Breon Nov 26
By the time this reaches your ears, if
Someone chooses to spend life speaking death,
Know that I left you nothing but dust.

I won't offer you a pretty corpse to stare at,
A bower to water with tears I didn't beg you,
And my cold hands won't rest under yours.

They won't stitch me up or mute me any more
Than I mute myself, leaving these words
On the lips of someone who cares enough
About you to share them.

I have left you dust and ash. If you must,
Go ahead. Take a vial, a fistful. Scatter them, or
Keep them, or whatever feels right to you.
I'm not much for demands anymore.

Know that you hold in your hands nothing.
My transfiguration is complete - even that
Gray waste between your fingers isn't me,
Not anymore. I've moved on. You should, too.
Funeral rituals are weird. I've already been told I'm not allowed to have a sky burial.
Breon Nov 21
Will you - your sun's inferno burning bright,
Your radiance demanding all the sky -
Reach down a blessed fingertip, tonight?
Will hands know how to meet as you and I
Lock eyes and blind each other with our light?
Let darkness fall. Burn me, your firefly.
The gods will have the sacraments they claim.
These words, an offering, burn just the same.

And will you turn your moonlit face from me?
Will midnight mystery reclaim your smile,
As silver starlight fades to reverie
Until the sky hangs empty, mile for mile?
If I must spend my sight, myself, to see,
At least we burn with your exclusive style.
What shades of you remain are paradise -
A shame I won't bear witness to you twice.
As prompted by a fellow poet.
Breon Nov 19
The silence rages at the walls as,
In the bowels of the science building,
Thirty sweating, stifled faces stare
Through the glass of flat-bottomed flasks
To witness annihilation: acid and base
Finding a measure of peace, as it were.
In measuring and pouring caustic ****
How bile overflows in a rush to quench
The rising roil of acid in your gut,
They replicate results nature produces
Largely by accident, and so do they.
Later they'll forge their reports
With Vulcan's own creative gleam,
But here, it's patient swirling,
Steady hands, and holding breath -
Excited, maybe tired, maybe terrified.
Lab courses take an hour of prep, three hours of experimentation, and two hours to write up a week. Getting only one measly credit hour for the experience is a travesty.
Breon Nov 7
It seems so innocuous the first few times,
An innocence and an unknowing. It's fine.
"But, I mean, where is your FAMILY from?"
Sure. And I'll explain: that is complicated.

My patience wears out pretty fast nowadays
So I try to bite back all the bitterness
When faced with the expectant empathy
A vivisectionist might spare the dead.
So I dissect myself with a practiced ease:

My mother came from Guyana, a bounty land
She fled so long ago. I never ask her why.
My father wasn't much of one. We don't talk.
Me? I'm from the most hated place on this Earth:
New Jersey. They always seem to expect that.

A simple answer for a simple question,
And I know they only asked because they meant
"How come you don't look like me, so tall and dark?"
And I'd smile if they were honest about it.
The title refers to one way I've heard my skin described. Maybe it's supposed to be like how pessimism and optimism can synthesize to arrive at realism, if realism was a skin color.
Breon Nov 7
Splayed out atop the the table, stupefied,
Etherized, dreaming anything but excision,
Witness the specimen's unnatural habitat.
Life stains the whole of its existence -
See the sacrament of its entirety, its divinity,
Its flesh made manifest and merely flesh.
It mocks this menagerie with every breath
And, aping its peers, struggles, strives, dies
For the pittance this world lends it.
Confronted with the end, it spits derision.
Confronted with the start, it cries in awe!
What a nonsense of a creature we see here,
This enigma we recognize in ourselves:
The human, being.
If life is nothing but what we make of it, maybe we'll make something interesting for the next thing in like.
Breon Oct 29
The music box grinds down to silent rest
Between a crone’s rheumatic, weathered hands.
A simple enough trinket, she'd attest,
But quick enough to answer her demands:
Her brittle fingers wait for it to cease,
Then seek the winding key, its battered brass
All lacquered in patina, thumbprint grease
And dusting left undone, its fragile glass
A testament to things left well alone,
A dancer wrought in crystal finery
Awaiting his accompaniment’s tone,
His patient poise the winder’s reverie...
Returned, rewound, to tabletop in time,
The music box begins, again, to chime.
Breon Oct 26
All we want to hear about is love and
               Madness, wounds left in the mind
                              Where what's taken for granted
Was ripped out and scattered, just ash.
               Maybe just madness, then. Addicts
                              Left shaking their cupped hands
Trembling out aching, quaking desire
               Where stillness arrives with a kiss,
                              Where confession pours crimson,
A ****** of claret. Spilled into a glass,
               Sloshed across a tongue, breathing
                              Bitter, barren, dry - washed down
With another glass, until the flavor stains
               Teeth and tongue and lips. We are
                              What we drink: water and blood.
We are what we love: madness, confession.
               Does a ****** see, in their subjects,
                              The viscid joy of their own scars?
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