kk-1
Australian
My life is the preference of a 4-inch-wide novel over urgent to-dos while lying on the floor with my cat, pretending we don't exist. / / “A doctor once told me I feel too much. I said, so does god. that’s why you can see the grand canyon from the moon.” -Andrea Gibson
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.
Jun 5, 2016
Jun 5, 2016 at 1:29 AM UTC
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.
Jun 5, 2016
Jun 5, 2016 at 1:22 AM UTC
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)
Jun 5, 2016
Jun 5, 2016 at 1:20 AM UTC
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.
Oct 2, 2015
Oct 2, 2015 at 7:15 AM UTC
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.
Jul 18, 2014
Jul 18, 2014 at 7:00 AM UTC
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.
Apr 13, 2014
Apr 13, 2014 at 8:57 AM UTC
"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.
Dec 17, 2013
Dec 17, 2013 at 8:23 AM UTC
I'm not a real person anymore,
You made me fake.
Nov 29, 2013
Nov 29, 2013 at 1:49 AM UTC
The only studying we ever got done
together was anatomy,
you whispering the names of bones into
my skin, each followed with a kiss-
clavicle
sternum
ilium
patella
Each word sparking through my skin
and into the blood coursing around my
body.
Making alpines of my skin with each of
your exhales.
It's much warmer here beneath the sheets
than between the pages of your books.
Nov 17, 2013
Nov 17, 2013 at 3:40 AM UTC
I stopped breathing last night,
dreams of weights resting on
my chest woke me flailing,
calling for help without a voice.
In my dream we were in your room
and you were sleeping on my
chest the way that you used to.
We'd had a fight about my best friend
about how you thought that he was
in love with me just like
that barista at our café and
my scruffy coworker and just about
everyone on my train ride home.
I told you,
(I think I screamed a little)
that it wasn't possible because I had you.
You said I had a Dickinson heart
but I didn't understand your
literary references
(because by this point I was crying)
and so you kissed me and laid me
down and I woke up
suffocating.
You were sitting on my chest, darling,
grinning at me.
Nov 14, 2013
Nov 14, 2013 at 8:01 AM UTC