Through glassThis is permanence,This empty room.No vibrancy herebut the adamant beat of my heart,And the blue sizzle of my mind.The deep breaths before me.And the sensation of glasstouching my fingertips,sending chills up curved spines -kissing pale hairs on the back of necks.Gently and quietlyI passed my hand through the glass,And stepped from the roominto clear, cold water.
Vase with thistlesAn alabaster infant lay down in nettles,gripped them tightly in fat little fists,and said they tickle.picked them from the roots and called the nettlesroses, a vase lined with thistlesplaced on the windowsill to sitand wait in grey light, for the alabaster's stings to fade, their spikes to dull, their leaves to brown.
Pale FishPale fish seen through blue window paine,Behind net curtains, touching the glass,Leaving behind prints and breath,Drawings in condensation,A face with a smile,A sunbecause the beams don't penetrate through the double glazing.Daisies which don't grow inside.And the playing children seen through the blue,Who laugh at, not with,Until until, pale fish, she drowned.'Thought and affliction, passion, hell itself,She turns to favour and to prettiness.'Flipped and flopped.Wasn't found for weeks.
A DeathI think things matter less,When you get older,But the small things mean more,The kiss in the evening,And the smile in the morning,And the endless endless nothing,The waiting until the end,I'll choose the font on my gravestone,And pick my slice of soil,My upturned grass,My coffin, made of willow,At least the details,I can control,If not the odds and ends.If I planned it all,The days after my last,I still won't know what to say,In the last moment,Feel I ought to,Really,Or should I go in silence,An unsettling silence,No closure,And no wasted words,Just a blurred line,And a flower I didn't see by the bed.Thank you all the same.
Like ghosts at cockcrowA thick glass lens held against light,To bleach out grey tones and burn antsaround ant hills and under leaves,pinned down under beams,which they never deserved, but got,which we, desperately, need.It's hard to make loveAnd call it fucking,Or fuck and call it love,When you hear ambulances and babies crying.When anything could be happeningother side of the wall.They can take your touch and make it theirs,underline its commonness,make you feel like animals behindcomplimentary wordswhich apes forgo and poets blubber,through bookstores and tears.Not so much disappointed,but out of ideasof how to dress it up in bowsand embellishinto something more eloquentand more brightthan a beautifully greyand done life.Like ghosts at cockcrow,We're an imagined noise,That makes a man wake in his bed,Not knowing why,And drifts easily back into sleep,Shrugging off their nerves for a creakand the croaks of old pipes.
Caught on a nailOf nature, our function to function,To stop and drift,Easily passed and grey.As vague as dreams and fleeting fanciesVaporous, hazy existence,Diaphanous and weightless.My body passes as easily and quickly,as delicately as the blood in me,unnoticed, it's as soft as shadows,weak and easily damaged -fine silk caught on a nail,a fragile sensethat one is never secure.A shock to the egotistical state,Bone and muscle blocking my mind from yours.Light and tenuous,thin as hollow bird bones,their downy feathers.And it's comforting.As a species barely here,It instils an uneasy calm.Uncomfortably -it makes me squirm.Comfortably it makes me soft and stilllike tired eyes closing,like lying down to sleep.
I may be dirtI may be dirt.There may be better dirt.More fertile and soft to touch.To tread over carpets and stamp into doormatsTo cover knees and leave hands grubbymucky pups in darker dirtto keep them dirty for days.You're still in this dirt, in this pile,shovelled and dug for things to grow,daisies raised from dust with pink tips on clean white.for love-me-love-me-nots, forget-me-forget-me-nots,and stems without flowersTo arrange in small vases on window sillsAnd leave until March, through 'til April,when it rains and rains.So when there's sun, it glitters.The dirt which made grass which made daisesglitters in April under dew.before it's yellowparched and done.After it's mud around toes.
Diamonds making jigsawsTo see bones under skin,Kept simple, plain and white,Comfortable and worn softso it runs smoothand tickles the hairs on the back of hands,arms and necks.for dry mouths,and lightly curled fingersrelaxed on pillows,or fingernail palm fists.the insignificant details, the cracks on skin,diamonds making jigsaws.For words read slowlyBrazen and barefaced.Through ivy and mazes,Through a veiled, romantic glaze.Through all the bullshit.To leave them anxious,listening with eyes closed,so they feel every word.For the anticlimax finish.
