I.
In my hand, a
boreal owl has died -
Waiting for the spirit to
pass.
The softness of her feathers,
the beauty of this other form
of life. I look
closely.
White and perfect.
II.
Shelter. It sounds so handsome.
Comforting, (real), true -
and yet it is a little wall between a
person and all the rest.
So little there.
The fragility of crystal after crystal can
be my killer.
One small thing plus another equals
a power greater than any shelter humans can
build.
III.
Without electricity.
I am surrounded
by comfort. All of a piece -
myself and the world. Close to
one another.
Boundaries are gone.
Distance has changed.
The rock above are closer
than before. The trees in the
moonlight, the horses so close
I can see the ghost of
their breath.
Mar 17, 2014
Mar 17, 2014 at 1:07 AM UTC
When going out he would wear handcuffs
in case he committed a crime. A mistake,
or rather, a misunderstanding. In rusty
vintage handcuffs, in an age of Unschuld,
his hunger for the white statue lies bleeding.
The dingy leather jacket still smells like his
old basement, and reminds him of every
whisper at those hurtful, mindless
nights - you cannot wash out the blood. It ends
with a diminutive scream.
An angry old man with a Walther pistol, going nowhere,
going everywhere, breathes out Visage-Beatha, a box
full of Ashes, snores when the bullets run out.
Chin up, chest out, do what a soldier do the best,
would you? Look ahead, turn left -
Wait, wait, please!
… *Give ‘em a mask,
they’ll tell you anything*.
The last piece of skin fell off his back when he
heard his bones crashed. An empty sleeve too.
Open his mouth, look for a rightful darkness -
but hey, who said that ****** never hurts?
They remember, you know, remember dying,
remember being dead, and die again.
There’s no _____ left in her eyes,
(you can’t tell just by
lookin’ at them anymore),
only the star on her left shoulder
Still remains the frame.
A cold laugh.
The orange juice spilts.
Outside the purple chapel, he smiles into the local
dirt, like a cupcake, looks for a vermin of walking to beat.
To him, after all, Jesus means no more than a name either.
…
Yet his heart still pumps with Ecstasy at every April, and when
he scratches the tattoo on his chest, (which looks no
less than an idea),
he looks for the handcuffs.
And those hair never grow back.
Jul 11, 2011
Jul 11, 2011 at 6:33 AM UTC
Smoking a cigarette, she slowly opens her eyes. I wish not to see, if here's what it must be presented to me. The bathroom is steamy and warm, but the water is running cold in the hot tub. She doesn't remember how long she has been here, she doesn't remember what had happened before, she doesn't remember to remember. As she murmurs to herself -
I hate God.
The wonder of life could be faded so easily, *the
scent of her skin, the touch of her smile*, the loss of
one family's forever beloved, our family.
A daughter, a sister, a piece of out heart.
It's what you live on, you know, *mother can't stop
crying*, the agony, the emptiness, father hardly speaks,
life goes on, I still feel her, after she's gone.
A tragedy, a mistake, a hole in our soul.
No, it has nothing to do with bad luck, it's just death,
you know. She stops breathing, her body gives in, and she
watches herself leaving the room, the world -
as she's sailing to the other side of her eternity.
It all began with a piece of bread, *she never lates for
school*, a beautiful morning, and the radio was playing,
we never heard her, she loves music.
**** this, now what about the livings*?
Now, what about the livings? We moved, *not necessary
delightfully*, from the home of our heart. It would be easier
for mom and dad anyway, I've never meant to leave.
"Don't be afraid, be free, you're now our only."
I was sent away, along with a part of my sister, *who was
supposed to be a part of me too*, and started a new life.
That's how they call it anyway, it's really cold -
in this side of the country, this side of my life.
It doesn't bother me a bit, I wouldn't let it, I have my way
to remember my sister. I've talked her back to life, *she's just as real
as she used to be*, in school, at home, anywhere.
In life, in death, in the coldness and the stillness.
Look, it's snowing! Yet my heart has never been so warm, maybe, *I
pray*, we can seek back our happiness after all. Maybe it has never
left, just like Martha, as I am watching my parents skating through
the ice, and remembering -
She's gone, but not forgotten, she's only one breath away.
Dec 10, 2010
Dec 10, 2010 at 5:12 PM UTC
Nothing really happened in my life,
never a kiss in the rain, a starless night
by the lake, nor a farewell note under
my pillow. Even so, I got paper flowers for
getting out of the way in Valentine's Day.
