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logan wade Jun 16
you
remind me if you remember
(not that i’ll ever forget)
why my eyes would roll like mechanical work
to meet the space behind
in anyone’s presence but yours.
my mind ticking over words i almost said
like clockwork. ironic how time stopped.
tell me how you found my only fear-
and set my mind alight with a voice,
who knew i had the firewood all along?
ignition for a flame shows colours.
and i’d imagine us ultraviolet.

why’d you let me stare,
knowing full well my vision was faulted?
most times i question why i’d care
to let my head rot, or my tired legs run towards another storm.
your jaw would drop if you knew.
i know, instinctively, every paper thought
will crumple and fold and unfold and
fix with half-pressed tape-
i used to take pride in my scrapbook-
it’s no surprise there are no pages left.
anybody’s guess why i’d tug at my roots
to once again realise my own control.

what’s the point in running?
my shadow will tread regardless
in my careful footsteps.
right?

i’d tell you to bother about me
if i didn’t care about you,
but they’d wonder about you,
and ask about me.
i’d end up round about where i began,
thinking about your choice.
but wouldn’t you rather ignore
everything? for a moment, i thought you knew.
but you’re just as blind as me.
logan wade May 19
position a star and its children
-with planets chained to looped paths,
preceding an elipsis or question mark,
following automatic trails of those before-
and then tell me its hard work
to redefine what’s written
in the universe’s script.
a moon protects its world,
with craters and wounds as deep
as its loyalty to its world:
it wears each mark like a medal,
hangs a flag of surrender in strange patriotism.
honour the way it shields humanity from the truth
of rebel bodies that fly like fiends,
hurtle towards another to destroy.
our admiration for its duty almost rivals
the mystery of its darker side.
don’t forget secrets hide far behind its face.
no one wants to find them (or even look)
for fear of some greater meaning.
silence as every scream upon this marble
of teal oceans or slate in stacks
fades away into the blankness that will one day engulf itself.
similar to a star’s vicious explosion in supernovae,
and flying colours illuminate a night sky
(though time’s a construct),
saturate a black oblivion
for a split second.
the brightness of hope
blinds an onlooker, who only wanted
change, and a reason.
i sit before the dark matter,
and empathise with a burning ball of gas.
beside me, a bird perched upon a branch,
wishing for conscious thought
to love the cosmic glitter it can never reach.
space and its magic astounds no one.
not anymore. with a complex to stagger every earlier age,
we lack comprehension and love for our star,
born into a life of chaos and painful heat,
finally satisfied with its cold death
as it descends into a dormant state,
from which no light can escape-
perhaps an effect of its longing for hope
which it was denied for so long.
we pose on a grassy mound in utter darkness,
stare at a gigantic question mark.
look upon a constellation of strength
and wisdom, possessed by its own dark energy,
expands towards the point of no return,
sneaks into repose, where we dream of love
(unrequited but meant-to-be nevertheless).
someday we’ll thank our lucky stars,
but for now, we’ll lean on an elipsis
and wait for some reckoning.
in bewilderment of the moon’s power
to set the most sane man loose into an odd freedom,
prompting a question about his trivial existence,
i smile.
and the moon smiles back.
logan wade May 12
once, he’d find danger in everything.
with eagle eyes, he’d spot a concealed weapon
hidden behind a smile, teeth like daggers,
sharp to draw blood from his heart
and bring it to his cheeks in a rosy display.
or his lips, which were tired of nerves and bites.
from it, he’d spin words, twist even. then,
he’d turn the web of words into fabric,
leaving those stories fabricated.
strings in loops he’d wrap around himself
and he’d be convinced it was art.
sometimes he’d lean on an idea so hard, it’d roll
with false accounts of life and its worth
until it gathered enough material to knock him down.
he’d scare easily.
each hint of hope would drive him mad.
but he’s learned to deny each voice
whose primary goal is self-destruction.
he climbs each mountain that proceeds from the ground.
he scales the cliffs that try to edge him further from reality.
he traces blue skies with his innocent finger,
stares at the sun long enough to blind him to his past.
the birds sing to him, a reminder of life’s wholeness
and he’d think no more of the magpie’s beak,
sharp and thieving.
instead he hums along, joins the morning chorus
and stimulates each nerve from his stable head
with a spark of shocking electricity,
to stagger his multiple identities
and mock their apathy to his success.
his feet fly from the floor, finding themselves
in a trail of faith and fullness,
also hidden behind that devilish smile
he saw before.
if he once again found danger..
if he wished life was void of meaning,
and relied on the nihilism
that states his cosmic insignificance…
if he wished upon a star for a nature
that wasn’t human…
perhaps he wouldn’t find beauty in everything.
perhaps he wouldn’t have to convince himself
that this is art.
logan wade Apr 13
i’m telling you:
i could ignite a fire
with this smile
or
light a glowing splint
with a dishonest grin.

