more a gentle summer breeze really,

a mere puff of air,

the sounds of each letter of my disclosure

a balmy, zephyr, marshmallow

melting on my tongue.


but it's her hand that touches me,

a cat's paw on my skin

a compass pointing to the silent passages

between the sound of each letter

of my disclosure.

the transcendent, torrid, tortuous sense,

heightened when restrained,

ecstatically freed from cocoons,

winged butterfly kisses

yet to be confessed.

Let's invent a new language she said,

One in which even the smartest can play god

on the limbs of others.


Okay I said but why

are we doing


You're not the sharpest knife in the drawer, R U?

She replied.


None-the-less I broke the code

and saved the world,

once again,

from total annihilation.


I must confess however

I found the words floating in my bath tub

along with the essential construct.

All I did was just hold on tight

and run.



To cast my secrets into the fire


Requires anonymity,


Shape shifting magic.


Bird Headed Angel Child should do it,


No one will think of looking there.



Veiled whispers reversed,


Putti lobotomized,


Trees wither,


Language crumbles







Beware straight black lines


She said


And listen




To the poetry


Of clouds.



My confessions become


Smudged charcoal


And falling ash.


Oh say don't you hear


The old gods





the reach is absolute

and final


embedded in my skull

that button, that screen


i don't see the sun much



i decorate myself

with ancient dreams


i'm expected to confess

six times a day

(seven on Nature Nostalgia Day)


my favourites are the tree egg

and the animatronic moose

(but i'm not allowed to touch)

leaving the eye nest

diving into green man

this is who we were

risking everything

confessing nothing

because we could



she knew immediately

the symbolism, the references,

the memory, the fantasy.


there are people in my life

who know more about me than I do.

I make my confessions to them.