it was a late afternoon
when I opened
myself
naked and bare
to the heavens above
nobody listened
not a single deity
rescued me

the same day
that evening
when all the world
was silent and still
I prayed again
hoping that this time
someone would hear
the only voice
that was near

in between the night
and the daylight
there I would wake
in between its heartbeat
across the sky

mourning
for my own life
mourning for a death
that has not happened yet.

somewhere we might be beautiful
at the interruptions of light or
the cross sections of earth or
        now

we’re all faded in the sun
dried out and tossed away back into the basket
like someone else’s ***** laundry
        and
someone else is coming to fold us over
        again

we’re barebacked in a black hole resemblance
        just ******* the light out of the laughter
        kissing the nothingness off our skin
try as i might
i can’t get the taste of tragedy out of my mouth

you and all the lullabies in languages i can’t fathom
i have no idea what the hell you’ve been saying all this time but
        it sure sounded nice
like a nocturne for the nobodies,
the forgotten as a body politic

so fall back outta the spaces between us
i’m just trying to warn you of the curves ahead
of the caustic lovers curated by the utter carelessness

the words are falling from your hands in the form of snowballs
chucking away the weight of what you believe about this world
we hurl ourselves at the wind under the precept that

        it’ll hurt less
to think about the things wilting underneath
three inches of a solution
melting away with the rest of us

What does happen in the night?,
where restless youths beg for a fight,
where women with all dignity lost, will sell you their services at a cost,

where men will pay for their hunger to sate and tell their wives they're coming home late, where knowing wives are sat at home, waiting by the telephone, hoping he has done what's right, but that's not what happens in the night.

The children cower in their beds, the fear of the night sat in their heads, imagining monsters, causing fright, but that's not what happens in the night.

The children do not know, why mothers eyes are red, why father is not home, tucking them into bed, but father is still searching for that which will excite, for this is what happens, in the absence of light.

the boat pierced the grey mist
and her eyes were misty

it has taken us twenty years
to be on that green island
to dig up the time
she glowed like a butterfly
and I shivered from her touch

her hand is ripened now
but that time
still hanging in the air
unleashed a wildness
froth from which
spilled into two children
chasing butterflies.

The man at the studio doesn't like us

we aren't pretty as the teens
not dazzling like the newly weds
our faces are pretty grim
smiles are once a river
foreheads dry riverbeds
eyes hold no commotion
but he does it for money
and winds up quick.

We walk to the river
where under the grey February sky
she plays with our reflections
babbling and breaking us
into unreadable pieces.