What moves me now.
Not passion, the friction of teenagers,
Nothing to it but lost heat,
To what- a cause, a fraternity, the truth,
There is no nun left in me.
Bravery, bah, today all is self,
Life lived off a wink and a pocket mirror,
Courage now a modern lust,
Played on screens and handheld things.
None of it has grip or time,
Now only forgiveness has her hand on mine,
Beg for me she whisper kisses,
Teases, taunts and reminisces.
The time you struck your Son,
Hard, in fury, a black blood stain
Beg the dead boy once again,
Offer him one final chance
To billow out his heart and reattach.
Your Grandfather, hanging from the thick barn beam
Seven children none a teen,
Pauper’s morning porridge on their cheeks
Swinging back and forth, the rafter squeaks,
Was he wanted, wicked, or was he weak.
A hated mother, she cut him down,
Left her with a Mobius frown,
And all her pain she saved for you,
Isn't that what mothers are supposed to do.
Ask them all it’s not too late
Come sit as one on your final bed,
Round you gather all your dead,
Damp the stingy tears you've shed,
Beg forgiveness for the life you've led.
How cruel is the thunder that woke me from my dreamless sleep.
I've longed for that luxury so many nights more.
I think we've finally arrived at fighting now,
A sort of anger we've not yet experienced before.
You can fight me on it all night long, dear,
Because I love to fight the way we do.
Dragged out screaming, senseless from the hallows of martyrdom
My father's mother's wayward brother
Baptized in propaganda and searing lead
Kamikaze death machine to paranoia fever dream
A noble experiment in utter catastrophe
Half measure, interstellar tourniquet
Stem the free flow of blood like inconvenient statistical evidence
Dripping down born-again virgin America's chin
Vector-like, everything explodes outwards
And on trajectories like these only friction is holy
Murphy's law in ecstatic altercation
A furious life lived under an anachronistic magnifying glass
Truly the only thing worth decaying for
How deeply the lie was conceived
in a gospel of faith and ignorance
How easily the people were deceived
to separate through intolerance
Truth is powering the commotion
A hunger reminds the desire
Reaction is empowering the emotion
Friction sends us the fire
Who will burn their skin
Lying on life’s beach
Who will turn within
and practice what they preach
Who will feed the flames
Who decides the names
They have a book…
the ghost-writer’s lied
Concealed in symbols
Hidden in signs
Revealed in geometry
and between the lines
“Man, Gnow Thyself”
so ‘Self’ is found
Who can see
beyond the distractions
What will be
the cost of our inactions
Annihilation of the Way
Co-creation every day
© Verso-(David Moule) 16/01/08
You had torrents and storms in your hair
Grey dewy eyes that whipped windy stares
And at the beginning I didn’t feel the cold weather you brought around with you.
you flickered like the hesitant cheap matchstick
That resides in between the fingers of the adolescent that doesn’t yet understand
Caused by two opposing forces for a reason
For an end product, to commit treason
But not according to your abundant manual of
Do’s and don’ts that mention in the title you’re exempt
under the weight of so much paper thin equality
chapters damp with words that stank of expectations
I found a home under the printed lines of I love you, the running ink dousing me with a blackened perspective on what it was you really wanted for me
To give but not receive
to be free to talk but not to breathe
but everyone knows
you require both to form a voice
and without that
my fingers would slowly snap to the beat that my bones would crack
To the rhythm of your whiplash tongue
Which would flush waves against the shores that were my shrinking figure
The small women you requested at the doorstep of our relationship
Has finally shrunk to fit through the keyhole
in the shape of your accessory
Which is obviously necessary to put up with me.
It’s funny to think about how messed up a family can be. Everything’s just a big facade--we all pull ourselves together to cover up the cracks. But if you really look, you can see how stretched thin we are. No one wants to reveal the shadows, the burns. But there’s so much anger. We are so taut, ripping at the seams as we yank ourselves into place, as we force back the emotions that beat at the bars.
There are reasons why we have our distractions. There are reasons why we sleep, why we eat, why we read, why we watch endless hours of shitty sitcoms. We don’t want reality. We don’t want the pain of confrontation, whether it be with ourselves or with another person. We live in a fuzzy world of bliss, with the third-party privilege of being at a distance. It’s nice to imagine, for a little while, that your life doesn’t exist. There’s so much less friction that way.
This is not a family.
This is the aftermath
Of a mass collision
When two whole circles
And fit each other.
Because two round edges
Can never fit together,
They chip at each other,
Year after year.
The little bits and pieces that fall off,
The remains of the constant collision,
They gather in a little mound.
This is the child.
The friction between the two
Forms a being so strange,
It's not even a
Recognised geometrical shape.
It is no polygon like the rest
Has no sides.
Others say this lump of being is
But the lump knows
— it's just lonely.
It grows larger
Just growing by
The number of
It knows that one day
It'll just stop growing
Because the two circles,
Once so full of themselves,
Will finally smoothen it out
And fit together.
When that happens,
The lump will also become
A lump cannot really move.
Not like a square
That can roll like a die.
Not like a triangle
That spins like a top.
Not like a
That can roll like a wheel.
No, a lump is a lump is a lump.
It cannot move.
And will stay there
Under the big black shadows of
Two collided circles.
But we aren't so far ahead yet.
At this point,
The circles roll against each other. Smoothening out.
A circle would roll over the lump
Almost killing it.
Almost smothering me.