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Rock Star Confessions and the Children of Guilt

We are all rock stars Lounge room celebrities Couch-tomb corpses Caught in anemones at the bottom of the bath tub Laugh, hug, snorkel until the water goes cold. After that we can worry about the blood and the circling sharks closing in our stubbed toes. Itching our backs on flowery coral stones. The scratches match the pattern tile home, Cracks begin to show in the smiles That have grown over our mouths sewn shut by boredom. The lack of words hang in a slack noose of work-tie tempers, Loosened to release our frustrations in sweat and rashes. About our wet matchstick ‘successes’.

The sparkless darknesses hissing a last breath from the cardigan carcasses.

Wordless whispers - our 1st form of confession, In the heavy breath of nerd-kissed sisters learning wrong lessons, Or right lessons from wrong teachers. Until all that’s left are the songs that speaks to us, From dead stars with lipstick signatures And collectable sicknesses.

The walls of our classroom are splattered with spray paint and vomit. Chalkboards scratched with stylus on vinyl. Where history lectures send tingles up your spine Because they all relate to you and where you came from. Not all flames and bombs and the names of capital cities. This battle is fought by foot soldiers in street sneakers, With the folders and books sold to us shook Until the pages shake free from their stapled creases.

We’re slow readers, but skim listeners and speed speakers. So teach us, you rock stars, who were there, who we share a song with. Who we give an ear to and a fist for, Knocking on classroom doors, “LET US IN! WE WANT TO LEARN!”

Our 2nd form of confession was born of a congested throat, Guilt-locked and ridden, Phlegm clogged and smelling rotten, Yelled sore at gutter dogs and next door’s visitors. With god as our misery. We shout our prayers angrily Until the neighbours complain. Weighed down with artillery. The breakfast table over-turned To serve as a shield against riot police. The pious deceased. The violent wear crowns. Crying huskily, we bleed tears from our wrists. Our Care Bears are gutted and stuffed With plastic bags of narcotics To snuggle scarred toddlers Who fall asleep to shotgun lullabyes And the screams of the priests as they prey. And we are all priests, at least by day. And the dreams of the weak in bullet-proof vests. And we are all dreamers pulling up blankets, Thanking the bullies and thanking the violent kings, until the sirens grow wings, Carrying our aching bodies so heavy with sleep, Above and away in a trail of blood. The more we bleed, the lighter we weigh.

Our 3rd form of confession Spoke of revolution Through a megaphone pressed To the window of the bus we drove to the steps of the homes Of the men we once crowned out of fear. Knock, knock. We are here! Knock, knock, We come knocking with bodies from coffins, A frontline of cart-wheeling archers and kingsmen, All singing a war cry All crying about the war for which we sing. Ringing your door bell, Yelling your windows in. Bruised and swelling our barefeet batter a timber song Never to soften on the hardwood of your front door. Above our heads For love of the dead Our summersault pilots fly on wings of five fingers Knee-tucked and clearing your sharp metal stakes, electric wires on gates, protective sirens and dogs on a chain.

We’re in. It’s raining down chimneys, Bath tubs are over-flowing TV’s capsize as emergency rafts… Our bosses can’t swim. The foremen board themselves up in their offices, While Warehouse Cowboys race forklifts Down the store isles. A riot on wheels wireless people sighing with relief in the radio hiss of our rock star confessions, All guitar-blaze distorted, Until we’re all corpses In lounge rooms, now spilling out through the window into the garden, Flowers sprouting from our wounds Blooming out through the holes in our padded vests and overalls, As we scrawl an essay in lipstick of our own. Branding our epitaphs with lit cigarettes into the back of our hands. We’re blister-lipped singers, Howling smoke-rings, Crowned in burnt halos Wailing on wings with the dead stars, All kingless. Bending the bars from our beds, Scouring our lungs with Mortein breath Coughing up nest of flies from our belly. Purging ourselves through confession.

Etched in these bodies are actions - now told. Now soldiers, hold fast and hold strong for our history’s a song if you’ll listen. Our lives are stories of men without wings Who cast off their crowns before they dragged them to drown. Sitting bare headed, Here imbedded in our ears are the headphones Holding a reverse charge call from gods on microphones To all the dead in their homes. Our last verse given breath, We just listen and listen until all that is left is a dial tone.

