there are snails in my mailbox probably because they I don't pay attention to what's in my mailbox they are massacring the junk mail and there is a ventriloquist over the road drinking tequila I see an old lady across the road has let her cats kill some bluebirds I heard them chirping to death I am disassociated from the shoreline as I walk back to have woodfired pizza I see a young asian nurse pushing around a shopping cart filled with beer it seems she was a writer and that after working her nightshift at the hospital she wanted to get drunk Sometimes caring too much Can make you lose a part of yourself And as the sun’s melody shapes the shadows That reflects off the Japanese blossom, and almond trees Across the road I am Reminded of how sharp And elusive my vision of the world is I want to keep myself distanced from people When I am away from them The sun is more real The water feels more clear, and fear is no longer near. Oxycodone Sombre oxycodone sand, I feel the weight of necessary regret, purple, and wine-like molluscs shimmering in the Bay of Fires, I am here, I think about the dolour of a sleepwalking cursed skylark, for there is imagery to be found on a hospital bed a tweed Herringbone coat of oaky displeasure solid and gold, and I see time fold I want these thoughts to make sense, and to make sense of myself I must believe, for to love is to understand the true cost of the imagination to believe in love is to reprieve myself from my ulcerative colitis for there is a blackwood panther on this hospital bed with me I feel it accentuates the composure of lost gods, and lost minds there is nothing to regret but regret itself, for I want to make sense of this dream all those Jellyfish singing Mariah Carey’s song hero, I see that Lord Bryon Is a black swan drinking a pipe on a piece of red gum slowly vanishing before my naked eyes? on these trepid waters, and to make sense of this marvel, this pain I am suffering my thoughts have no connection only a seamless melody one that exudes the displeasure of myself in myself, there is an empty chasm where the poisoned vapored orchids of myself corrode in the ocean paper of the luxurious glee of me. St Helens Bless your shadow be sauteed in the robust hymns of St Helens' king tides where you reach for the love of Tasmanian life of spectral tasting of a Willie Smith's apple ciders and we walk along the shores with fishing rods hoping for something to catch, perhaps a gummy shark, and we know the art of eye-gazing nature we take in like with a Murakami touch and we talk of Hemingway and crispness of the divine eating away at the beauty of cathedral-like caves phantasmagoric sands genuinely genuflected with how the sun rises in the morning, we are moved and caught in this stanza drifts onwards into the sea-lights Pearl Harbor Their love lingers on these shores, and the rockpools are coalescing in the memory of a shattered, eternal love. It was nostalgia that brought Melody Atkins back to where the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbour. It wasn’t the brightness or the beauty of the blue rhapsodic waters that brought Melody Atkins back to where her father faded into the fire. It was the screaming, scorching memory of her Father’s last moments. A naval officer with a bright future his wife gone, and the future of his child in disarray. Peter Atkins got the signal, and call via radio that the Japanese were twenty minutes away from bombing Pearl Harbour into smithereens. Peter didn’t know what to do all he could do was evacuate his family, evacuating the love he will never see again. He won’t be able to hold his wife in his hands anymore or see his future daughter born. But he knew what he had to do was get them out of there. All he could do was send them away the biggest sacrifice he would ever make, and as he directed the other naval officers to take Henrietta Atkins to higher ground. He teared up and gave her a kiss that would turn into the shadow of the blue moon that Melody would come to see later when she visited the shoreline where Peter first fell in love with Henrietta under the moon in Honolulu. Exsanguination Asleep the air is constantly a concoction of a mirrored deluge And a splatter of rain on the red bricks, and the intriguing concussion of love bubbles oozing sacrosanct a traumatic slumber and asleep to the whispered chaos of yesterday, and all the wordless oceans are the exsanguination of the copious melodies of unfounded years pulsating in my femur, I am asleep, and this bubbling bruising Tiredness is fermenting inside of the abdomen, a chestnut tree is on fire and, I see what could’ve been, I don’t want to awaken and this cascading image is more pliable than human relationships more pliable than the being of love more pliable than my own sinew and sleep, I shall be a complexity drifting upon the nakedness of river blue tulips that arouse no suspicion, for I am animated by nonsense, I am, animated by own lethargy my own possible death, a sonnet not. Hydrocortisone Blue grassy hues and my hospital window is less than serene and the vapours in the air are like a gangrenous flower tiled in a immaculate melancholy here I breathe before the diction of empathy and emphatically I euthanise my only hope of seeing another day and the rain slumbers tonight in my toes and my neck is crucified by a hydrocortisone show at 3AM and I'm here waiting for another breath another fable to keep me up at night rescued by nonsense rescued by red sparrows that crawl into my eyelids I wake up again idled swallowing down some apple juice and all the flowers are veiled in the garden below the hospital the vines are also as lost as me, I wake up again and this rhythm holds me down in this hue of a stolen fallible dream of how I met God through the frayed air of myself Hinterland Unkept the path is, immutable magnolias Do not vanish in your sight the spring filled light forbodes your every delight, ruinous and dark despairing for a kiss you crumble in form unshaped by the curvature of forgotten streams in the Hinterland we seek atonement for our whims We walk in solace by the sea-stone Song of sandstone pillars And titanium rainstorms That beautify our struggle In this Hinterland of Wales We will take love as it Is thrusted upon us. The Doorway to San Francisco inspired by Jack Kerouac The doorway is shrouded in pink daffodils the walk long the journey astray the swiftness of Kerouac and honeyed boulevards with the last letters of Ginsberg ringing in your arms, and wild is the whiskey in Nashville you of petite legs and lissome hands shadowed, the path to San Francisco is long and we are wayward I wonder I ponder The sunset rivets me and I got no dimes left only the sweetness of your breath perched on my shoulders and your marrow glossy and true an acoustic glue, I got your saliva pressed on my notebooks, and the ink is still wet and I don't want it to go dry and I want to reach the canyons with enough crayons to forget time and do you have an Irish coffee with you? Will we meet somewhere beyond Boulder or we will bivouac where the nothingness is ovulating sweetly like Henry Miller's Sexus, I got you and we will wonder and ponder yonder, where naught is my epigraph and you are candid, and your are carousing moonlit, and snuff, I can't be defeated I am breaking all the rules of grammar and I have conveyed a mirror of plastic sirens, and none of this is supposed to make sense since we are waiting for Godot I will evaluate your heart soon as I levitate in the Colorado sun and I remember The Grampians in Victoria how wonderful are they, psychedelic and crisp the sweat that lingering bliss natural rhapsodies and long is the path to San Francisco where the leaves of lost art is slumbering good and young. Percocet from Hard Rain Poetry: Forever Dylan Anthology from Fevers of the Mind Press Percocet and a peacock coloured moonlight and the translucency of this autumnal bone of trees that used to glow and here I’m waking up waking up inside inundated with a dreary sign of a blood stained moth flooding my soul and in winter I’m with Bob Dylan climbing Antarctic snow climbing a June breeze and here I’m again holding my tears aflame I could be better I could be a better man something like steel someone kind a sinew of desirable might It feels like I’m drifting nakedly on borrowed time, and I could be better, better for you Bio: Jeremy Limn is a poet in his late twenties who has published three books of poetry, Raining Poems, The Auguries of Lost Lilacs, and The Roses Forget You, his work also appeared in the 2016 July Issue of Infernal Ink Magazine, and the Yearbook for the University of Tasmania 2015, and published twice with Vext Magazine, The Ernest Becker Foundation.