A sort of out of body... question
A body asunder which is to say, I mean, I have feet for eyes
Fingers replaced with eyes
Arms of many knees
And my head's nowhere to be found
Despite my frantically looking eyes
My lips are fingers
I'm also missing some core components like my soul (it's been stolen)
Or is nothing where it should be?
Or is everything in place?
Or has this abstract symbolism
She appeared first in a dream
when I was fifteen. Yes,
she was the fire of ecstasy and those first licks
set my world alight.
She's a shape-shifter, sometimes
blonde, sometimes dark,
but always softly naked when she comes.
She often whispers secrets
in the molten nights.
But clumsily, when morning breaks,
and I'm alone,
I struggle to remember. Accordingly,
I search the cities, the subterranean rivers
and far off mists and mountains
every writhing, glistening day.
But it won’t surprise you when you know
about where I mostly go to find her.
It's under the volcano,
the place of endless fire.
It's where us dreamers and us demons
dance with our desire.
Mike T Minehan
I don't fear emotion. It comforts me
Emotion cradles me in its warm embrace
Like a new born child gasping between tears
And holds me tight until I catch my breath
I don't fear language. It welcomes me
I've spoken since I was 2 and articulated for years
Words are as vital as my heart and my lungs
Even more so when they keep me from suffocating
But I fear poetry. It taunts me
Structure is my comfort
Yet the bane of my existence
It haunts me
For the road that I take
And I fear that I diverge
Too far from the rest:
My poetry lies in breaks and stanzas
Not breaths and motions
It poisons the air but breaths life to the page
It ignites the heart but dies on the lips
It penetrates the mind to it's deepest depths
But when it is spoken it burns to the flames
I don't fear the reading. I fear the response
The silence that echoes in place of the cheers
The tentative applause that chokes me to tears
The thoughts that resound:
"That's metered not free"
"It breaks far too much"
"Not slam poetry"
Too different for them
Too different for me.
I fear the impact
After the fall
Because it makes me wonder
If I'm a poet at all
She must feel beaten down,
she must feel like crying.
The questioning seems unbearable
her past is so frightening.
So young to be taken
ripped from her home
from family and friends
and a life of her own.
Only 14 years old
so naive, so unknowing.
An innocent life now emotionally stolen.
Forced to live in a prison
to do things unwanted.
Forced to be hurt and humiliated
could she overcome it?
Wittingly she decided
she would stand up and fight
even if it meant she might have to die.
But 50/50 is better than no chance at all
and if she did nothing
this would be, her only dance and fall.
Her skin turned to leather
her wheels started turning
she vowed to herself she would
end the hurting.
Skilled she began
studying her captors
and adopted a plan.
Her plan of escape
brought them back to the place
where the search did not end
though they told her it did.
Where the love she remembered
was so much stronger than them.
In Salt Lake City the police took her in
they reminded her of a life
she could call home again.
Then courage took over
firmly she took her stand
against the impossible
and like a tree she stands.
11 years later
roots firmly planted deep and strong
she smiles big at the camera
happy to be alive,
content with her outcome.
Once I knew a place, a place I never truly found significant.
A vast stretch of abandonment and history - long forgotten and left to be consumed by Time himself.
Once I knew a place, a place I never truly understood.
Decorated by Mother Nature with an asortment of trees and shrubs and an abundance of flowers it's only scar which betrayed it to the present was a solitary man-made structure, tattoed with the bold letters of "FALCON SECURITY" - surely an untold testimony to this place's past life.
Once I knew a place, a place I never truly acknowledged.
Ocassionally it would become the temporary haven of hobbos and hermits alike. Living in mutual homelessness they sort comfort under the trees, in the confines of the hideous building or simply amongst the long, billowing grass of the place. They would build thingie-ma-jigs, what-ja-ma-call-its and thing-a-ma-bobs and sell them to the curt passerbys of their place.
Once I knew a place, a place I never truly appreciated.