don’t forget to wake me up.
click your tongue,
drive it forward
against sharp teeth.
pinch me, to separate idealism
from its own reluctance.
snap me out of this state
of crazed contentment
and troubled joy
before flames run wild
from my fingertips-
i don’t want you close
when that happens.

capture my expression from afar,
reciprocate the look i gave
when you found me,
and gave me one good reason to be.
fed me my last meal.

please, a favour -
sort the photos in some order,
staple the polaroids we took
of my wide eyes and raised brows
to a page,
off white and worn with age and time.
creased, and notes
of writing running in loops
kinked and curved
by nature’s influence,
and time.

i turned my wine back to water,
felt the air bubbles as i swallowed,
and i finally breathe again.
i counted back from ten,
and the sun spasmed.
time ran from midnight to noon.

when the lights are out,
we’ll call it a day
because you can’t fight demons
with a smile.

forget you even felt,
collect your darkest moments
in a puddle - hell, a pool -
then drown in its opportunity.

sever the link between your body and its shadow,
and never forget
where you found the light.
logan wade Apr 9
the chalice itself had called upon me,
and i brought the poison
which i had poured for myself,
hoping for relief and understanding -
to my lips. they ached
with unrequited apologies
and a curse of madness,
there since my first dawn,
and dusk.

if only i hadn’t decided
to conjure up my doubtful spirit,
and its counterparts -
riddled with doubt and arrogance,
and silent agony -
perhaps i wouldn’t be me anymore.

at first, the venom pleased my taste buds,
fulfilling my curiosity for those thoughts
i’d hidden.
some sweetness.
some reluctance,
but inevitable interest.

if only i’d switched my mind off-
and felt truly present and unfazed-
when infusing the mixture with
all sorts of tempting parts:
dark berries and such…
perhaps if i hadn’t thought so much,
i’d taste the poison as it is.
damaging and threatening
and darkening
as i accommodated my vision
towards it…
but i’d built a strong idea within myself.
fell in love with an idea of the poison,
swam in it like nothing mattered.
formulated it, dishonest with myself
and everyone else.
dissociated myself from everything i once knew,
just for a taste.

i leapt away from my own values
towards the ocean, whose waves
understood my undulating self-image.

i write now, in critical condition,
having realised: my solutions
are all the more powerful,
when i pour the problem myself
logan wade Apr 9
hypothetically:
hiding your eyes from a world of endless colour,
abandoning your first sense as if in sleep
or a dream
of flocking visual possibility,
where the lack of the sweetness and vibrance tastes sour -
is arguably more frightening than opening them in the first place.
finding nothing but an uneasy dark shade-
an empty blackness that creeps from a vacant cave,
symbolic of death and danger itself
seems to entertain my longing and interest and curiosity,
and those things which i always idolised.

it’s almost impossible not to find comfort in the unknown-
an endless circuit of flowing charges
invisible to our eyes,
perhaps a product of human evolution
and “development”
when we looked with our hands
and isolated ourselves,
no longer able to explore the world
we shouldn’t have called home.

like a community of aliens who regretted adventure,
activity characterised by action and interaction,
waves fly from its creator -
the roaring fire -
with it a model motion blur -
a fiery energy escapes the cave.
an overwhelming explosion of light
and resonating sound
catalyses a cosmic number
of chain reactions,
with products of thought,
hope, faith and confusion.
this along with paranoia,
unable to eradicate itself with simple prescription medicine.
the uncertainty criminalises our existence.
questions our morality.
our scepticism has shattered our potential for social interaction
and justice and foresight and solution.

it’s as if we’re all pawns in a grand scheme,
but there’s no chess player.
a great plan beyond the boundaries of language,
only explained by its realism…
though we’ve never been taught this language.

the angry ball of redness dies out,
though its power only grows.
no mercy: it bakes every life form that even dares
to examine it.
it sounds obvious,
but if it isn’t questioned,
it won’t answer.

— The End —