Apollos of the Apostles

I fell into the sky one tuesday night,

shot up on a wooden bench with tattoos 

of cigarette burns and smeared ash that told the 

future. 

My feet hung over Jupiter’s gleam, 

my arms limp behind me,

sedated loris on its way to a cage

in a warehouse.

My eyes met Orion’s and all at once I felt

the buckle of his belt click on

to the bands of my shorts. Faster than the

Apollos, I dove deep through the pastel hues 

that spun like the colour wheel I stole

in the kindergarten art class one childhood away.

The stars slipped past the hairs on my knees 

and made wishes upon my falling body,

cuddled me gentle in their flickering arms

then shot through me like the evening breeze.

Like sighs of ether that turn my bones

to blood, the beauty in my waking

mind gathered close near the exit signs 

and waited for sound of the all clear siren. 

But still, 

still gently, still slowly, I carried on

through the cries of the apostles,

and I did not come back.

Crowd

I crave the silences in my head where the chaos

crumbles down into the calmed collective that I can recognize.

Our drunken discourse colours my insides green

and I have to take three steps back behind 

the yellow caution tape and ask hard

if that’s the life I’m running towards. 

Most nights I don’t get an answer. 

And even when I do, I can never be too sure 

that I want to trust it.

The Implicit Church That Formed In The Mind’s Secrecy

Welcome, Ladies and Gentlemen, to the church of

Secular enthusiasts. Please place your cupcake and

gummy bear donations in the box that’s being passed around. 

Please turn your post-it notes to page 322, 

recycled encouragement hymn number 25, “O! My week shall get better.” 

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Thank you. Please be seated. 

Today’s sermon will be about heart shapes and the colour

pink. 

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Call: Thus descended the wrath of imagined despair and in the darkness, all we had were each other.

*Bell Rings*

Response: I can do all things through heart to heart talks that give me strength.

Call: And through the years of adulthood, our people came together in the tuck shop once again over cupcakes and gummy worms.

*Bell Rings*

Response: For we, the undecided, shall reap the benefits of recycled encouragement and shall avoid all who lead us astray from the path of exclusivity and secrecy. We shall find everything cute and cuddly, happy and delightful and be thankful always for each other, my brothers and sisters in heart. Amen.

Please be seated.

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Call: Go, now, in the encouragement of your brothers and sisters and stay forever in the positivity of exclusivity. May the encouragement of all 12-year-old schoolchildren be with you.

Response: And also with you.

Amen.

Masked

I throw my masks down in the dark,

giant eyes loom ahead in front of me

as my heels click violence on the floorboards. 

My hands brush past the blue velvet curtain 

and the fog engulfs my lungs beautifully. 

The giant eyes don’t know that I am 

not me anymore. 

I writhe underneath the make-up as I

slowly forget the skin I hide beneath every morning.

I am all plagued through with you,

you’re all plagued through with him too.

They think I pretend to be who I create

but I am marred by ritual to exist in totality

as the devil in the blueprints. 

Only,

when I clamber off stage and back 

into the darkness.

I don’t know which mask to

put back on. 

Repeat Until Satisfied

Love,

Leap,

Fall,

Land.

Repeat until satisfied.

Hole

Feed me fire so my tongue burns of the

taste of the words that hang from the tip.

Colour my stagnant limbs like a canvas

and let the surfaced feelings betray me no longer.

Bury me softly and let me speak no more

of phantoms and angels, of beasts and roses. 

Unlearn the language I cradle

and let me speak no longer.

Let me feel no longer. 

Dear God,

My name is Andrew and I want to change the world. 

I want to make everyone see. I want to take away the blinds in front of their eyes and I want to make them see. I want to make the whole world blind.

I’m not talking about not being able to see your two hands in front of you kind of blind. I’m talking about not seeing the differences that our surfaces create kind of blind. 

I want to make the whole world blind so that they can see.

I want the entire world to wake up one person at a time and see the beauty that everything actually is.

I want them to see that if you have an apple inside a broken box and an apple inside a golden box, both boxes contain the same apple. We all have the same heart.

We eat the same, we walk the same, we talk the same.

We love the same, we hate the same, we cry the same.

We feel the same, we live the same, we die the same.

The art a throat-stuck junkie in prison makes is the same art that a silk-jacket wearing man in a studio with 3 producers makes. It may not always be better or worse but it’s still the same. It’s still what your heart and soul cries out at you and it’s still what you write down. 

It’s what your insides need to create when you’re not spending every second of the day hating yourself for all the things you’re not.

I want the world to see all the good in everything and realize that no one man is in any way better or worse than the other because of the amount of coloured paper he gets deposited into a big box in the sky once a month because we are all the same. 

We clothe ourselves in different costumes, we make medals and trophies and give them to each other, we make certificates and gradebooks and pile them up under our feet to be taller than everyone else but beneath all that is the same beating heart. We are the same beating heart.

I want the world to set fire to all the little insecurities and arrogance grown from a shallow life that turn misty before our eyes and plague our ability to see beauty within.

I want the world to tear apart their obsessions with cute boys and hot girls and start loving the kind women and the thoughtful gentlemen. 

I want the world to know that our self-worth is not given to us from the kind of man or woman we look like on the outside but the kind of man or women we look like on the inside.

I want the world to forget the disease of fame, forget the need to be seen and forget the need to be heard and just speak. Just trust and speak and not be convinced that no one is listening.

I want, so badly, for the world to see what beauty is. 

I want, so badly, for the world to know what beauty is. 

It’s a disease. 

Engulfs your soul like a kleenex in a flood. 

Coats everything in sugar for the world to consume,

rubs the dew off the surface of the glass jar you live inside

so suddenly you’re visible. 

So suddenly people know your face, people listen to your voice.

Everything you say becomes beautiful and they take it

and tattoo it across their hearts over and over

and over

and over again. 

How happy

the 5 billion other people who deserve the love

you give the few. 

For in their silence, they cannot be infected.

For in their chaos, they cannot be cured. 

So let me sit here and web the inside 

of my veins with the medicine,

let my hate decay me to the bones.

I’ll keep the diamonds hidden under my skin

and turn my back on a city of blind men. 

You

You.

Drop your gaze

don’t let it linger.

Don’t you know that all

those parts of me died

when there wasn’t enough love

left to fix them?

Speeding down the highway

to the gutter

and the other holes in the ground,

that’s where I miss home the most.

That’s the only problem

I can’t fix.

And I fear it may be the 

one thing that shakes the suave

off my cool. 

There will always be a new song

to sing 

for the rest of my life. 

But you make me want to stay

on this tune. 

So I’ll shift the needle back 

to the outer most

dimple,

while you let the record

spin off 

and away.

Now you can open your eyes

and see that

you save me,

but you don’t know it. 

Verse Verse Chorus

Grant me the eyes of a hawk,

that I may see you through the miles that

separate us

though you are close.

Lend me a heart worth saving

and I’ll turn the criminals away.

Give me a day

and we could set fire to the

agoraphobics. 

We’ll comfort our dreams

till we see a room 

and a radio. 

Feed our fadeaway lunchtimes 

and cover them

with the echoes of your 

belt. 

And the whimpers of my falsetto. 

Riff me through 6 strings

and take cover.

Bridge my goodbyes with

see you laters

and pretend with me.