annihilation of a mired paw print adjacent a weedy yellow flower

Posted on by NJA

wake up tired

a painting hanging off a plastic rental hook swings and swings and swings and swings and swings and swings and swings and swings and swings and swings and swings and swings and swings and

pendulum,

mired,

the weather is good now and I will go for a walk

a walk to the places only eyes have visited

i will paint

and 

      not 

            awake


i used to write well,

writing that makes a heart quake

words by mistake, take the freighted mind 

put it in a door and open,

mired in place

the weather is good now and I will go for a walk

distracted thought placed in a box big enough for 

a whole tour of wrought 

                                      and

                                             dextrinization.



manipulation of residency and vacation,

it will never be me i

Don’t live like that, i don’t

have that kind of vice

                                   to

                                       talk,



seated in sunny transaction, it’s the little things

that give perpetration 

i have nothing to say,

intrepidation over annihilation, a gold threaded rainbow poured at the end of the pathway

today i won’t but

in a matter of moments,

the weather is good now and i will go for a walk.

—NJA

chance

Posted on by NJA

Image



A fecal murder scene on the cubicle walls



There is a hesitancy in my limbs that eats my heart
alive. Shy shy shy shy



People say things. They say a lot. Poetry entered
my mind last night in nights twinkling eye but i
Forgot.
Don’t stare, nor dare. Don’t kiss, don’t get shot.
Stay above the water of life’s giving knots, wash
your fingers from the stench of crushing mortalities
and go get your
Chance

limitless

Posted on by NJA




Vision through a window, 

                                       foggy, perspired,

limitless


yet 

so undefined. 


   

                  Understand this;

the whole world comes 

                                    at times and says

        “you could be all mine,

for a dime: all you have to do is give

             up all the free flowing

               Devine signs of a life     (wine),



       so cringe and

 take it away,    all oddities at play—sing a song with chance as one’s bellow.

Greed and heart awake, bestow.

            Lust     and     limes

squeezed at an alter,

champagne flutes upside 

       down and

         mediocre 

                     melodramas at an all slight.


                                                     Slurp low     divinities 

                       within a basement’s 

 kitchenette. 




You paid with soul and neck.











—NJA

cartwheeled hike over likely probabilities in f/2

Posted on by NJA


         You stopped the cartwheels in my head, now they’re just in my mouth.

                 I hope you don’t take in a thing I’ve said

                    it’s all pointless,

                                                     my 

                skin

a cover of bold red,

                              my brain an old shed

             I’m scared of sharing this empty house

this lengthless journey of picture frames

                                      and

seasonless decor,

                        a useless scoreboard

                               of everything I’ve done before.



Drenched in valour

                   in fake gold and 

  pressed diamontes from 

                                     the dollar store,

                                   I’m full of rulers and games 

                                     and 

                petunia infested sames.



doubt the felted like September rain

      as it drowns me in shame—

                               a kiss that acknowledges pain

               is a gift for the living.


now thing

ego

Sting

—behave



      a wish of brave, a wish to say,

aloud

        shout;


                              How

     do I focus,

              ephemeral,

                                   phased,


    when you say my name

                                    when you say my name


          Your tongue is

                         how I want to be praised.

—NJA

Saturday morning

Posted on by NJA

Image
Image
Image

Saturday morning

i washed myself in soap and blood.


have you ever been brainwashed?



Like, punch to the face because you missed Saturday morning evangelism and being driven home late that night after a silent fight  but  screaming all your hells in the words of  grace and  salvation in a rasped voice at 15 into a megaphone handed over by the people you’re trained to be acolyte so how do you say no when your shreds of ambition and talkback were left in your parents’ rented driveway?

Tired  


      and quieted and glad this church is over 20km from home it makes your life in the back of a car driving on hours and appreciating road signs growing up in different pleather seats, in between car crashes: mum so tired—late shifts, school, the crack of dawn, and
                                  you don’t get to learn how to speak with your step father until two years after moving out 

Your sister says,
                        “aren’t you glad i did that? That you made it today?”  when she drops you off,
                  car lights on,
    half parked in the driveway i wonder now if that’s something she used to hear her father say.