B. Moon Child 2007

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'Free My Valentine' - to all the artists

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Be poetic with your living. Do something artfully, even if it is out of context or has no precedent. Create a moment out of nothing. Life won’t beg to be memorable. It is a humble beast that will waste away with the minutes you’re too shy to claim. No one will punish you for being average, but you may never forgive yourself. Put in that little bit more to craft the ordinary into the extraordinary. Someone will notice and it will give them permission to invest in their dreams too.

#bravochild #SuperheroSchool

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I passionately and authentically wish to live a full life. I want to understand what it was I was doing before I cease breathing and am forced to continue without this 6 feet of flesh. I quite like this body. I very much like many of the people who recognise me through it. I am grateful to be of...

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Image for Poem #38/103 from the Daily Poem Project

[halffacemonologues]

Daily Poem Project #38 / 103

“Yo! You want some poetry?” She calls out to me from across the street. The traffic blurs her like yesterday. “Something to make you feel something? I little dribble from the nib of my scribble? Wrap you up in my pages like a soggy t-shirt,  soapy with thought bubbles bursting on my nipples.” She’s the suddy singer wringing out the shouts from the grumpy thunder cloud. This stage is her shower-time.  Naked in the rays of the spotlight. “You like the dope of confusion? I can write you riddles about simple things!” How sexy is complex? How sexy is “Yes”? How sexy is wet? Well I’m sodden. The roof of my mouth looks like wrinkled finger-tips and babies bath-feet. My mind a constant slimy drip, down through my sinuses. Clearing my throat, using my notebook like a tissue. These words are sick and sticky. Remnants of the yesterday we left on the stove for too long.  Now the whole place smells like hot metal. Discard it all with the burned rice you scraped from the bottom of the pot, into the bin of ‘What’s Forgotten’. Rotting concepts spotted with the ink blots of these bleeding images. Rummage through the living room of my memories, scattered with old pizza boxes and socks I once lost games in. Sweat and orange peels stain the cotton, along with blood from shins. I know her… but did we compete or were we on the same team? I’m a thinker, but when I write, I write to win!!! I’m biting lips and kissing red and setting echoes deep into her mouth!!! I ‘whisper shout’. That kind of intimate secret that belongs to the world, so she sucks it off my tongue and announces it through a megaphone. My thoughts are not mine to own. She’s handing out my hopes like buttered popcorn in greasy boxes. Each one exploded in my mouth as I made out with sunrise on Day One. We looked into each other’s eyes and laughed about “This one time…”, but then forgot it with the rest, as our love became blind in the flames of indigestion. We looked too straight and stared too long. We loved too fast and swallowed without chewing. But regurgitation is not an option, we’ll have to let this pass through us.  Her face is a sunspot set against the city dew. This block is brand new, we only wrote it this morning. …but her face; it’s as though someone tried to rub it out with a smudgy eraser. Then she says it… she tells me her name. It’s an unapologetic reminder of the poem we fought before. Pinning metaphoric badges into each other’s skin as a collection of dead butterflies. All the beautiful moments we tried to capture forever… All now lost; surrendered into yellow dust. She has a bag of the stuff. “Wanna do some rust?”  She doesn’t seem to remember me. “Flickers in your eyes like celluloid dreams”. The screeching smog turns to perfume. I know her smell. I know her name… it was there in the beginning. She crosses the road as though each car is a horny teenager she can reject with a glance. She crashes into me, her body is a bastion of ‘No Retreat’.  I know she would be the final wall to fall were we ever beaten. If we were ever eaten by the these hungry wolves we cry. We tell the world we are home, sick. We can’t come in to work today. We tell the world this lie as we lie happily homesick for the housing of each other’s hug. As we map a track from the bathroom to the bedroom in underwear and business ties. As we hold up fingers like guns pointed at the ceiling, demanding the world “BACK-OFF”and let us live these lives…  The yellow specks begin to itch like pollen. My eyes puff up. The rust has set in. My eyelids squeak like hinges on hospital doors. Her breath tastes like disinfectant.  I’m looking at the present like a reflection in her glasses. I thought we were wearing Milkweed Monarchs, but were they only ever dreamflies buzzing around the carcass of the discarded truth? Next to the drybone chicken and that puddle patch of soup we spilled that first time we danced. We didn’t care at the time, but now maggots eat the carpet and we don’t get many visitors any more. So we cut down the telegraph pole next door, dip it in tar and punctuate our story with a definitive period. A sticky black dot which signals an end… which signals that we can go back to our thinking to conceive of this all again. What some may call ‘days’, we simply call our ‘pen’. As we scrawl this life into being and eagerly read ahead, toward our favourite moment; when Love raises finger-guns at the ceiling. When Life is the antithesis of ‘Dead’.

