Aus-Art

Flesh, flesh, Such wasted flesh... This able-bodied meat. Defiled by drugs and impurities. A mind born with clarity, Yet so blatantly abused. No harm did you suffer; Other than harm self inflicted. Disregarding the hopeless gazes, Of those who were born without. No good, no good; This I cannot abide... I shall take this flesh from you, And it shall be tended and made anew. A gift to those who are deserving, Of the very gifts you cast aside... Now then, my dear, Do stop your screaming. It will only be painful, Until your heart stops beating. - Word of Chen, 1/6/2016

To the moulting orchids on my kitchen counter: Please know I picked you out specially. I said once it seems odd to buy flowers for a man. He asked why. I didn’t have an answer, so this Valentine’s I went to the floral section in the IGA downstairs. There was one plant in a red-and-gold pot left from the Chinese New Year, and lots of pastels, but you spoke to me. Five stems, a five-finger rainbow. Pink, pale orange, blue-purple, red-yellow, and neon green. You remind me of the socks he wears to his office job on the sixteenth floor. He’s built like that building, tall enough the socks show under his cuffs. To me, orchids

The day had started badly, it had been raining non-stop for two days straight and on and off for two weeks, it wasn’t uncommon for this time of year but still. But now the sun had come out and when Winala looked up from her computer screen out of the window out of her and her partner’s Saradin office she could see life coming back to the streets of Inferno as people came out to enjoy the sun while it lasted and to have their lunch. “Hay Saradin I think the sun’s finally come out” Winala said to her partner. Saradin looked up from his workstation and said, “your right maybe we should get back to work on t

This isn't a poem There's no rhyme or rhythm This isn't a poem Just words I'm screaming and spitting This isn't a story Its just a blank page This isn't a story No tale for another age I'm not a writer I can't even spell I'm not a writer Can't you tell?

Walking down a road so old It's lined with memories of gold From a long forgotten time When we were in our prime The memories make me smile Only for a short while Cause of the pain I feel From wounds that won't heal It was like time paused From the suffering i caused When I said we were over Whilst we lay amongst the clover Now those times of bliss Are what I truly miss As I begin to grow old Reminiscing on these memories of gold