wet streets after the rain
wet thoughts after the lingering
she cavorts in your limbs like a animal unleashed
like a army of fingers seeking to overthrow
like a thought seeking to master
she stumbles on the doorstep
hesitates at the verge of meeting the other
half of her own need
leaving herself empty
leaving herself incomplete
leaving the taste on her lips but no meat to the bone
leaving visions of soul formed in stone
unable to move beyond
cold in the sunlight
the face in the dark room
the surrender of the primal need to speak
any words that are not capitulation
not redaction of proud sworn oath
she lingers in the mornings bathroom
grazing at the edge of a farmland
places where such dreams are grown
but she dare not partake
she cannot think she would suffice
leaving a soul formed in stone
unable to move beyond
cold in the sunlight
a poignant symbol
an emblem of meaningless loss
and the thoughts
i can break free and spill to the page
like lesser beasts escaping the wood on fire
and i see the time rapidly growing thin
a starving creature
the hours flee
room to room
crying out that doom draws near
and its wet touch chills more than skin
it brings rancid thought to breaking open
and spreading across
the once sweet fruit
and within that moment
rain frees me from feeling
all the things that i drowning in
slow with blue waters
slows the race
slower with memory
the thoughts that escape me now
by the blade of waters burning touch
glowing on the the seeking bones marrow
growing on the feeding of this hunger
it vaults into the stars
and its quickening heartbeat
forces free more than words emotion begins to follow
like the priests coming to worship at the temple of death
they bring life to face itself in its endings
words new to my eye spill forth
like bright diamonds like tears
It’s the third of April and I was there
Sitting still, wondering
Observing the lifeless environment that surrounds me
And I simply couldn’t help but think
How did it all come to this
It was exactly a year ago, during April, too
A blossoming sense of the beginning of new life
Little did I know
There was something even more beautiful than the flowers and trees
Something more serene than the feeling of crisp air and bright yellow sunlight
Little did I know that such a lively season
Was above, beyond, and even better than the liveliest things combined
Within three months after, it was mid July
And by then things only got more astounding
“Breath taking”, even
I’ve come to known this cheerful atmosphere’s smiles
Laughs, and confidence, and everything that makes it the amazing familiarity within me
And it was charming and it was lovable
Just like the warm breeze and chilly nights
What a wonderful thing to learn true happiness from the happiest surrounding itself
At this point all it ever was, was everything but sorrowful
Oh and November rolled around
And as leaves started to hit the bottom
Trees started to give up, and flowers started to disappear
So did it
So did it
This vicinity, of all the happiest vibes
The sweet turned to bitter
Just as the blossoms turned to gloom
It fell into a million little pieces
And all they could do was shatter it even more
And all they could blame was itself
All they could judge was nothing but the setting
And the thing that was once like sunshine
Turned into ice cold
Who would’ve guessed
That the happy atmosphere they once knew
Was this dark hole sucking itself into it
And who would’ve guessed
That the strongest, too, break
It was February and
It was the most similar thing to an incomplete thought of train
It was February
And everything was completely gone
The fragrance of what were once the roses
The scenery of what were once the moving lakes
The warmth of all the components of happiness
They were gone too
Too soon, and too fast
And now it’s the fourth of April
I’m still here I’m still rationalizing
I’m still thinking over
Why am I the only one left
Is it really fair to leave me the same
Just when everything else had changed
wanting you is:
like I’m missing a lung
yet still trying to breathe
no taste on my tongue
taste-buds, are on leave
needing you is:
stomach quartered in size
requiring even less intake
voice-box only utters lies
solely what it can make
seeing you is:
my eyes no longer itch
you are their soothing balm
feeling my wind pipe hitch
before i begin to calm
having you is:
giving me heart attacks
though it beats even stronger
my brain, thoughts it lacks
everyday things take longer
hating you is:
my mind towered with bricks
all walls have gaps and holes
my soul punches and kicks
till my fire is reduced to coals
loving you is:
never ending ache to my being
i require you to live day-to-day
you near me is my soul freeing
so please, let me live, stay
small Colored blOcks
every hue of the raiNbow
all different shapes and sizes
staCked randomly Every which way
filling gAps with more varying blocks
more carfuL the sEcond time
filling Darkness with colour
built into a tiny mansion,
to complete, a moat
with it is a diFferent purpose
its to trap, keep things in, not out
filled with dArk murky water, Lots of it
evil creatureS liE under the surface
deep enough to remAin unseeN
hiDing and waiting out pray
until it’s close enough
plucking up courage
an unsuspecTing Escapee
in a last ditch effoRt to get out
swims despeRately wIth limbs Flailing
getting awaY from a place of vile hues
fake pIgment deceiviNg eyes
coverinG it’s true colours
tints of black, grey
love is a two way mechanism.
it needs to be rebounded to work.
without the rebound, it changes.
becomes self hate, loathing, hurt.
the thing that makes it two way.
it needs to be given to be received.
if you give all your love away.
packages covered with bright paper.
then there is none left for you.
your love is required to be given back.
with the force that you gave to them.
this is why one sided love fails to work.
with no one to ricochet it back to you.
stronger than they received.
your love disappears, flies away.
you fall down into darkness.
and keep falling.
you hope that you’ll find light.
someday you will, hopefully.
you’ll find someone who is able.
strong and perfect for you.
the right things in the right person.
who will hand you back presents.
packages of love thought long lost.
given with a smile and bow on top.
wrapped with a return address.
only for the one who gave it.
to be returned some day.
when you find the light.