Have you ever been baptised in the ocean?

 i  remember walking on a motorway bridge, a scene of that very beach, now several years later looking at the glass coloured waves, hinted green and sand and seaweed swirling about with bubbles
  and  ocean  spray.
        The point being a continual surrender of  our  whole selves to god was for our family to feel some sense of placement, each of us empty but filled: a  goddamned  god.
                                        but  it’s funny
                                                                looking back at a child watching like Saul, each church tore  with claws and sharp tongues; pages of the bible twisted as pocket knives putting every one of our knees on the ground begging forgiveness like it’s the last thing we could ask.

 “It’s been easier,
for us. Now.” 

I tell the receiver in my smartphone 

my older sister answers back

 “that’s because the devil has you” 

eight  years of walking  on roads drunk and daring 

and still trying to find


      someone   else   to pray to.


—NJA


edited by Dan Ward

published in NO NO NO msg volume 2

Image

I form my Self.

Posted on by NJA

They, the mischievous and deceptive,
the depraved and confused;
Those higher ups in the
business of religious monoliths
raised me to always seek
the love and validation of this
mighty and masculine figure,

While giving me none in return.

 

 

I’ve seemed to have learned in my
distantness,
in my loneliness and emptiness,
that to rely on another being for this
love, will again leave me lonely,
empty and distant.

(There are very few that know how
to reciprocate the kind of love that
I am
bleeding for.)

 

 

Ever since taking and tearing apart all
That I have known,
then reconstructing
the spheres of my physical and rational
to find something tangible and worth living;
I make myself the mighty and masculine
figure,
I find the strength in my depths and I hang
it all on the walls
I built with salt and skin.
Every time I am
back down here in this pit
I establish my ground; my floods of
emotion assure me that I am well
sealed, because I am well formed,
because I am self-fabricated.
My self-worship is something quite spectacular
But I assure you it knows its bounds.

How is someone supposed to supply themselves
with love when they only have received so much?

 

 

They taught me to constantly glorify
something, someone else, outside of me.
Other than me.

Now that I am the apostate,
I practice my heresy and seek fulfilment in
mere human’s eyes, their skin,
I yearn for the touch of another; I am

seeking someone else to love, I am

no longer the lost that they made me.

 

—T.j

Image

Sunken and Pigmented.

Posted on by NJA

 

“

 

Sheets,
slipping through the sky.

A very broken tree.

Rhythmic rain patter, singing.

Chittering a secret message to the ground,
the wind, she bellows.

I will find it in my sleep.

Trickle,
downward,

Where the rest go.

a second coffee gone cold and a stranger’s body heat.

S
p
i
r
a
l

 

 

Time has no purpose,

for now.

 

 

Muddy,

 

 

Wet and
Earthy and

 

Muddy.

 

 

Sunken and pigmented

and wrinkled, so very Wrinkled.

 

 

 

He thinks it is just a show,
Foolish.

 

 

 

Step,

 

 

Step,

 

 

 

Step,

 

 

 

They are togEther,

They take care of Each other.

 

 

 

Short and
aqua-marine,
Curly,
it is plastic.

 

 

 

Three
is an uncanny numbEr.

you
m
u
st
eat

 

 

red, creamy velvet traces

the ancestors,

marking where the spirits have been.

 

 

Muddy,
but
never dirty.

 

Repeat.

 

 

They are the same,

Or maybe they

might be the same.

 

 

 

 

Seen 02:17

 

 

Numb toes and unwashed socks,

 

 

There is a cat,

a rabbit,

a fox.

 

 

 

 

I wish for home,

 

wherever that may be found.

 

 

”

 

 

 

—T.j

They came to me holding a bouquet of Silent Roses 

Posted on by NJA

goldenyear666's avatargoldenyear666

My friendships bloom

A flower so whole
So delicate

So artful.

My friendships,

Are ruined by all the aspects that make me sway, Far away.

