We have been friends for 15 years her and I
like the waves that retreat to the sea
and then come back to the shore
we change shape so often
in the smallest of ways
but the essence, it never changes
it is her marrow, her quintessence  her light that burns bright

we were born four days apart
"for the fishies" she had engraved  
on a leather journal she gifted me years ago
I take it everywhere I travel

the years go
the seasons go
the days go
without a visit
and somehow we listen to the same things
same albums –shamelessly repeating them
until everyone around us has had enough–

I laughed so hard when she wrote to me
how could it be
telepathy? lol

Flashbacks of laying on the floor listening to music for hours
sharing headphones
singing our little hearts out

shamelessly repeating and repeating
shamelessly drowning in the sonic landscape

fishes who still know they are indeed
surrounded by water
flowing through it and calling it "life"

its your animating spark
I either dislike or fall in love with

PHOTOGRAPHS AND GHOSTS

The wardrobe
blocked my way.

It stood on the pavement.
As did the chest of drawers.

Daring me
to pass.

As if the
De Chiricos

had upped sticks and left
the past trailing behind.

An old mirror leant against
a new yellow skip

with as yet
nothing in it

reflecting the street
back onto itself.

Mottled with time
cracking a smile

catching a cloud
that strayed into its gaze.

A bird appeared and
rescued the cloud.

Making good
their escape.

A one handed clock
shamed by its present state

reached to scoop up
the fallen moments

all the tick tocks it
had ever uttered.

The house was gutted.

The humans who had lived there

lost long ago

turned into mere photos

that scattered in the wind.

Now only

photographs and ghosts

photographs and ghost.

Starving for a lost knowledge,
Invisible to those with privilege,
Wanting support, needing a hand up,
Need a balance for my core, without looking for handouts.
Need acceptance, in a world where I face rejection.
Wanting knowledge to use as a weapon against discrimination.

my life is not beautiful.
it just is and that is enough.
refraining from falling
into the hopelessness I've created,
that prison of my own manufacture.

I put water over the stove
and sit in this carcass
while I myself,
a cadaver if you will,
wait for it to complace me.

the lost dreams and
suspires wander these walls
that have trapped
every abandoned hope hides
behind these eternal furniture.

how am I supposed
to thread beautifully with
all this weight? my arms
are full, with bruises and plates;
***** plates I carry on
from door to door before
running away holding more.

should I drop, let them shatter?
is it cowardice, or care for the self?
my friend has said they
are no different.

to know there is no expectation present
you mustn't know what an expectation is.
so, do you, my friend?
the flies on the still life
are agreeing with us.

do you allow them dictate
that which is beautiful, why,
when they haven't got a feeling?

do you allow me dictate
that which isn't?
tell me beauty's antonym
and I'll teach you to survive

between humans and the flies
that peck at the remains
of what once lost I retrieved,
and corrupted it came back.

on my floors the plates stay shattered
my soles bleed on every step
on the edge of hopelessness.

it is not for us; romantics,
sinners of massacre, thieves of all kinds.

lives cannot be made beautiful,
yet you found beauty in its lack.
I wanted encouragement yet only found courage—
to write, grieve, and die.