Rattling; a swift, strong to-fro god of quietness
Of collective anticipation: everything lurches
From wall to wall, accumulates
In suddenly-spotlit corners. The news
Of the bombing splashed from the sky
And shook the country awake.
Sightless in confusion, we turned
To terror for comfort, and everywhere,
The crooked bells of fury
Were waking each other up.

I sank on my bed. I was shuffling
From app to app, and you
In France, were excited too. I was waiting
Only for you.
My piston-heart small against the night
Fraught with petty indecisions
Of an exhausted love, it breathed the scattered wisps of news
And sneezed, sneezed to let you through.

I was sliding the apps over each other
And always, you appeared: taut as
Sterilised steel, scorching hot
With your careless endearment.
Do you think that there will be a war?
Well, I heard they shot down some planes.
You say you will miss me, as a joke.
But I am here, incapable of humour
Waiting, waiting, waiting, waiting
My eyes dim like a low-battery lamp
And the glitter of your name settles
Like dust on the floor.
The 3 am clock is awake with me
And I know I cannot afford to skip one more lecture
But 00 turns to 30 and then 40 and I think
I will just make the coffee a little bit stronger.

-

But what am I awake for?
I load, reload the news. An hour ago, for the first time,
A word, like a broken tooth, rang its metallic sound:
Home. And I shivered from the sincerity of it.
My hands are tied to the pungent hands of this land
My words are here. When I yell,
It is these broken streets that hear me.
My paltry heart is fed on its blood. Its abuse
Is indistinct from its love. This grotesque
Is the only love.
And they tell me, sympaths from far off lands: leave.

The mosques are awake and singing
I do not care for prayer or god. But I permit
The sounds of worship tease me.
I permit the thought of you instill me.
Although sweetness runs stale from disuse
I caress - caress you still before sleep.
My hatered is indistinct from this.

My - my mumble-mouth, my hesitancies
My thin laugh and my thin silence
I can afford to heed you
No more than this. I can turn, return
In stuttering strides; and you play
So beautiful, with your sharp soft face
But the night crumbles. The mosques
Have sung and knelt in prayer. The impossible
Hours pass - one after another.

-

There are questions. Will the schools open?
Will there be more attacks? Did you
Hear the fighter jets too?
Nothing ever dies but man, and nothing ever lives.
A white sun spreads its wings
And content,
I bid your absence goodnight and sleep.

-

[In the morning, I will take the little car to 160
And turn lustrous sharp corners
Because the roads will be empty].

How crisp was the sorrow
How swiftly it went
Left not a trace or word
Just a light wisps few
Of the night last lived
That seeped and itched
Unnamed in dream
Then morning white
To reveal the eyes
That fumbling curled
To escape themselves

Then coffee, then comb
And an eyeliner thick

And not a stain or crease
To dare and speak.
How simple it had been
To break and mend and to repeat
I slid from lane and sped to song
I was to reach the class in five
Then reached and left
I ate the day in three big bites
Then day again, again
And how quick they all go through
How easy it is to make do
-
God, but the night
Heavy, goo in my shoe

you say this that garbage
and I love it
those books sag, I forget and
their pages slip from my fingers
music becomes merely music
and I - I risk bravery
I dare weave you carefully
into my words - my skin - with
with an obvious softness, I
want to break you down
overturn, unwind you
I want - *******.

I am a monument
Someone was here
Some stone was carved
Some sketches made, remade
Some alterations...

I stand strong now
The creases of my neck
Are placed just right
And they can name
All of my veins

Someday, I will move
And my joints will crack
Then I will rub my eyes,
I will yawn,
And then I will curl up on the floor
And sleep for a long,
Long time

(Nice Dream)
Radiohead croons like a cat
My headphones lie next to my head
But I hear everything
It is saturated now. I am made
Of music and white noise.
On the precipice of sleep,
I possess no arms, legs, past
Just a dull ache in my ear
Where the pillow has pressed
For far too long.
The Tuesday evening
Demands more of me
But I lie careless like a spoon
I let everything pass by
However... wherever
(Nice Dream)
For the first time in years,
I wish that I had not been.
Or had been a little less.

"Let everything happen to you
Beauty and terror.
Just keep going. No feeling is final."
- Rainer Maria Rilke

Quiet fingertips press
I make no disturbance
As I move from foot to foot
Gentle. As if not to startle myself.
Dull-eyed
Drape. Rhythm leaves me.
All pattern, pose, skill.
I have lived - a day -
A night - perhaps.

They will not yearn as crude as I
I will tie you up
My grief, sweet *******, is you
My despair laughs at your victory
There is nothing to spare here
Go and gulp the dry world up
Go or do not
I will feast on nothing
               and I will rejoice