(-)

how sad?

god
with a shovel
sad.  

/ does your blood
know where
to dig?

Count me in or count me out but begin by getting it right

twenty thousand or so dawns ago
I entered into this contract
unwillingly,
willingly or not
got counted in and cast out since to
wander far
to wonder what for
to wish that signature on a distant star belonged to me


courting fantasy though
not fancy free
I try to be
the better or at least the
better part of me.



In the cemetery
which is where it will end,
the place where they send you
when you're through with it all
is where the distant star will fall
into my lap

and I'll realise then
that it's not all that
it's supposed to be

I suppose it's quite like

the better part of the
better me

always so far away.

My country is in chaos.
Seats of power are exchanged,
Unelected come-down
And steep fog of uncertainty.
The poor are painting their signs,
Others lock their doors.
Tear gas spills in streets
Far from suburbia,
On the shoulder of Europe.

I struggle to sleep.
Not for tragedy
But missed calls
And lack of shelter.
For you and your
Darkened corner,
Bleak winters-
The last time
I saw you in the sun.

Petroleum fills
The lung of the sea.
Swarms gather in luscious greed,
Footfalls over concrete:
The peace sign
White poppies
And paper cranes,
Stubborn **** in the rock,
The busker with fingerless gloves;
The nightclub spilling over
Into violence.

I strain my eyes,
Not in tears
But in chemicals
And lack of vitality.
For you and your
Elusive path through life,
Over-complicated strides.
Simple, temporary medicine

That is the comfort
And not the cure.

The stars blot out,
One by one.
Each neon skylight
Fractures the night
In pink clouds.
Flowers die over the railings
Where they could not
Save his life.

I contain my breath,
Not in calm
But poisoned blood
And lack of air.
I can barely breathe
Without you here.

My country is in chaos.
Earth spins in a slow disease.
Still all I can think of is you-
Whether you are thinking of me.

Winter introduced itself like a
Sudden death in the family.
A -28 degrees celsius day has fingers
Thin enough to reach through glass,
Leaving its ice on the inside of
Windows.

I find candles and carry firewood,
Preparing for a cold one.
Out here, blackouts can last for a day.
My iPad and portable modem have
Battery enough for one
Poem.

Such are my priorities.
I empty my fridge into the snow,
Thanking the gods
For my beer.
Don't try to reach me. I'm remembering
Life from centuries ago.

I see you poet stretched out
word blind.

The empty shell left
in your wake.

And the coin
to pay the ferryman
laid on your closed eyelids.

The two coppers given
in charity
for your last song.

I sip at your river
while you offer a torrent

I gulp down your poems
to quench my thirst.

We meet down river
washed up on your love

I sip at your river
and you offer a torrent.

I wish I could remember those digits on your dorm room
—of the third floor of a building
I only visited twice—
Because I would have written
three-hundred-something reasons
of why I wish I could have forgotten them.