dead bodies floating
in our oceans
from the Asian Pacific
to the Mediterranean

crumpled corpses lying
on our beaches
thousands drowned unknown

overcrowded detention centers
not unlike concentration camps
behind barbed wires
guarded by police and snarling dogs

nobody feels responsible

not  those who started wars
destroyed whole cities
made millions homeless
and into refugees

not those who take advantage
of the chaos for their own gain
abusing the names of their gods
or some ancient figurehead
to excuse their atrocities and greed

not those who live
in comfortable homes
and wish the desperate crowds
would just stay on the TV screen
and not come close

nor those who pretend
to be the guardians
of our great humanitarian heritage
but show no backbone
against nationalist fanatics

it is the shame of the world
to sit and talk and watch
and not do enough

those who turn away
the needy and homeless
could also
      quite suddenly
lose their homes

forced to rely
on the kindness of strangers

You're not gonna find it in a few hundred text messages,
Or on the phone singing sweet songs you've written from your head,
I know it's hard, to be alone.
To take months of nights and sleep on your own,

But there's nothing worse than tricking yourself into think you've got the best when you've haven't met it yet.

You can put new faces on the bodies of ghosts and lay in bed like you've got what it takes,
To make amends with the beat in your chest,
Not think about all the mistakes that you've made.

Cover up the scars with tattoos,
Horseshoe giving all its luck to you,
Deep down you know it's not true,
Fall for the boys with same **** attitude.

Nobody can find you if you're blending right in,
Always laughing at the bad jokes,
Always trying to make a win.
You're a cheap trick always down for the sin,
But they don't know just where you've been.

Take them home into your unwashed sheets,
Fall under facade and fill your needs.

Why are we so quiet?
I will tattoo that question onto the tip of my tongue in the hope that it will smudge onto yours.
Why  -  are we  -  so quiet    ?

"Shhh,"
he tells me in a 3am bus stop
"Loud ain't sittin' right in my ribs."

He's got this idea in his head that god can't save his soul
that god is just a concept
that god can only be found in the crease of a bible spine but

OH,  MY GOD
I LOVE THAT BOY.

It's like when you lean on a piece of wet newspaper and the text imprints on your skin except,
there are no words -
just memories
and they are inked on the inside of my veins like

remember the other week when you were sleeping in my bed and the sun peeked through my curtains and made your eyes flutter?

That's the front page headline.
That's why I believe in absolute perfection
that's how I know beauty isn't just a concept
because I found god in the crease of your spine that morning.

I want every Sunday to feel that holy.

You are a cathedral pointing your spire to the sky saying
"KIRSTY, WHAT CONSTELLATION IS THAT?"
and my eyes search for
ursamajorursaminororionsiriussagittariuspisces-
I CAN'T FIND ANY OF THEM.
How can I align the stars when I have drawn more beautiful alignments
between the freckles on your skin
?

I kept telling you to be quiet until I pulled up your shirt and read the first page of your ribs:

IN THE BEGINNING,
GOD CREATED NOISE.