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A boy's inclination by bravochild

#PoetryIsCode

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I've decided to play with the medium I am presenting my poetry through.  'Poetry is Code' will be an ongoing series of poetry infused with, filtered through or otherwise influenced by technology, computers, code or the Internet... #01 = An animated GIF poem titled 'These Words Vanish'. -bravochild

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Scroll Feeding

The #Facebook news feed is a powerful force in influencing our daily mental focus and crafting the language we absorb, (more on the philosophic starting point for this poem here: http://bravochild.com/stopspreadingthenews/). I decided to assemble a poem purely from the words and phrases I witnessed on my own Facebook news feed to present a humorous remix of the ideas we are continually feeding each other: CHECK THIS OUT! Illuminati secrets revealed about Terminator vaginas, but not the Porche. ...this is the first time I've had signal... So here's a motor mouth selfie! I offer myself as a vehicle of love and openness to be A Tribute To Hollywood incest. Stay publicly soaped because white kids can’t dance, why? Concrete obsession and pizza trees, (cue beats). This fox struggles as he's forced onto a platform & electrocuted to DEATH for your box of chamomile… so fun!!! Just off to devastated little girl yoga now with one of those lying, cheating, ungrateful, social high horsed industry dicks. Most of my friends are a new collection online. Just realised… I'm wearing the same clothes everyday and have been on Facebook for 10 years.  I know what to ask santa for - Intuitive Intelligence. How to tell if a toy is for boys or girls ************ [data’s protected with encryption in transit for the fear that it’ll remind you how you felt back then] Today, two bittersweet things happened:  1. I passed my full license test, which probably means I'm an adult.  2. I time-travelled to 1995 by accident The microwave is WHY I AM NEVER HAVING KIDS The Antarctica ice shelf system is WHY I AM NEVER HAVING KIDS Boost juice is WHY I AM NEVER HAVING KIDS Print out this poster for future iPhone pharmaceuticals and Sleep Monitor Band. Here's a great step-by-step builders guide on how to build your own DNA from Albert Einstein, (dude’s got mad skills). DNA folds in a big clock, then carved by woodworking Android experts, (under the educational license).  The Filipino workers wearing handmade Migration Act software technology, brought to life from scratch, entirely constructed with paper, glue, motors, and lights before being photographed and brought to life digitally, (including Flipbook animation on a colour display the size of your thumb!).  Fracking and Fossil Fuels; the absolute worst breakfast foods you can eat. Feeling beautiful has nothing to do with how you pronounce it in your head. What could happen to your body if Alabama beat Notre Dame and the Pope resigned?? Brazilian girls know people who have lost everything and all of my academic friends. You’re not a bad person for the ways you tried to kill your sadness. Don’t Shoot, it’s only a wallet! This creepy parasitic fungus has been nicknamed “shiny schmick ticket”, it hit pesky Israeli pensioner/Ebola hybrid children,  (many of us are part alien, bound together by superheroes). THIS one may be real, I don't know. Are you high on cheapest haha fucktard Gold? I’m so sick of seeing train guards following Indigenous people around when they get on the "kinky kale". Anderson ‘The Spider’ Silva says “Bob Dylan hides under my buddhist fabric blanket?!” Webs become invisible. Spiders are in their invisible webs. I cannot tell if there is a web on me …also mosquitoes. Humans suffer from a wide range of ‘no malicious intent’ on epidemic proportions. Actual real talk? Please don't make me say. All I have to add is "woof"  PLEASE SHARE! I really hope this works… (thank you for having humanity and standing up for the deeper nuances of my science of weird).  --- written by Facebook friends, arranged by #bravochild.

