The writer who thought he was God listed me as a character in his book, much later in the friendship,  like an afterthought.

Every character in his book was an abusive disappointment, which is like how God thought of his human creations anyway.

When did I stop creating myself though, and rely on another narrative.

I could paint the desert red. Shed a tear under a blood red moon.

I could rationalise all the similarities and differences, like a cost benifit analysis,

since it was me after all that used to live with myself.

Invite all the shadows in to play and dance limbs everywhere.

Shake our arses. 

You know what they say about arses, they assume stuff.

And you know what they say about cancer. 

Its means that God is an arse.

He sure can dish it out though,

God that is.

The writer posted a picture with the eyes blacked out.

It’s better than a black eyed God, I say.

I wonder if he’s still at war with all those who care about him.

God that is. 

The writer tells me how to feel.

He defines me as lesser than.

But he can only define a snap shot in time 

And not even a flash bulb moment. 

Is left. 

Jump the shark

Make a bridge

Mind your business,

Your business is a crocodile in sheeps clothing

Your business is to jump through hoops

Your business is a peacock’s tail, a koala’s growl

A never ending battle where you protest too much

Your business is me, in the corner, knitting you a sweater

whilst I shiver in the cold.

My dream is a van, a house with a garden, music and friends, writing and art and love.

My dream is a hope for change. 

It’s art exhibitions and albums

I have so much time to waste ethereal.

I have so much love.