Someday we will have DJs at funerals.
I should know. I DJ'd a wedding once.
Well I shan't say I DJ'd the wedding.
I merely pressed play on the tiny boom box (SONY) and here comes the bride.
Twas a beautiful wedding.
A black wedding.
The bride was my first cousin Tamara.
Yes the whole thing was beautiful.
Stop it already.
A scant 4 years later I attended her death.
A rainy morning.
the morning sun not up.
I have a photograph taken July 27, 2003 maybe!
My brother her sister and I on a Carribean cruise. I'm sticking a tongue out. I was mad at the fine Bahamian wearing fake dreads making money by posing for photos for the non-natives. But if you bypass my tongue in the photograph you can see her. You can see the foursome of us smiling with some random Bahamian fake dread.
If you look slightly left in the photograph you can see her smile.
Her joie de vivre.
A moment if you will allow me. Away from the boat the Bahamian boys would not leave her alone. They would whistle, catcall, stare and menace. But she was my family. She was my cousin. Her protector and her friend. Those boys' eyes would follow us. But when I held her hand down the boardwalk they did not dare come within punching distance.
I will refrain from her beauty.
Her ability to tell me to 'shut the fuck up' with only a glance.
Somewhere buried I have the video of her wedding.
I can't watch it anymore but perhaps I should.
I need to see her happy again.
Beautiful again and
Maybe that is all we are
Modern day poets and writers
Amateur story tellers using different canvases
Lost souls trying to express themselves through ink
Broken hearts trying to cleanse themselves in blood
The stories are always made from the same elements, though
Pain, heartache, a little bit of hopelessness
Maybe a shred of light in the face of an abyss
And then it is all over.
I stand on bruised shores
And watch you disappear off the crooked horizon
Vaguely waving goodbye.
Is this strength?
I'm quietly letting go of the only thing that keeps me alright.
Letting go of the only one that makes me feel safe.
Why is it so hard to do the right thing?
and like that the siren drowns
Without a song to sing
I hope you're okay, darling.
I hope you will forever be happy.
I want to be there for you
But this all so unfair.
I said previously that I didn't believe
That if you loved something you should let it go.
I now understand what that means.
I love you enough to accept this.
I love you enough to know you know what's best and
I love you enough to not expect you to return.
I wrote the breath out of my lungs.
I guess it's fitting that this life
And what makes it worth living is gone.
I'm trying so hard to be strong.
and like that
The siren drowns without a song
Could vous just take a second, a moment, one solid instant
to visualize the boy in the stall with more felt lacerations than words of admiration.
Could the bold, bright, beautiful ones start singing
because I'm sick of the loud talk that goes through the motions of lingering
in an echoed room as they "try" to save the oceans - tell me, did we
litter on the way there? There's a forgotten world in stories told of heroes, breathing clean air.
Could the world give one more shot (a mountainous event) because history needs valor.
But technology is further than requirements for bravehearts to trigger a gun. Envision
a man four foot high, who stands a flag where poppies lie because he was that lucky man
who watched his fellows die
I'll say, weaponry wields death to We, naught could prove me wrong.
Could the world be a little bit more tight; bring back the mystery of gentlemen.
We're too loose and on the edge of loss, and the cost - oh, the cost
is sentimentality that somehow became disconnected when
baring your soul and stripping bare became two
and when I meet the one, my mind is plagued that we shall only amount to half.
Could the world be about more than the new, the sophisticated
or have too many eye closed to the life before the Dodo's died; now only
one view: to screen the disease from the rescued swingers, sinkers and singers
ahhhhhhhhh! basking in captivity: to compensate, we take back by metabolizing habitats.
Could the world be about to - because me and mine are everywhere,
but mind: the brain's likely to reach revelation. Clap, we will excel. After all,
when the world explodes and we reconnect, I'm sure each will preach and teach and leech
until it's known - We'll thank Gutenberg as needed, but printer is no master
when the minds are intertwined. But P'haps it has been a bad morning because I've known you
and you've bled true - long been fixing those around, so they aren't torches who warn off monsters,
instead they shave down fangs of loathing, there's no - not one! - beast they burn.
And don't I wonder? Ah yes, I do wonder: that now
Could the world be about to turn?
Hook the loops of your bag
between your forearm crease,
let it swing not lag
whilst you walk to see your niece.
Your nephew is ill in hospital,
your parents too ill to help out,
your sister is depressed, it's postnatal,
and you've been there from the beginning, throughout.
Those aren't tears, but the effects of the wind
while you walk nervous to see.
Tied up in your cold coat you’ve thinned,
but no one will notice nor disagree.
As you’re there to help, encourage with wise words,
short bursts of helpful blurbs will
satisfy your sister just enough
for her to get through.
Silk smooth arms wrap me
in a nude cocoon.
Our noses brush each other
like old pals embracing
My eyes are fixated onto yours
I see the sunflower rings
that encapsulate your pupil
green grass cornea
Your body is a utopia
I let my palms drag themselves
down your creamy curves
Toes box at the edge of the bed
on your neck
on your cheek
on your forehead
Our lips went out to coffee
and now they are cuddling
Minds committing foreplay
Fingers in labcoats
conduct anatomical experiments
I retrace your indents
I discover your scars
you are my case
Appreciation of beauty
through tender lust