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Daily Poem Project #35/103: I’m enroute with a long mouth sucking on the miles like a thickshake straw. It takes more than a chunk of ice cream to deter me. All this travel is making me worldy, I’d prefer not become too 'worldly' academic so I’ll stick to the kid speech. Forgive me if I missed a few statues and monuments along the way - I got caught up chatting in the subway, sitting on street corners in the middle of the night, stopping cars to look at drivers eye-to-eye… with you. I miss you, like I miss my right eye, like my depth perception is messed with in your absence. I’m splashing on the surface, but I need you on my shoulders to push me to where it matters. Let’s use each other as a ladder; you on my shoulders, me on yours, you on mine again. Bending spines into infinite 8’s, inflating our floatie wings to paddle out beyond the breakers. Piecing the waves back together with naive confidence that everything can be made better if you mean it. I hold a barrel, you hold a white horse. We look at each other smiling, but I admit that my arms are quite sore because I still have a surfer in mine… on a longboard, about to be eaten by shark, who swallowed a scuba tank yesterday… a rusted one that was attached to a diving camera rig… You tell me to be bigger than the ocean and I immediately cradle the wave like a slippery lap cat. It purrs and you stitch the white horse back on top like a mohawk of salty seagulls. I hand it to you and you release it back toward the shoreline. We watch it sink slowly into the sand. Its fluffy white wig washing back out towards us like a nostalgic toupée. We dust the coral off our knees and you ask me what I want to do today. I take a picture out the window and remember I’m on my way to see you. You float back to your body with the rip tide. My lips are tired but I keep sucking on this straw… soon I’ll hear the slurp of the last drops of clouds and I’ll be landing back down into you… --- for my SamRam thank you for piecing broken waves back together with me and all the other impossible adventures we find ourselves in.

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A ‪#‎birthday‬ ‪#‎poem‬ ‪#‎freestyle‬ for Becky, AKA Smackie Bear. 'Wear the sunshine.' ...We are the sunshine

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"The Awakening". Bravo Child repays Matthew Silver with a freestyle poem.

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A video poem I created for #SpaceOpera; a live/multimedia art night we are running with #POODLEHEAD in #NewYork.  Transcript: "As the colour drains from the cheeks, we sneak into the shadows, dragging wheelbarrows full of rainbows. As the security lights dim we lever our way in... We slide up beside you, unplug the drug the lines, plug in the music jacks and lace your floor panels with bass amps. Let’s play dance!? We will revive you through art!!! Breathe with me..."

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#Sarcophagus #halffacemonologues #Egyptian #Pharaoh #freestyle #poetry

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"I only every looked out the window with you next to me. With your breath on my cheek it was not necessary to speak, but now we are in this dip it's left me listless. I am looking at the wall and I hear the calls of the birds pulling at the back of my head, but they are like eggs, cracked,  leading me back to bed." #bravochild #freestyle 

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Words like '#goals', '#dreams' and '#motivation'

Words like '#goals', '#dreams' and '#motivation' are thrown around too easily; thrown over other words like a colourful cloth, hoping to hide the stained carpet beneath. Is our 'goal' really just a distant excuse, blinding us to the drudgery of our current activities? "This will pay off in the end...", is the trick of obedience we've been educated into! 'Motivation' need not be an unwilling donkey weighed down by discipline so it cannot stray. Surely a true 'dream' would make us tingle and sweat a little? DREAMS, being what they are, should make us feel like a rebel, like we're going to break REALITY if we achieve them! I am trying to put this into practice; to look at the current make up of my life and the way I engage with my surroundings, allowing the usual crust to crack and shell to be shed. If what I am left with quivers raw and pink beneath, if it feels too exposed, too sensitive, perhaps that's the fear of truly feeling something. Of being open. Of what I really value coming to light and potentially being trampled by the marching mass, stepping to the song of their own fears? ...but damn, we owe it to ourselves to be that bravely honest, that we know we at least got excited and kicked toward a goal that threatened to shatter a window. I don't want a placid nod of agreement when I sign out of this life. I want to be so wrapped up in the sticky, heaving funk of this place that a chunk of it comes with me when I go... -bravochild

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Late night lonesome. Jazz lipped phonehum. Goldnote homebound. Blur catch lost & found. #latenight #jazz #spotting #lone #saxophonist on #trainplatform #newyork