These streets and hidden walkways are my mischief parody now. A mockery of what this city had been to me, a false harken to nothing better yet still...her and me...and us and them...we could of been so grand if things had just fallen better.
I would have that job at some cubicle in some skyscraper and you would work in the schools with the kids who needed your love and they would struggle and be grateful. Our days would be full and meaningful with hopeful promises of progress and achievement. Then in the evenings I would pace my way home, to our home, the one on the hillside, with a window and balcony overlooking everything. And we would have a daughter and a son in the works and make love on a whim, enough love for the both of us every-time. And you would spill your day in front of me, everyday and I would never grow tired of any of it. And then in the morning I would rise quiet not to wake you and boil a full pot of coffee, not the expensive kind but just coffee, and read my paper on the warming kitchen table. I would read of politics and people and cats in trees and drink another sip. And you would wake and peek around the corner showing only a quiet smile and at my sight you sat and gently nursed the cup I had already poured for you. Still silent you would crawl into the chair as shiver ran down your spine, revealing the winkles in your face as you puckered but returned to the sereneness that was your always-expression, the same creeping smile that asked nothing but gave so much. [As you ask] Soon I tell you the happenings of our world and paint you the window I had only just read. Piecing together my words in bundles of sage breviloquence, still sifting through the chalky pages as you sighed in such sunrise-joy. And you would leave early as I left not to soon after and we both drove our own cars and parked them at our work and went about our day. And I would drive home from my cubicle to our house on the hill with our plan for a daughter and make love to you in many places, wait for you to go to sleep and find my way out to the balcony. And I would look for hours at the skyline, of the midnight machinery, dripping seas in black, of my own invention. And I would wait for you to come around that corner, out to the balcony, with your hair in your hands beaconing for me to come back to bed, because you knew all the thoughts in my mind and none where worth having in this late, in this night, with this job, with this car, in this place, on this hillside beaconing as well for me to stay. And I would phantom back to your side then remember the child we had on the way, only earlier that day, you told me, and I barely believed the words meant what they did, in this time, in this way. Then maybe on that day we would hold our child and look at him, or her, and you would say something kind and I would agree. And we would live in our house on the hillside for many years and you would still teach children, our children. And I would still get a raise every now and again at the job I would drive to except on tuesdays when we would all stay at home and play and laugh and gather up our dreams in a pot and burry it in the backyard. And our days would still be full and meaningful with hopeful promises of progress and achievement. And the kids would still need your love and be grateful. And so would I, after all these years, every-time enough.
I was finally and absolutely safe. I, a gem in my father's eye, and he, born before my sight. In the house, the streets, indefinite ringing, and the almost-departure of the grand-papy pat on the back, a gesture entirely too simple for me. I just wanted to hug him and hear him speak. Even all I disagreed with spawned the most paternal anger in me, only days after the vasectomy. He had we, my sister and three other children but anyways two got off free, so it's just my sister with me, and some heavy things where all on us. And someone lifted a few off at the arriving terminal, at the carousel. Acclimated to the pekin breeze we the most moral-est sponge we'd ever seen take some space in his daddy brain. Wosh...wooosh...whehw, whewh and my dad's anew. Some startling thing he knows whens he looks down the road, deep down into the road, because here you are so sweet when you speak.
I am gone and out of sight. So why should you care? There is nothing left in this soggy sad tale, of childhood self-defeating. The center city of my times and my observations all out of sight. So why should you care? The silent soliloquies and trending electric doom. The death and reconstruction of vast empires and deserts blazing in their teething tyrannous rise. The unconscious attitude of millions quietly scoffed at by philosophers in dark, locked closets. The waves of our own gluttonous self classification completely illuminated on the firing line and who had no last words for any of their sins. The failure of our own cultivated mold, on our own rock, on our own time, surely a good place to stop this december. It's now, so why should you care?
Things will see well, said the city. No neon corpuscles. No dead-light street corners. Just me and the Five lying about which way to get home.
I seem to want to hate them all. Every last golden memory. Just find an other.
i crave your bubblegum lips against the velvet of my neck
your cold fingertips tracing the scars across my wrist
telling me i was always so much more beautiful
when my ribcage felt heavy
and my collarbones were visible
food is poison to us all
i'm alive, but barely breathing
so hungry, but scared of eating
scars and razor blades and pills and tears
these are a few of my favourite things
the art of being careful
puppets on strings
(obnoxious and loving it)
no, that was not a mistake
ugly, beautiful things