Three poets
rot down a river bed
their body decomposing
except their head
still composing poetry
and recite being dead
where poems still flow
I’ve heard them read

one was caught
by the sun beam
flickering ripples of light

another fought
by a splashing bream
kicking up a fight

the third flowed down
the rapid stream
where water foams white

I, one day went fishing
and caught myself a fish
down the river swimming
quoting Tennyson
Dickinson and Finch
I set it free
because poetry is freeing
Not every line in the end
is a hook
three dead poets can testify
down by the brook

the romantics
after meeting you
will idealize love

the poets
after loving you
will romanticize loss

what is it about,
west australian poets?
who hide in journals
where the paper smells,
personal
organic
safe.

what is it about,
women with poor eye sight?
who wear leggings
-instead of-
dresses
who can't help making messes
and sleep until three
because she needs more time to dream

what is about,
women like me?

May your eyes;
be bright towards the future,
Your past;
only but a memory in the shadows,

Your dreams;
as so bold to move mountains,
Your goals;
as precise as the targets you set,

Your hope's song;
as loud as many heavens roaring,
Your day's courage;
be the first step of chills to hell,

Your words;
the very worthwhile of the mind,
And your echo;
be the reflection of a heart's love,

As I bless all the eyes,
of this poetic piece.
And many more blessings,
upon all my fellow poets.

dearest stranger,

i am too abstract now for my own good. i feel and hold myself, in place, in my hands and i slip right through like sunlight, like tiny moth scales, like the delusions of a sauntering ghost, like all things unreal and untouchable, like a madwoman, laughing away in her free fall to an unsteady ground.

and all the flowers are cheering in their surreal, psychedelic scarlets, and all the rocks are breaking, and all the words are failing to capture what i truly feel.

am i still despairingly corporeal, like paper napkins and panes of glass? am i still in actual flesh, now that god doesn't exist? am i still as tangible as this last, frantic breath of a letter?

am i still actually here?

bidding my farewell now,
ginia

when will the world quiet down into a throbbing, feeble ***** that i can so easily crush?

i spend my days sighing away, digging away at each layer of disillusionment. when will i get to the bottom of this? when do i get to see my bones, all bleached out to a lifeless tan? when do i get to poke them around like live coals, desperately reviving a dying fire? when do i get to see myself, in my highest, truest, most foolish form, and have the closure — both underwhelmed and overwhelmed?

i've lived longer than my younger self would've allowed; tell me, did she know me much better? did she live just long enough for me to inherit her despair? have i gone dancing too much with illusive lights, only to get home heavy, burning, and blinded? did she know it all along? did i know it all along?

tell me, was it all for this? tell me, in the name of all my splendid highs and in the drawn-out silence thereafter  — is this it?