Everytime I push my pen
I am moving mountains
Everytime I touch the keys
I will part the seas
Everytime you do the same
then we are creating
the liberal Science
of poetry

EDIT.

not only is mr bolt missing, there's a like button too.

hp is basically fb and im so p'd that this keeps happening.

Erasure & Found Poem from
"On Photography By Teju Cole in april 16th new york times magazine

--

You were The fast moving disaster of a tsunami
added to the slow motion disaster
of a nuclear calamity

Towns flooded
Infrastructure wrecked
Forests splintered
more than 15,000 people dead.
earthquake cut off
my external power supply
Floodwaters damaged my backup generators
Disabled it's cooling system
Overheating ensued
Fuel in three reactor cores melted
Releasing radiation

Everyone saw The water coming in
The roads swept away
Towns and harbors destroyed

Extensive documentary work
was undertaken by photographers
Of the ruins,
Debris,
Cleanup and relief operations

The gut-wrentching scale of destruction
The professionalism of the emergency crews
The fortitude of the survivers

The extreme uncertainty I feel
in our current political moment
helps me understand for the first time
the curious twinship
of mourning and premonition.

Information
about the tragedy
Sorrow for the suffering it caused
Gratitude for the work
that makes sorrow visible
Foreboding about the future.

An alert flashes
your phone
Something terrible has happened
Far away, a flood, an airstrike,
Soon, there's footage of people picking through wreckage
what used to be their homes

It is easy to pity them
Difficult to imagine this will be you
Suddenly bereft of a solid place in the world.

Listening to anything
that touches on the sublime
makes me apprehensive.

Like The silence that greets us
waking in the middle of the night

Amsterdam Avenue, Sunday morning
Stubs of moisture collect across the panes
Then rivulets, thin as capillaries
She lounges on the sofa
And edges her bare feet between cushions
She is wrapped in a thick towel
Bare to mid-thigh
Hair ebon and slick
Pale face aglow
Her freckled shoulders glisten
And she smiles

A beautiful view
is best when it is shared with
a beautiful you

my favourite

part about being drunk is when
I hold the end of a cigarette by the flame
it doesn’t burn my fingers

I am invincible

I love when I’m drunk
and you weave your fingertips through
the holes in my tights

close but not enough

if I’m drunk enough I’ll let you
walk me back to your apartment in Bushwick

the hallways looking
like The Overlook Hotel

while you push me onto your bed and tell me
all you want to do is lay naked next to me

next thing you know I am your outlet

I am a thousand resonating nos

mine is every body you’ve ever wanted
covered with glass

and you wind my hair around your palm
and I am drunk
off the New York skyline
off the back of an Audi
off a taco truck in a bar

that I submit
and I beg you
to fill all my holes

I love these old snickelways
and lanes in York, my second home.
This one's dark, damp, mysterious,
narrow single file uneven path,
cantilevered street lamp half way down,
sun setting at the far end.

A woman walks ahead, squeezing
through, blinding sunlit halo.
Difficult to distinguish. Not quite right.

'Can I help', I cry. She just moans
and shuffles on, head lolling,
curious scarf wrapped round her neck.

A postcard from the shop next door explains:
'Alice Smith lived here,
died in eighteen hundred and twenty-five.
Hanged for being mad.
Mad Alice Lane, York'.