"backdated" poems
A spectacular butterfly
splendid in its monochrome, leopard-print reflecting armour
flies unto the lavender branches
recently budded in my garden
Fancying myself a faithful reader of Nabokov
and drawn to anecdotes of self-glorification
I thought I should become a Lepidopterist
and catalogue its striking corpse
beginning what could become a masterful collection
Me, the quarter-tanned Irish bopping all in tennis whites
with mock-radioactive web of butterfly doom among the wooden yard dividers
But where should I keep it?
this hype-building collection of one
amongst my dust-collecting books
my backdated journals and flaccid-worn glossy magazines
my "value-appreciating" vinyl records
the more prettily curated and precision-hung images that curate my partner's collections?
No, it is not for me
to stop it succumbing to dust, to allow it turn into something beautiful again
if a tragic kind of beauty
amongst the dirt, for something becomes more wonderful when
it's beauty is not forced on show
but produces itself through more layered, yet uncomplicated means
returned back out of the dust, without any of our artificial light
recording again it's eventual demise
Jun 28, 2019
Jun 28, 2019 at 4:05 PM UTC
Slowly taking away every piece of me written from this place
My power is limited, but I love the feeling of purge
it will be fresh start, gradually and then all of a sudden
It will be blessing in disguise, a hidden current,
Stilled in backdated history, written words are not immortal.
Mar 8, 2024
Mar 8, 2024 at 11:13 AM UTC
the simple things
are backdated to yourself
like vain glass
you rareify your blaze
Jul 9, 2018
Jul 9, 2018 at 7:45 AM UTC