Grief is not a simile.
It's a metaphor.
It's not crashing like the rocks of the mountains
But falling above, destroying the peak with your body and finding the last parts of your soul in the new creases. The magma beneath becomes your breath and you fear to speak for eruption paints scars you'll leave behind. The new land you'd never thought you'd see becomes the land you used to be. You don't need light but feel the rocks made of you under your feet. You are not like stone. You are stone You are granite You are obsidian you are every unflinching untouchable unfeeling thing.
Grief is not a simile
**Grief is a metaphor.

when they talk of
the vacuum two lovers locked gazes make.
the removal of all else
except of the other and ones self.

where does everyone else go?
are they the victims of entropy,
the selfless souls who disappear
at the twitch of an eyelid?

for they are blessed and cursed
with a most wonderful scene;
Love,
       yet not meant for them.

putting my headphones
before my house keys.
       *it doesn't matter if I sleep rough
       as long as my head is drowned of thought...
    
       *that alone is enough.

hit me with your words
like you wish you could with your hands
but you know this'll hurt more.

it's like you said
"friendship has to be mutual care"
"and who would care about you?"

these words do not surprise me.
but i am left wishing
they would.

peace comes in packages we sometimes can't find strength to open

peace comes in millstones we can sometimes release ourselves from

peace comes through doors we open
and sometimes reveals itself
once we shut and bar some from entering

peace came and laid down arms in the name of forgiveness

peace came and lasted

peace

Why is it harder
to write in a mind-set
NOT befuddled by the bad things?

Why does my tongue
struggle to find the words
whenever the violent phrases and curses
are NOT escaping my throat?

Why does my pen
fail to slice open the paper and bleed,
whenever it is NOT under threat
of snapping between my fore-finger and thumb?

Why is it always harder
to say what i want too
without inexplicably
NOT BECOMING YOU.

it’s the unwillingness to      (stop)
start
imitations                           (one-way)
of genuine
conversations                  (relationships)

i appreciate the
connection. Did you
see the speaker? The way they
gave it everything in this conference
really resonated with me. My names Oskar
by the way what's yours? Oh really, how lovely
are you from a different department? Maybe one day
I'll come and visit. Oh yeah definitely, what's your Linkedin?

i taste like smoothed out stones.
washed over and over again
made shiny by dew and pressure.

i taste like snow covered tree's.
smothered by an icy blanket
but still rough to the touch.

i taste like sparks leaping from anvils
burnt out beauty
smoldering smoke.

i taste like home.
but
i do not know if

i want to taste like you.

laying with blue skies
in your hair
earthy reddened clay
across your cheeks
the river in your
shoulder blades
smokey fires blooming
from your thighs
solid mountains holding
your ankles together.

You stand and smile at me from across the street
so I pray to Gaia
to be a mistake you can’t help but repeat.

life
(must i dream)
an experience
twice confirmed
three times replayed.

where
is the original?                                                
(to speak)    
isn't performance about spontaneity,          
about the moment?

(the gospel of loss?)                                                                            
what is there to dream of
to get my lines
right, the first time round?

I should of
   punched her.
       Made the blood awash
                with the concrete floor.
How dare she hurt you.
Lay her pathetic, puny hands that pry and peer
upon you.
I found myself biting my tongue
where I should've made her bite hers.
SMACK
came that connection all too fast
and where was I?
Lagging behind-last.
To rewind that cry, escaping your mouth to
shove it down her throat- choke and choke.
                
                                         ­              "Don't worry about those things"
I am your friend
you are my best friend
and its never happening again.

9:07                    Egotism and Wants
9:08                    Futures with eyes Gaunt
9:09                    Childhoods and Taunts
9:10                                                                what are we doing.

9:11                     i gave up asking awhile ago.

You telling me to:
"Just go home."
Sent mixed messages .

i cant throw my body into the arms of another.
my tendons
the ligaments, the muscles
my heatstrings lie in tatters between your teeth.
                                     behind lips that never
                                     had a nice word for me.
and if i wasnt so sad
to find the pity in this prose
id of thought im happy
                                                *though i guess im not, i suppose.

beginning:

playing football
in the communal
playground
pitched between
mountains of concrete
brown brick office blocks
blockaded high street shops
council housing kingdoms.

memory;

taking potshots at metal
goalposts slicked with
the rain and scabbed spray paint
till the olders kick us aside
basketballs in hand
for freethrows from the poverty line.

unlearning;

to think
love like marble
too cold and rich to touch
in fear that it’d turn out to be *****
like two boys
looking at each other for too long
can leave stains no amount of febreze can air out.

end;

i still can’t sleep in your arms
but you never stop searching for me
in yours
all there is left to do
is let
myself be found.

and at the closing
he promises and promises
the last scene is just
around another corner.

and the pile of clothes in the corner is
just a
pile of clothes
but i know things aren’t right.

that the burning in my mouth
the locking of bones and sinew
once a month between us
isn’t satiating.

the thing inside of me pulsing.

i’m a neck viewer
using his curls as curtains.
compromise
watching things burst from other things.

remember
monsters break apart their hosts in escape.

compulsion
emerges from the core because
of the nature of change.

back in the moment:
the screen darker than dark.
my need, this body horror
spills out of me.

Are we running
because you're afraid of me

or the starting pistol aimed at us both.

sea scalded lips
cracked like shoals
yet smooth surfaced
moistened by coral tongue
locked behind bone reefs
but to be blessed by those waters
to be swallowed by maelstrom kiss.

"Red wire, Red wire;
Oh won't you let me go to bed?
The days' been so long,
the nights' too
and I'd like to rest my head!"

But no- The Red wire replied.
The clocks yet to tock,
the stars are yet to align
and the moons not yet sighed.

"Oh Please," I begged
"Red wire, let me sleep.
Take my arms, my legs
or my heavy heart instead!"

I see, the Red wire said,
Snaking around my throat.
My lungs filled with dread.
"I will make you dream.
Dream.
Dream.
until we are dead."                          
                                       So i dreamed  with your silky red thread
                                       where i wished for your hands: to be led.

It's been an honour to break in front of you silently again and again but I've started to think that maybe it's lost it's intended effect-I mean you can only watch someone pick up the broken pieces and promise  it'll never feel hurt again just to crush them in palms that will never hold another's hand and feel them squeeze back without the blood slipping them just out of reach but not really-

a couple of times.
then it just seems desperate.

It's cold and warm but neither really wants to connect which is understandable really who wants to give 100%
so go back and forwards it's rocking horse hopes and flag posted dreams fluttering in the grey breeze named
"Memory."
it's not forgetting to remember,
it's about remembering to **forget.

the longing behind fingertips
reaching for hands
snatched away so quickly.
i forget their feeling so quickly
i forget your flinches so quickly.
and so it repeats.
can you feel the longing left
somewhere in the empty air?

my heart is bronze.
patina ridden and decrepit
burning with rust and slaked with scars. it is too late for it. it's engravings are scratched through and through its middle lies dents and indents and doubts. Hollow ringing.
surface level decay.
but it's never enough is it?

it's never enough.

Your hollow cheeks,
mirror hollow cheques.
Don't. Worry. No. More.
When the envelope hits the floor.
Remember the bill,
promised it wouldn't ****.

But who said it wouldn't hurt.