Page Two
Poetry and artwork by Ian Sawicki
A Multitude Of Species

With desire stuck like fresh hope to my heart,
I wander through the impressions of beauty.
Habitual over-indulgence in intoxicating themes,
nature's screaming paintbrush existence,
splashing colours like some insane artistic shrug.

Sunrise cracks its bones of light with a lazy stroll,
shadows form and stretch across yards - littered
with old toys, new growth peeking under their paint.
Life returns to sleep, nocturnal yawns, while daylight
rings the bells of the dawn's structured formation.

Fantastic futuristic explosions of eyes flutter in chaos,
dreams running in all directions for their cover,
they collide with the pillows and sheets: warmth cooling.
And a brand new section of time stutters into view,
brandishing swords of sharpened seconds, minutes, hours.

I sing, my mind a delight of senses in motion,
notes cascading down the morror's cold look.

Shave my sleep-clinging-skin right into awake,
wet the promises of awake with mighty rivers.

Another sentence is to be released from its cell,
life in slow moments, quick, scatter yesterday.

Earth spinning like a top underneath burning stars,
the language of the universe spilling its music wildly,
we move, small drops of heartbeats furiously frantic.
The connections, large and small, leading our awareness
through the confines of knowledge, we laugh out loud.

Alive, here and now, these eyes see the world's maze,
the flickers of shades in the corner of vision, visions.
Exotic, a multitude of species roaming the same soil,
inhaling the same air that washes this wonder: our home,
and I am taken aback, like every morning, surprised.

Wonder and confusion sliding like ice melting,
my mind, the battlefield of thoughts I watch, charge,
go through their salutes to the heaven's mystery.
Prayers of thanks, winks of smiling, generous time,
I am young, life is mine to mould into expectation.
I Met Myself

I met myself,
reflections gathered
the dust of years,
smiled with hunger.

I listened,
with rapt attention,
to my mouth's curves
speaking backwards
to my captive eyes.

'Open this life,
quench your thirst
with love,
beautiful heart.
Eat of this spirit'.

And so
I fed myself
promises,
laughed wine
down the front
of my feelings.

Loneliness faltered,
split hairs, ran across
the back of my neck.

I met myself
as I was leaving.
Friends

When you died,
you left drunken vomit stains
and a memory I will carry until
death comes to claim this life.

When you died,
a part of my crazy childhood
was buried beside the earthy
remains of yesterday's laughs.
The Skin Comes Off

The skin comes off:
ripped silently,
peeled slowly,
it falls to the floor
like spiralling feathers.

The tendons are pulled:
snapped like a bow-string,
the sound shatters the air,
they are discarded
like broken toys of childhood.

The veins are gathered:
rolled into bloody balls,
thrown into a lost corner,
they sit in the dust
of dead shadowed times.

The bones are broken:
tiny pieces splinter,
larger ones wait to be gnawed,
they wait for the dogs of day
to come calling for burial.

All that is left is who I am,
the echo that is my mind:
my spirit swooping along
the ways of the world
where souls gather individuality.
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