Surrounded by infastructure, and industry it stood out like a rose amongst the thorns and brought beauty and clarity back into the otherwise monotonous, morbid environment. It stood defiant and strong against the hungry, salivating greed of humanity - yet someday it was bound to succumb to our over-powering ambition for development.
Once I knew a place, a place that no longer exists.
In the blink of an eye that place was destroyed - uprooted and upheaveled.
Every tree, every shrub, every flower ripped out and now gone. No longer a haven but a grave yard where the dead lay scattered like fallen soldiers across the battlefield. Victims against the War of Industrialisation they fell prey to mans' heinous desires.
"Collateral damage" for a "brighter" future they say.
I say, who needs another vehicle retail outlet.
Once I knew a place, and I will never know that place again.
Do you find yourself wandering through the desert of life
Searching for an oasis of truth
A safe place to stop and rest for a while
To gather enough strength to carry you through
Do you find hope, in this middle of nowhere
Or do you let the ache eat you every step you take?
Can you smile, when even though you remember,
the wounds you created by your own,
on the beautiful surface of your skin?
Are you capable to hold the tears back,
from streaming down,
when all you feel is the heavy weight in your chest,
scaring your heart,
at every beat of it?
When off in the distance you see what appears to be
A mirage of your own making
You take out your scared heart before it falls apart
And head in that direction for safety
But alas it's just an illusion
A figment of imagination in your mind
What you thought of as paradise
Was the reality of the times
My heart isn't as cold,
My soul isn't as dark,
Now that I feel belonged,
to this paradise,
I only feel infinite
I can't be patient for any longer because I've been waiting for too long
Everything I've ever done feels worthless and like a disaster
I don't know who will love me when things get bad
Because things are bad
And the people that I need the most are too far away or too consumed to notice
To notice that I'm drowning in a sea of misery and paranoia
My breaths have become shorter and my pupils are dilated
I gaze into other people's eyes and I see nothing
A long time ago, I made a conscious decision to see nothing
And now I'm blind
But with blindness comes increase sensitivity of my other senses
So now my tears fall down my face and they feel like acid on my skin
Every whisper falls into...
This isn't living
This isn't life
Because life happens and this is something else
This is bigger than me
This is something that will still hover over my head when I wake up
And it will haunt me till I go to sleep
The worst part is that I don't know how to effectively cope
With everything life has bestowed upon me
So I'm left on the curb
Staring at a finish line
And I'm paralyzed
I'm alone with the thoughts and the voices that brought me to this state of recklessness
This state of unrevealed truth and blanketed wounds
My feelings aren't gone because I chose to share them
Shared they were, but only two people recognized the cry for help
I was transparent and found
But we're all too lost
And I'm too broken to win another battle
Weight is on my chest and I'm bitter over someone
I have been in a dark place for so long, that I've forgotten what light looks like
I want to scream at the top of my lungs and never stop crying
I don't think I'll ever stop crying
These droplets will forever fall from my grayish irises onto pavement and rocks and nothingness
Pain doesn't go away
Pain becomes me
I am tired and I cannot sleep and I'm afraid of what the future holds
Because at moments like this
I question the existence of a future
"I drank coffee, and read old books, and waited for the year to end"
But I've been doing that for 6 years, and I'm tired
So I need to be held and helped by someone or something
I need to remember what sweetness tastes like
And I need to piece together this puzzle called life
There are no leaves on the trees
Don't mistake it for fall
Because the leaves were never there
I need to be closer to love than I am right now
To love that is requited
The love that I've felt before
The love that is sweaty palms and mumbled giggles
Rhapsodies of savior
Help me save myself
