken them sporadically, so I'm almost certain it's them. Owing to the infrequency of me even recognizing dreams at all and the fact that the nights I take them coincide with the nights I have really vivid nightmares, it's pretty easy to conclude that there's at least the slightest of correlations.

Until the first evening I hadn't had a nightmare in years, they just didn't come. I realise that I dream and that I rarely remember them as easily as others seem to be able to, but I maintain that nightmares stay with me, because, you know, they kind of suck. So, that was a little jarring, when the thing that woke me up was a pair of hands around my neck. That was the first one, an extremely vivid nightmare of a physical assault. I know it was physical assault, it had the same urgency attached to it, the same desperation that comes with an almost completely random outburst of violence on your person. I am familiar with the feelings that comes with being assaulted, just to clarify. It is something I've experienced.

The second one reinforced the correlation, because there was a nightmare and it was a recurring one from my childhood. Wait, let me clarify. The fact that I recognized it as a nightmare reinforced the correlation because I never remember normal dreams, and the fact that I recognized it as coming from childhood reinforced that I am able to recognize my nightmares much more frequently than my normal dreams. Does that make sense? It does to me. Malkyf, or whatever.

I don't know how to describe the second one, but it's definitely a nightmare. The third time, the most recent, escapes me but it was still noticeably unpleasant.

So I guess I'm just trying to justify why I believe the two things, the medication and the nightmares, are related. They are. So there.

Alright, Ollie, back to the point.

At first I wanted to stop them immediately. Who wouldn't? I don't want to wake up in a cold sweat one night of my own volition. No one does. I think no one does. No judgement and all that. The slight convenience they give me just wasn't worth the psychological trouble. That feeling lasted all of five seconds before I suddenly wanted to have more nightmares. I wanted to see where they'd end up. I want to reconnect with my unconscious. Maybe I've lost something that kept me anchored and I want to find a way back in. I think it completely normal to say that I am intensely interested in the workings of my own brain. I want to see what I am, and maybe nightmares are the way to do that. Awful things happen, yeah, sometimes completely arbitrarily, and sometimes maybe some relevant shit is going down in the parts of my brain I leave by my pillow.

I'm not afraid of feeling afraid.

Goodnight.

-

(In progress)

3/4

Dm | - | - | -
Gm | - | - | -
Dm | - | A | -

Night one
The test has begun
And the moon's come up from below

The hour is late
And your nerves are a state
So close the door
And shut the window

So sleep
Sleep
Perchance to dream

Nine.

The interval punches me
Into the air, aloft of
A punctuated wave
Aloud in wide formation
This spike stretches out as
An albatross wingspan
Bearing me aloft on a bright red harmony

I cannot let them
Become static
I cannot have them
Anywhere else
I'm in no position to contradict
My own auditory tenants

The distance between the
Two tones
Is large enough to fit
My heart in
But the chord snaps shut
And by the minor or the majority
Or the glorious number seven
And the sweet discord
I am a bleeding heart for this

The arm that hammers in the bass
Pushes my synapse
Is the same with blood running down to the fingertips

From the blood.

My father is a mortal
He is the very thing that killed
My innocence, my wonder
And I know he still tries to see it sometimes
For what it gave back to him

(The young me
With little bright blue eyes
Is still sitting in that city hospital
I don't think he gets it)

This grinning buffoon
Pushing little buttons and marveling
Exactly as I used to do

Curled into a weary smile
I will let him have his smaller
And smaller moments like this

I know he will stay happy
As long as he believes
That he still has much to teach me

Hypertonic.

From corner to corner
Cover to cover to
Collecting the moisture in its hidden
Secret places
My roof is a catchment
My fan is the shower to my
Spring harvest
The ripe
The juice
The shriveled turgid
Too taught skin
If I am lucky
My flesh will make the finest vintage

Water me
Shower me
Be careful not to drown me out
My cells are rough
And dry
They cannot contain themselves

It is true
I concede
I lack the cellulose for this to be so
My membranous will is very
Delicate
The in-flow is beyond control
Immersion in the fluid is the
Only thing that I have left

Were I to breathe
There'd be but sand
I have no more moisture left in me
Inside out
Peel to core
I am the low-hanging desert fruit
I am the cactus shell

Except that there is no hidden store
I am simply empty

An inventory of my corkboard.

I'm in a nice mood and I have the late Jeff Buckley wailing and reverberating about my room as I smash out the chords on the electric. I thought it might be interesting to make a note of the things on my corkboard as of now as a reflection on my life.

And so:

• one enveloped ticket to Einstüzende Neubauten in February
• a gift voucher for MTC's 2013 season, and a receipt for half its value in expenditure
• my December work roster
• a ticket to Sydney for 2/1/2013
• the sheet music for the Aphonia interlude pieces
• an RSA certificate
• course outline documents for arts/science
• a letter from Tamuz written at the conclusion of Dogg's Hamlet, Cahoot's Macbeth, and the card with the lovely messages from cast and crew
• the truly excellent card from the end of Aphonia with the leather silhouette of Sherlock Holmes

As far as microcosms go, I think that's quite nice.

.

The pot is nearly empty
And the dregs are all so bitter
But they're all that I have left
My wallet's nearly bare
And these coins are all so dull
But they should get me through what's left
Of the day
I think I'll be okay

Vineyard.

We cultivate here
All that's human
Earthly goods and profane splendour
Button noses on vines
We have beauty on tap

This field looks empty
But beneath the mineral soil
A crop of child-bearing hips
Slowly comes to plump fruition

This is the glasshouse that grows
Painters' hands and pianists' fingers and
A clockmaker's eyes and a fisherman's wrists
And the legs that carry you on romantic trysts
The lungs of the operatic
This is a dancer's torso and legs from a very good vintage
I remember the air that year
So well

If you'll follow me we have a special
Something just for you
In here behind the locked door

This vat, this tank
Is really something
Of course it takes very long to mature
But we are perfectionists
Fifty years of cultivation and one hundred
Thousand kind words

One hundred percent, pure
First grade
Human empathy