Your eyes glimmer open,
Barely aware of the slow, soaring music,
The sounds of a thousand grainy strings, and faintly, a piano, horns
Flowing through your mind.

You find yourself in sub-darkness,
In the corner of a room,
At least it seems so.
It seems to breathe,
Merging its edges into shadows.

The faint outlines of figures are visible,
Some seated, some standing,
Captured by the half-eaten light.
You long to see further.

Yet it is not your sight, nor distance preventing this.
Whether it is an imperceptible, seeping pain
Blinding you,
Or if they keep out of your gaze,
At the cusp of your reality,
You convince yourself you cannot tell.

A dull, slight pressure rests on your head.
Not pain. Not ringing. But a loose grasp on either side,
Melting into a muted warmth,
First into your chest,
Then drips down.

The air is warm enough.
It is not uncomfortable.
What if the faint chills are
In you, holding you awake,
In your skin, where sensation is dying.

You are feeling somebody's pain, perhaps yours,
Somebody's love, perhaps yours,
Once.
This will linger on indefinitely,
This complexity no youthful, deep feeling could muster,
Through which reflection can no longer cleave.

You know where you are.
Yet this is out of conscious reach.
This is where you come
Now that you cannot feel anymore,
So, you learn to cluster your pain and love,
And scythe your brain until it cannot think anymore.

Yet you are still lost.
How long has it been?
Will this last minutes? Days? Until the end?
Is it possible to move forward?
Or perhaps lull into this world,
Perhaps lull into the past,
Force those ghosts,
Into this reality.

hands clasped
in color

the leaves spin
in cotillion

ash
and ginko twinge

green
to gold

it is not
so much

that i miss you

I still see the scars sometimes
even though they're faded know,
when I'm cold and my skin gets paler
I see their ghosts
where they used to line my arms
like guards, they thought they were helping me
instead they were a runway
to the final act which I had no nerve to perform
lucky, isn't it?

Still I see you, trying to free the emotions
Helplessly trapled inside my flesh
maybe I could rip them out
makeover that would cause my heart to stop beating

Long ago, my basketball friend Kevin
           Bert be home Blyleven
                        Amos 3:7

i want to feel soft like the warm underbelly of a puppy.
i want to walk in long grass like a little girl, feel the wheat
tickling my legs as i pass.
i want to keep ladybirds in jam jars
and read with a torch under the covers past 11pm.

i want to giggle about things that don't really make sense
and make fairy houses out of twigs and leaves
and scrape my knees from falling off my bike.

i want to run through sprinklers in multicoloured swim suits
and eat warm toast with butter when it rains outside the window.

i want to wear mismatched hats and scarves
and read books upside down,
drink hot chocolate from mugs with faded cartoon characters
and eat coco pops, only on the weekend.

i want to wear my hair in two pigtails, one high, one low,
and i want you to make up a song and perform it to me,
whirling your skirt in the garden, doing handstands,
picking me daisies and placing them in my small, starfish hands.

your life is in boxes now, impermanent.
moving books and bags and clothes horses,
your socks in neat piles in a suitcase.
i'm sure some still have holes.

i love that you're my sister
and i miss that you were once my world.
when the end of the garden was the furthest distance between us,
when we spoke through tin cans joined by string
instead of on the phone.

a string stretching miles,
years.
i wonder when i will next braid your hair,
soft like a puppy's fur,
soft like warm laughter,
soft like our gentle childhood,
closed tight in a jam jar,
tucked into bed somewhere far away.

‘The parade will advance in ***** order.
By the centre, quick’…;
Thump, thump, thump; thump, thump, thump...;
Here they come the marching dead,
Those remembered, those who bled,
Those believing what was said,
Those who went to war.
 
Fifteen paces, halt. One-two.
Now the dead stand, facing you.
Solid phalanx, perfect square.
Shield wall, blank wall, they're all there.
These dead men before your eyes.
Let's just hope you've told no lies
To those who went to war.
 
Look, they're now presenting arms;
Weapons flash against the sky.
As you who watch but never die,
And never ask the reasons why
Applaud the dead, their drill, their show,
We'll stand, to straighten up our dress
And go for canapés - for drinkies,
With you in the Mess.