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Ruben Hayward Jul 2015
Look up towards what's left, killingkid.
I smile a smile, i look somewhere in your eyes
That death cannot reach. And you are quiet
  In your solitude, I know. Like me, like me
   You touch the constellations with your lashes
As you sleep above me.
I wipe the clouds from my eyes
  As you tumble,
   Down, down, down
Past galaxies, past the stairs of my brain.
   You wait patiently.
I am too patient, perhaps.
I imagine many carousels and butterflies
As light as my stomach turning,
Lifting up the weight of my sorrow.
  I know you're light on your feet,
   My heart is heavy
My love is wounded like a deer
Against a thicket of thorns,
Breathing deep and long,
  Watching headlights as they pass
On a summer's eve.
My love is a broken mirror.
  My eyes reflect towards you
All the light I can muster,
All the joy I can resurrect.
Stay here, killingkid.
  I just walk to walk with you
      Into the summer night.
A breeze of kiss, a wave of moonlight...
Ruben Hayward Jul 2015

Pain pain painpainpain
  Pain pain pain
Pain pain
Pain with pain
  Pine and pain
    And sick
Pain-Ill death-clock
Tick tick ticks
   Nothing to say
Pain pain. Pain
  Pain with feathers
      How pain and why pain
  And will be and never was pain
   Pain in your shoes,
In a shower
  On a floor
  In a garden
   With your tea
Pain in your eye
As you drive
We must be terrible
  We must be heinous
Viscous, meticulous,
   We are not.
But pain pain pain
   I.  Can not sleep
As they sanction drone
Strikes on children
   I. can not sleep
     As a
Ghostly ether summons
Across lakes in dream
   I. Can't think
      I. can feel like a Cyprus
Upon a grave
  Love love love
Love love love love
Love love love love
   Death exists
Life is in brief moments
    Where the dead
Drag in front of you
Bleeding, broken
Forever lost in this abyss
  Grafted from a tree
In another world
Oh, my love.
   Oh my love,
As I know it true
  In bent knees at dawn
Whispers evermore in my ear
   Beyond graves and atom bombs
     Test pilots
Test tubes
Pain in your chest
  In your mouth
Rotted flesh
Rotted fits of aging
  Agony which
Is pain, exquisite
Like a needle
Precise like
Nuclear accident
  I. Can't sleep
As things fly above my head
   My eye
Leaving me in the dark
Leaving me in a tub
Leaving me in a gas task
    Mustard gas and Venus
Drowned in calm water
  Out, out, out,
Number 1.
  Nitrous oxide
Psalms, palms,
  Save little girls
  In dresses know
   As I walk by a snowglobe  
    Oh, my love
I am sick of questions with an
Answer I know
But not quite
Not, quite
   And death will solve
All power
  Like forks
In an outlet
   u r a beautiful dawn
At sunset
  My eyes are tired
   It needs to heal
It needs to heal
   D. E. A. (D)  
In a straw or dollar
oh, Kay
   Oh, Natalie
I dot the "I" in your
  Name in my brain
In my bones leaving me
Aloft in dream,
   I dream and weep
I dream and weep
  Pai. N.
Pain. Pain. no. 1
always one to garnish wounds with cyanide (and a hint of sage), the Poet insists here that love is the inverse of pain--the same side of the two coins. Or, as the French would say, in a rather English idiom: To get ****** with two birds.
Ruben Hayward Jul 2015
now is the time, she says.
    she says a lot of things, though.
it's enough, it's enough to watch walls
    crumble like chalk in the hand of a child;
  it's enough to watch sunrise without dread.
         now is the time, she says.
    I say not much, they say.
          not much like a Polaroid
   of a dead owl in your dresser drawer;
         it's not much like a flower caught in a fence.
      factual information is less than an obituary
          telling you that your wife is dead.
        my inalienable right to make pancakes
           at three AM is where I flail in moonlight
    like a strange yellow fish swimming with cane and toothache.
         but, ah, what was that she said---
        a million things all at once with no simile
             (the walls make sound, but
     my eyes are a million things said on Sundays)
          no cohesion, no considerable operations,
    no calorie is succinct, no little bubble in your mouth...
        my terrible thing weeping towards a shelf always
      with pretty words pretty eyes pretty nowheres--
           my wound grows down the trees like ivy
                my hands reach towards you, I close me eyes--
            I breathe I breathe
    smaller breathes to not disturb you.
     so soft and calm with gossamer in your eyes,
           you shift like the moon tossing
     on waves of cloud;
         what gods have I to curse
     when thou art fled?
          Little lines can't suffice,
        empty is a word not full--  
               opulence and splendor
         like my toes in the damp summer grass.
              inhale, please, and take your pulse
        out in the cold because  
     the dryer is broken,
         everything beeps at me
        and houses shiver in nightmare.
Ruben Hayward Jul 2015
There're much
In here
    The tumult
  It's ok:
I've learned
To make
  And how
     To bleed
    With the setting sun
   So stealthy

— The End —