In all the aspects of a person I get lost in.

I’m lost in these flowers

They smell of yellow,

I’m lost in these voices

Swirling in pink winds.

My long lost father appeared in the shape of a old mans cupped hands,

So tiny I become a micro crescent moon

So tiny, I clamp into the palm of your hand,

So TinyI am,

How Gigant you see me,

Beloved Stranger

My beloved Friend

(You see me)

Making all the aspects of myself clear

The things I am often too embarrassed to admit, I feel so lost in
…
It would be inappropriate

It would be invasive

To burst our flying hearts open

It would be impolite to make you my Garden

To make…

View original post 194 more words

Image

Is Your god Watching?

Posted on by NJA

If so, tell them to repent.

I am often wishing for my eyes to be stitched shut, to go back and hide in my naivety and ignorant bliss, yet I cannot.
I’d like to have an optimistic belief in an omniscient deity, I’d like to let go and have a better being take up my battles and take on my cares, yet for me the truth is that if I believe in that, I am being a hypocrite.
For the just and optimistic being I would want to put my belief in would never let the state of the world come to what it has, or what it has always been.
They would never let souls hurt the way we have, not even for an example to non believers.
Not even because a previous creation has challenged them.
No, I would not want to believe in such a nasty being that would allow other conscious, sentient beings to be used in a playing field of colour and wealth.
I am so appalled at all you believers, speaking of hope and life and goodness, yet you demonise love and freedom and truth. Men cleve to men to find comfort in this scary world and all you can do is spit at them and tell them they will not be loved, because of their love.

Sickening.

Even if that great being is right now crying and having their heart broken while watching the Earth, all the while that being apparently has the power to change these things— even to end all consciousness, they are still guilty of allowing pain and pain and pain.
Call me a sceptic, a blasphemer, there are worse things.
Doubt me? Ask the abducted and tortured and murdered Chechen men, ask the girls lying bloody in the streets and turning in their graves as she gets no justice over her rapists. Ask the millions who have lost their hands to stitching fabric for the capital to receive no capital in return.

Disgusting.

I guess that’s what I don’t get.
If there is an all powerful being watching over this world, that has the power to create something so detailed as the human (and many more intricate biological beings, or something as intrinsic as consciousness), why not start over? Why not end all suffering and hurt and take away choice? To not is not because of love; when you love a child you stop them from hurting themselves, you do not even give them choice to.
To allow and watch pain is sadistic, what good and just parent simply watches their children hurt and hurt and hurt, knowing there is a different way.
Sadistic.
You speak of light and all that is in light, in hope to ignore the darkness.
This darkness brings a depth you refuse to reconcile with.

Horrendous. Heinous. Selfish.

Hide away behind your ancient words, pat your backs with your convention and rules and arrogance, go tell your god that she speaks blasphemy, if they hear you.
No, I feel as lonely as ever knowing that I am weeping with other powerless beings that can do naught but wail over the pain in this Earth.
I digress, or retract; we simple beings have power and we use it and we demonise those who abuse it— the high and the mighty, the godly, the dumb and the deaf that scream regulations and religiosity and law.

This self intoxicating Earth. Oh what a mess we’ve made. All thee that have faith, pray fervently for truly we have fallen.

 

— Tasha Jade.

a Left Hand Covering Their Eyes

Posted on by NJA

“

i am the furious
foreskin and the
seething labia and
i am
seeking revenge on the
extremely minute,
woeful class of
homo sapiens that
have ruled the world
with their right fist and
covered our eyes with
their left hand,
but we see through their
fingers.

i want to stab Peter Dutton
in the heart to prove he feels
nothing and then i will
say that i am
my fathers daughter
and play the schizophrenic card and
claim my rehabilitation fees
on medicare rebait.
I am sure i am pale enough for that to work,
but they will probably hunt down a distant
cousin of mine from the Philippines,
who i never knew existed
who peacefully practices the
Islamic religion and
they will create a link between me and them

and the rest of the world
will continue to turn with a
left hand
covering their eyes.

“

— Tj