Circled like oceansBeating,slowly, calmly,heard the rain and the windsaw dust and breath,and shadows on a white ceiling.My heart beat heavy then, and now,different cause,blood circled like oceanslike seashell noisebeating.
PhoenixI won't be your phoenix,your death wishof maudlin wordsstretched across this failing light.I will not wearnew wings for youthat crimson youwere born with -a mother's final wishto keep out the winterand weep.But I will wait,the flaw and beautyof your youthpainted across your palmsas you hold upthe moon to meet me.
We all are beautiful!We all are beautiful!The problem is on our eyes!
Solemn TimbreMy heart is the rotten,exposed-beam,roof-ripped-off carcassof an ark;that once protected,nurtured, savedbut now is a mererelic,a remnant,of when there was hopeof things gettingbetter.
RidaYou said your namewas Rita with a "d"and let me blundermy way through you.You said I had charm(and finesse was for amateurs)I liked how you were a ladder,how you could speakin any accent you wanted;you liked when Idid not change the sheetsor tie my hair back,You had droppedout of art schoolin Alabamawhere your fatherstill thought you were a virgin,and I was bussing tableson St. Charles.We lived all that summerin one roomand a kitchen.You would fry plantainsand we would wash them downwith purple haze,watching the musicianssilhouette their soulsagainst the sky.On weekendsyou would tell fortunesin Jackson Squareand men would payjust to watch your copper hairspill out their futureacross the cards.The city had neverseemed so cleanso fragrant with rainand the daze of hibiscusrioting in the courtyardfollowed us in our sleep.But autumn came too soon,hooded in chill -its mood ugly and resentful.I watched you deadhead someone's rosesin the yard -know
Authorshipyou’re the authorof this story - and yetinsist on playingthe role of a foilwhen you couldrewrite the pagesas you wish.
DownfallAnd in this dark harvest of seasonMy life has completely lost reason,For which or against to decide.All lost in a savage and endless, bleak tideIn sadness and in kindnessIn light and in darkness.In a boat made of hopeI shall sail to tomorrow,In a winding hurricaneMade of treachery and sorrow.There's a spear, endless, and colossal spear...Piercing, slashing though my head.Starting somewhere in heaven,Ending somewhere in hell.Fighting, burning, crying, crashing.Are the armies within.In my head they are all thrashing.On the heaven's and hell's whim.To be light or to be darkness.A perpetual array.It's not merely my choice,But the choice of the way.It's an option of the voice,It's a thin line of gray.Is it a choice forced by fate,Is it a pre-set time and date?Or a choice to which I myself sway?But here's our story anyway
."Nothing that I do will matter.As all things will merely shatter!"All my hopes thus darkness scatter,As it shoves me a decree.As it si
spaceshiptwoWhat's leftafter the explosionare these suns,a faint projectionfrom an unreachable darkness,flickering.And then everything is simultaneous;the entangled mess,the crowds.*And maybe it's all about editing and being edited-The pilot painted across a desert,A desert painted across the pilot.*Or the holographic drift, a surface reflection-The expanse outside echoed inward,Jagged orange treelines over the firefly black like someone holding onto a woman(or the memory of a woman).*Or maybe just the T.V. relayas I struggle to sleep,the newscasterfrom both dimensionsglowing and whispering:The horses of your apocalypse/the apocalypse of your horses.
All Hallows EveThey say that on this night the witches ride,that spirits walk and churchyards spew their dead. It isn’t true. It’s said the stench of hell infects the earthand healths of heated blood are downed. But Hamlet lied. The dead know nothing, the living less. There are only poets with blood-nibbed pens;souls hung between high heaven and deep hell.
JumpI look downI can't see the bottomSo I smileBefore I jump
But desolateI took a telescope to the skyand saw no life.No message,no god.I saw stars and planets,All empty,And our own isolation Our view bright but desolate.