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.
ReflectionI want to sprinkle a piece of meInto bit-code hoping it sticks.But no one cares about the truthUnless it's funny.And I've lost sight Of what that is;I've been taught that it's all relative.We're all irrelevant in the endAnd so, the fire that use to burn in my heartIs all Charcoal. And I've been tryingTo see with no eyes; to drive withNo direction.But now I know I want to meltTogether people's 90 degree angles,Until the world knows everyone's rights.I want to melt together the distanceThat separates prose and poetry;Fact and Fiction; light and darkness.
Dead or alive?I feel numbAnd coldIs this death?Or am I still alive?If I'm aliveI shouldn't beBecause death is betterThan this cursed lifeTo dieTo sleepNo more
He only dates broken girls.I will destroy you. I willmake you love mewithout even trying;you’ll love the scabson my knees, the bruisesunder my eyes, mysinged hair. You will lovethe rush of holdingmy hand as we crossthe bridge; you’ll feellike a hero each timeI don’t jump. You will buyme chocolates, the mostexpensive, to guilt meinto eating. You will buyme seeds instead of flowers,to give me a reason toget up in the morning. Youwill make me dependent,even as I feed your whiteknight complex. I will destroymyself, and so you,and you will know why storms are named after people.
Ignorant WisdomThe best of us die youngWhy?We are blood and bodyMind and muddled matterThat decays from the very airNecessary like an addictionOur eyes are skin and sinewSenses intaking a surfaceBut to the machine of faultsWhat is there lost to us?The best of us are of willAs what will be passed beliefThe demanding of subconsciousEdicts of the soulThen why do they die?Why must a will be severedWhen it drives our existenceAll that there isAnd will ever represent us?Why do vessels feed the muscle?Bones hold up our legsAnd a head with strong neckThat its aspirations rise?The best of us accomplishTasks of a higher calibreLike a barrel of the cannonOne volley into the starsThey undertake with all motiveAnd lose the unwinnable conditionFor through their demarcationRevitalize our weak heartsThe best of us die youngWhy?Because they are not usAnd remind us what we should beThrough the greatest leagueOf history's lessonsThey sacrifice their chance to liveAs watcher of the
While You Were SleepingWhile you were sleepingCells clusteredto whisper about you jealouslyin their tiny little chain gangbefore poppingpoppoppoppoppop -bigger, badder, better.While you were sleepingThey cementedtheir undying bond of friendshipand every face hardenedbefore poppingpoppoppoppoppop -sadder, snider, solid.While you were sleepingconspiracies rose and fellwith your breathand They rustled with laughterbefore poppingpoppoppoppoppop -more, malicious, mayhem.While you were sleepingCancer shoved over other kidsin the playgroundand took their placebefore poppingpoppoppoppoppop -suddenly, so, scared.While you were sleepingyou were overrunand we can fight it, of course,with artilleries in the arteriespoppingpoppoppoppoppop -we'll, wield, weaponsbut while you were sleepingthey took a misered,bleak,first victory;poppingpoppoppoppoppop -into tumultous, tumourtuous, laughteras you lay undefendedand they captured your heart.
coming of agethere are parts of meyou can still hearon the radio;at first, you'll mouththe words, but youwon't be able to tellif the static touchingyour ears rests inmemory, and memory alone.my love is not leagues deep.you'll always be the oneto decide if i'm worth standingin up to the ankle,lukewarm and lapping,or if you'd like to sleepbeneath my shores, milesbelow discernible life.the long lesions scoringthe belly of my pridehave scabbed over,and trust me when i sayi clench my fists uponremembering those who havebruised me in the nameof disgust -trust me when i saymy teeth are baredand i am snarling,the blood from past fearsstaining my lips.
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.