As the walls of Troy
came crumbling down
I wonder where it was
that you ran

I keep a small faith
that something stole you
           instead
wrenched you onto its ship
           bedded you

I have words
which taste like venom
           or a sinner’s eulogy
the way
that I can put them together
bringing rhapsodists to their knees

            and you
have a self-conviction:
           your words
are better than mine
           my words
are merely the stink
which rises
from the suburban ******* tip

you forget that we speak
            the same language
the same words
over and
            over again

I wake up in May
there is dew on the sill of the window
            culminated
from my ****** foulness

you climbed through it
             said goodbye
with a dry mouth
and a steady voice

every evening
is an odyssey for you

I was the antagonist
I wanted to flood your ship
I wanted to drown your men

you are the wise man
               the one
with the ideas
               the one
who in the end
is meant to save us all

a different you – I know it’s you
you feel the same
                same
strength in your knees
                and same
self-conviction

returned to me
and to this archaic city
at the start of May

your words are different
and now
you have a kiss
like the world is ending
and I am your final prayer

we are always searching
for a way to disappear
indefinitely
inside each other

between the walls
of a timber stead
we have cycled
back to the beginning

                   begin again.

A foreign city.
Motionless but the wind.
Held down by heat beneath a tram.
A fountain – barren in the cold.
Arms rested against a fence.
We witness a robbery.
Three boys.
Feet gripping gravel.


“SHUT UP”
“SHUT UP”
“THEY WILL HEAR US”
“DISAPPEAR”
“DISAPPEAR”


Walking back into the kitchen.
No one to tell.
Head rests against cold tile.
Sweat scrapes like sandpaper.
Heated light bearing against the skull.
Arms like anvils.
Skin like stalactites.
The memory of a home.

Gentle
Gentle
breathe it in
it's all for you:

The moss on the trees
the acid in your mouth
the choked air in a sun room.

We can share this together.



See here is the man missing.
         the hero is missing.

We heard many great tales of his exploits:

The wife at home,
her endless tapestry

The fatherless son now
A quarter century old.

We can share his glories,
the glorious goods:

Waking up to blood
on bedsheets
without a sign of scratch



Here
Here
     Come gentle now
forgotten son:

The sail is escaping from your grip
This ship is taking us nowhere
Change the gears.

A hero will come, he’ll come
He’ll come
He’ll come

(The hero has left the room)

I keep going back to that night on the beach,

And that one in Kathy's garden where you braided my hair,

And that one in your back room where you got drunk for the first time,

And that one at that party where you passed out,

And that one where you brought that ***** you're dating,

And that one where you wouldn't even look me in the eye,

And that one where you told everyone I wanted to ruin their lives.


What ***** me up most is how I told you I loved you and you said you loved me too,

But you didn't get what I meant.

And now I'm here in the midst of you pretending I don't exist, trying not to let everything go and ******* beg for you;

But I'm not that type of girl.

I'll catch public transport every day but never learn the difference between zones 1 and 2.

I won't remember your age, or your birthday, or what your political stance is

But I'll remember about the time when you were six and you knocked your head on a chair, chipping off half of your brand new buck tooth.

And even the way you shook your head self-deprecatingly after you told me that story and pointed to the filling you have now because of it.

You said that it's invisible but I saw it -- if only because you told me it was there.

I started writing this when we were still together
The sad thing is that a lot has changed in a week without you.
It always started with how
before you my life was silence,
there wasn't any rhythm or serenity that came from song.

- I've changed it now.

During you, everything was music, and vibrancy, and just-
happy. Then sad.

Now that you're gone I've returned to my primary state.
I feel like the shell of something that used to be. Like whatever I was has crawled out and moved on away.

My old best friend got drunk last night and sent me a message telling me how much he loved me;
                                                             ­    because I was pretty,
                                                         ­                                 "****** up."
I wouldn't blame that on you though, because it's been a work-in-progress for
                       7 years now. You just splashed some more of that onto the already ****** artwork. Someone said that I should start thinking of people as art,
but I'm still failing to see how I could be anything like art myself.

But you,
you were a masterpiece-
signed with an expiration date.

"Calm before the storm"
has been on my lips ever since
you started looking at me with
disgust written all over your
face, (don't worry I'm revolting
there's no blame there) here look
how many tongues I can speak.
Are you intimidated yet? My eyes
are drawn dark to scare you
are you properly. Frightened. No?
I'll try harder, you say that too
and you look sad or angry (they're
the same thing these days) where's
my sympathy? You want me to
tell you I love you but how can I
when you slice my tongue every
time give me a chance to breathe
(let up your hold on my throat
please) this is the storm you are
the outlaw your gun is firing it
hasn't. Stopped. Stop. Please the
skin on your nose is burnt
red from my words you meant to
make me cry you changed my
blood pack for wine and now it's
thrumming in my veins these
words will never stop. Stop. They
won't stop because you keep
firing the gun. Stop. Help me stop.
Help.