He brought me flowers.
A strange mix of peonies and
A mismatch of separate beauties
Who do not quite fit
They look tired.
Exposed of the raw temperatures
we keep in our
Yet they light up the room,
Making it feel like home.
Making it feel like
him. He made me a bouquet.
And little did I know that a strange set of flowers
Would turn out to be the
reflection of us:
A mismatch of separate beauties, who do not quite fit
And yet they light up the room.
the sea the skin of a wet dog,
black the beach; a ruined church,
the coastal lights a string of lesser ways;
we are as empty as a dropped shell
pulled across the ebb, a ripple of salt..
and as the night gets deeper
a dragon breathes like the tide:
no mistake, the dark needs its hours
I’ve seen genius so fixed on itself
as to be monkeys, squealing
watching a record whirl
in the same drugged circle
33 and a 1/3—circa 1969
This—their eternal brilliant conclusion
This—their Final Solution
Their convoluted complexity
as the hands of their clocks
fly off, striking me in the face
—the equation that would solve
the mystery of whistling “Dixie”
that would feed the dogs
and “seize the day”!
This penetrated groove
This—track, eternally diminishing
toward a point on a label
at which two loins intersect
...cease to be....
We hide our crippled hearts behind our brilliant minds,
And pray there are no photographs of those broken, desperate times,
When we acted as would any of a million lesser men,
Far too wise and worthy now to walk those streets again,
Spit on the ground,
Shrug your shoulders,
It’s three minutes to midnight,
It’s the end of the world and no one has a plan,
Do you Mr. Yesterday ?
Mr. All Used Up,
Mr. Feeling Sorry For Himself,
Mr. Too Late,
Mr. There Goes The Beautiful Sky,
Mr. I’ve Got A Headache,
Mr. I Just Want To Go Home Now,
Mr. Let Somebody Else Deal With It,
Mr. Scared Of Everything,
Mr. Tell Me Some More Fucking Lies.
It was a graveyard and overcast sky
and I sat with book and accordian in hand,
hearing the world with its screams
swallow up around me.
The people whom I had loved and lost,
Papa with his silver eyes
Mama her sharp tongue and tough love
Rudy whose hair the colour of lemons
and questioned why, the living and dead,
worlds apart, yet both did not have a choice.
I stood and screamed so that everything shook
the burning rubble and ash and dust
willing my words to bring it all back
but it did not come, and my breath rose in gasps.
Death had looked me in the eye and said,
“It’s not time yet.”
I would shut my eyes to the world
only decades later.
I will understand that there was hate and pain
there was sadness
but even more so, there was love and joy.
I will know that the people I loved had reason
to kiss goodbye
whether it was their own hurt
or saw it as a necessity,
but they were never truly gone from me
always somewhere nearby,
in the thick and thin
frail and worn
I would learn
to forgive Death that day.
I will understand that
and I will be hurt,
but I will be okay.
Not all deaths are sad.
Some, meant to ease their own pain,
Are called freedom.
Meant to ease the pain of others,
Are called love.
Swastikas and tiki-torches
marching down the streets
Golf corse khaki and white polo shirts
the new uniform of thoughts of hate
It's stupidity at its finest
and ignorance in full bliss
Swastikas and tiki-torches
and I know, I know...
racism and violence are no laughing matter...
But look at these fucking bastards
With their swastikas and tiki-torches