The priest thumbed ash on Sister Scholastica’s forehead, his thumb firm like that of Francis whom she thought she loved once. Memento homo, quia pulvis es, et in pulverem reverteris, the priest whispered. Her mind translated the words her father use to relate often in his foul moods, remember that you are dust and to dust you shall return; then he’d beat her for some misdemeanour she’d forgotten from days before. The dirty ash made her feel as if she was marked out again, that her father would come rushing through the church doors, grab her with his mighty arm and beat, and beat. The priest had a lean face; eyes deep as if they had been set back too far. His lips slits in his paleness. She moved back to her place in the choir stalls; knelt down sensing the first day of Lent biting at her stomach already; the days ahead and hunger; the mark seemed to burn; she wanted to rub it off as she did as a child once and her mother said she would be damned. Her mother used charcoal to draw; once drew the Crucified in such detail that it made her cry. In her lucid days, she would paint for hours, before the madness swung her back and forth in and out of sanity like a pendulum. Through the slits of her fingers, she watched Sister Cecilia kneel as if stabbed in the back; the eyes glaring at the cross; the hands tight together in tormented praise. She’d seen her once, kiss the statue of the Virgin in the cloister, and whisper words. Faith in words; faith in words. Sister Scholastica heard the bell sound, rose, and stared at the priest at the altar. Mass. Bread and wine. Body and blood. Broken and spilt. Francis had not loved her as he said, just in it for the copulation and the image of her on his arms to impress his friends. Wednesday. It had been a Wednesday when they copulated the first time back in her youth; the grimy bed, which she remembered, had the smell of cigarettes and beer and days of being unmade. She lifted her eyes to the Crucified. His arms outstretched to embrace the world; his head to one side as if listening to her every thought and whispered word. Repentez-vous et le péché pas plus, Sister Gabrielle had said once when she was a girl at school, regret and sin no more, she’d repeated to them in her broken English. Innocent days. Mother swinging from lucidity to madness like the censer boat the altar boy swung at mass. Sister Scholastica closed her eyes. Her father raged in her memory at her mother’s growing madness; her mother painting red across the bedroom door; cursing her husband in French at the top of her voice. Peace now. Lent has begun. Sackcloth and ashes. Sin on sin. Washed away with the blood. Monthly bleeds; the blood of the Lamb. Requiem in pace.
I knew Pearl, comely, calm Pearl
eyes as blue as the skies
that warmed her sands
where we walked and talked
dreamed the days away
her voice so sweet on the Pacific winds
it made me forget about home
I was breaking daily bread
dipping it in the
yellow yolk promise of eggs
when little gunner Joe
said come down below
to see the kitty he found
crouched in the shadowed corner
no bigger than the rivets
get her some milk he said
when we placed the offering in front of her
she roared a lion’s roar…
and the roar kept coming
and the young living
disappeared into the darkness...
the stench of smoke
the screeching screams
the fierce rocking of the hull
which came too fast to touch
all spoke with equal madness
telling us doom
can come on a sunny Sunday morn
in Pearl’s land
is something we all know
in the flat land of dreams
in the lucky light of day, and
on that Sunday morn,
in the boiling bowels of our ship
with some giant hand in command
the water, the water,
the water we all had grown to love
now taunting our feet,
then our knees
the pounding began
the eternal pounding
the pounding of the hopeful
in Pearl’s blue skies
and our pounding,
the pounding of the damned,
without any eyes
now at our waists
now at our chests
and then only our frozen faces
against the hard steel that had been our home
had the last few breaths of air to breathe
heard the last few gasps of desperation
and the feeble futile pounding
of those in Pearl’s darkened sun…
now we rest in this sunken tomb
the guests roaming above
with cameras and tearless eyes
for they were not
the ones who heard our cries
those who did, do not return
for Pearl is no longer a sunny beach
and a stroll in a dream
but a place where the pounding started
and never stopped
and where the world changed forever
when the first bomb was dropped
on her bed
her plump hands
in her lap
which lines there
was the life
and which was
the love line,
she'd read it
in some place
on a page
in her mum's
which her mum
had left there
of each part,
with a line
like a thin
what was what.
What she saw
made her blush
turned the page
to see where
her love line
or life live
was on her
The bold word:
stuck in her
mind like glue;
a brand new
item in her
what to do.