I don't know you, but you've never been a Stranger to me.
You weren't him, were you? You don't
know nothing about me, do you? You
don't even care, you don't have to.
But you break into my life anyway, and
keeping a Smile on my face ever since.
How could you know me so well without knowing me for real?
And I wish you were here with me,
Holding sweetly together, you could
kiss my tears aside. Yet there you
are, not knowing anything, eating
your breakfast with my Goodnights.
Aug 25, 2010
Aug 25, 2010 at 7:26 AM UTC
Up and down
No more spinning
Like a perfect crime
Around the corner
Mud on his shirt
Staying with the
Reeds flowing back
the Prettiest thing in the world
He’s a thinker
So I ran to him the other day
He was looking up the Milky Way
He said It’s precious
But what can you see
Or hear or smell or feel it’s real
He’s a thinker on my way
He’s a thinker of our day
He’s a thinker don’t be surprised
He’s a thinker of our life
He’s a thinker
Quite small
Jump into me
A little bit dry
So let me milk you
Well I gotta admit
the ****** hell of it is
As simple as we used to be
I am a thinker
You don’t know me
A drunk silly little Irish cat
He’s gay and he used to be my pet
Listen, one day he told me
He’s gonna walk away
From my broken roof that he can’t stay
I’m a thinker on your way
I’m a thinker of your day
I’m a thinker don’t be surprised
I’m a thinker of your life
I’m a thinker
Straight up
Here come the dreamers
Colour their insanity
Behind your paradise
Well in this filthy world you live
No-one really gives a ****
They won’t listen until you died
Wasted in Black and White
You’re the thinker
You let them kiss your pretty face
And ***** you with their ***** says
You’re naked and you started to smile
With tears fallin’ from your eyes
You’re a thinker on my way
You’re a thinker of our day
You’re a thinker don’t be surprised
You’re a thinker of our life
You’re a thinker
Aug 21, 2010
Aug 21, 2010 at 6:36 AM UTC
It’s the middle of the day,
and I am drunk. Without a
drop of Alcohol, not a smell
of any Wine. The sense of
being sober completely give
in once I have him in mind.
I’ve found myself miss you a lot today.
I thought I heard the gunfire,
the deep crack on his smile, I
thought I saw it, when the
bullet took the temperature
away from him, I can feel,
my earth is crashing down.
You’re the best dream I’ve ever had.
Be not afraid of the Death, he
said, we’re born to be ruined.
They would curse you for the
leaving, but what can they do
– to **** you again after you died?
He grined, with tears in his eyes.
Contagious, contagious, contagious…
Aug 7, 2010
Aug 7, 2010 at 11:25 PM UTC
It has nothing to do with the manipulation,
she said. I don’t mind living under a
Shadow, by a thread, or a loaded gun.
It’s the openness that angers me, you
know, they seize every secret inside
my most intimate idea, and scoff at it.
Even something covert like missing you.
Aug 1, 2010
Aug 1, 2010 at 8:30 AM UTC
Now that poetry has found me at last,
it feels like I can die any minute without it being in vain.
A poem is a poet's way to be a rebel,
to write is to live forever when nothing else matters.
How fragile is a poet's inner soul -
the one you condemn, rip out, and abandon to the sea.
I used to think I was dead already, someone without a voice
and then you came to me like love, without me even choosing
These words that fall from my pen each day
connect me to more than who I am, more than I could ever be.
And now I wonder, when I write my final word
take my final breathe, will you truly know me for who I really was?
Jul 29, 2010
Jul 29, 2010 at 6:37 AM UTC
It takes a pencil to write a poem,
a piece of white paper, a leaking
mind, a cup of tea, to hold.
And a poem is what makes a poet.
Jul 28, 2010
Jul 28, 2010 at 1:13 AM UTC
There’s a crevice in my heart,
along with an exhausted smile,
Hiding in the darkness, and when
no-one sees, it weeps.
Then you come along, silently,
yet it trembles my world.
My heart was breathin’ so lonely,
now I know this emptiness can’t be fulfilled.
And I stop hatin’, right at the very
moment you look into my eyes.
That’s when I realize, you can’t
have a broken heart without believing in Love.
Time Passes by, Beauty Changes,
Love Faded, and People Die –
You’ll always end up being Alone.
I think you should love me.
Jul 26, 2010
Jul 26, 2010 at 6:02 AM UTC