Do you ever think
about becoming
someone new?
About unmaking,
Recreating,
Partaking,
In the life of someone -anyone-
Who isn’t you?

Hours and hours and days and weeks and months and years
I perfected, rejected, resurrected the art
of becoming someone new.

In mere moments,
a new me.
a new world.
a new dream.

A world to be anyone
or go anywhere
Or be anything.
When I just
Don’t want
To be
Me.

New demons and angels,
New shadows and suns,
New curves and new angles,
New characters
to become.

A world not like
my own.
The trees are paper.
The people move with a blink.
Grass is woven from knowledge and
Leaves are sprouting from ink.

There I go
at a moment’s notice.
Diving, delving, digging.
Revealing
an impossible time.
Where the improbable, inconceivable, unimaginable, unthinkable
occurs every
Other
Line.

I am disappearing into the books.
Invisible to the world.
Unmaking myself,
Recreating myself,
And becoming someone new.

Can I be grateful…truly?
Can I open my heart…fully?
Can I connect…deeply?
Can I be me…absolutely?
Daily life, daily life, daily life
Dawn and dusk
Sunrise, sunset
Sun and rain
Waking and sleeping
Making and unmaking
Ever turning
In a sea of change

I thought there would be a grave beauty, a sunset splendour
In being the last of one's kind: a topmost moment as one watched
The huge wave curving over Atlantis, the shrouded barge
Turning away with wounded Arthur, or Ilium burning.
Now I see that, all along, I was assuming a posterity
Of gentle hearts: someone, however distant in the depths of time,
Who could pick up our signal, who could understand a story. There won't be.

Between the new Hembidae and us who are dying, already
There rises a barrier across which no voice can ever carry,
For devils are unmaking language. We must let that alone forever.
Uproot your loves, one by one, with care, from the future,
And trusting to no future, receive the massive ******
And surge of the many-dimensional timeless rays converging
On this small, significant dew drop, the present that mirrors all.

​Roses and ashes- a world is awaiting.
a mistake and you fall,
but you won’t be regretting
all the screams and the cries,
the unholy you’re creating.
Rome is falling
or burning-
there’s no difference in unmaking.

I fall for her crab passions.

Her embracing chelae
Even when unhug
Surround me when she’s away
It breathes in me poetry
It makes me feel
What I want to be
Unmaking the dull and drab
Setting a mood
That this world is good
Still worth living
And the leaving
Will just be the frame
And the reward
That one word’s
most beautiful emotions!

I fall for her crab passions.

THE UNMAKING

Time, that thief
had broken in

to my head
as I slept

and stolen
not a thing

or rather removed
everything and then

put it back again
exactly but not-exactly

in the same place
so that I felt violated

and could not live
in my self again.

It was as if even
my ghost had died

and my ghost's ghost
had arrived

and taken the place
of who I was.

I
no longer
I.

Your death still
un-making me

We are big.
Like mountains.
If I am the mountain side, you were the wild fire.
Hot. Piercing.
Rendering my solid flesh to molten liquid and then to dust.
But only that I might grow again.
And more beautiful than before.

We face our compulsion. Spinning like mad children, in a ring of rosies, dangling dolls in the infinite black of space.
My binary star. My coupled light spinning my opposite.
Twice as bright.
Twice as beautiful.
But from a distance, we seem as one.

Perhaps this soft light I imagine surrounding you are our gods. Mouths open. Shamed by your beauty, that they could not have created you. Only dreamed you into being. They seem like fate, don't they?

And I am consumed with the constant reminder
of your absence. It plays on my tongue like bitter wine.
Leaving me drunk with want and yearning.
And so much more.

And this madness. Like a force undefined. Hurling our bodies. Like freight trains destined to collide. We can be bigger than mountains. We can be the trees and the sky and the pulse and the moon. All lit by twin stars spinning.

Your lack of light is desperate. A quiet void.
If I were a black-hole. You would be the event horizon
of my unmaking.
A voiceless abyss.
Incomplete.
And slowly growing.


If my eyes were moons. You would be my eclipse.

And this pulse. This landscape caught by rhythm. This thump. Like beating bodies. In carnal rhythm. Remembering each caress like history.

You are my legend. Your touch has written confession on my body, that I read like litany. Cuneiform.
Your fingerprint, an ancient code, written on my eyelids. Spoken on the tip of my tongue that I eat like Eucharist. That I drink like communion.

And my morning prayer is a mourning dirge.
Sung like a sailor for your return.
That you might find the wind of my breathlessness
And return to me
once more.
For I am motionless without you.

Yet.
I am mighty. Like wild beasts. I am stronger then before. I grow wise. I expand my eyes to encompass the horizon, that I may see every curve of your landscape. That I may feel every burn of your wild fire.

My longing is armor, that I wear. To conceal my beast. Like desire. Hungry. Waiting.

Tame me.

I miss your mane.
I miss your smell.
I miss your pulse, beating opposite mine.
I miss your light.

My shadow was massive. Stretching to the corner of maps.
My arms, a wingspan, that crossed time. Waiting to encircle you to me.

I have no light to cast a shadow.
I have no reason to fly.
My heart is barren.
Kept vacant for your return.
If not for you then always.
A singular place that once held your step.
A precious palace that you once danced in.

Spin.
Spin, Wildfire.
Devour my skin again with your hungry touch with your wanting kiss.
I wish to be reborn as yours.
Again.

Circle me that we may light the sky again.
And grow our horizons to outstretch the corner of our eyes.
Until we are blind.

Give me sight.
Let me see.
Let me see you.

That we might see our own light.

As one.

As yours.

Burn brighter than before.

you can ******* a man with accusations of insanity and destroy him instantly, or over a few years... but that only shows the collective approach is insane and, including the man in question the prefix added to the collective: self-destructive... it's no good implying a man faked a coherent use of language, when the western model attached paranoiac iconoclasm of certain pronoun and noun usage - one man had more coherence in language than a million reduced to Emoticons - but no one minded that affair - they simply accepted it - it was once making the populace literate then the unmaking of literacy with technological advances - as ever the lax aristocracy - we don't philosophise in western society, we simply imply logistics of psychology - a Chinese model for the eradication of the unit of indestructibility - a soul, but what happens in China is a success story, the number in question are too man, our experiment is a failure in this eradication of the unit of indestructibility is a failure, excess individuation processes with too few example of coherence and grey matter - the family model is primarily the one source we have no coherent grey matter populace - with its failure no person will strive to wear the mask of father, grandfather, uncle... there's no investment in society of a family, western hands said: freedom to clone, freedoms for L.G.B.T. communities to flourish - surrogacy prostitution... care homes and tattoos of ***** bed-wetting on the skin - individuation's aggressiveness and objectivity's passiveness reduced to a criticism of a book rather than a project of collective cohesion... Communism came across the greatest antisemitism known to man - capitalistic zenith of the holocaust - now slang in populist propaganda - V for Vendetta realism i approach - i don't think i want to go to a pub these days, whether with Scot, Irishman or Anglo - i don't think watching rats scuttle is much fun over a pint of beer... schizophrenia of the collective, from theorem and other additives you can see the reverse chirality - some way or another you become involved - globalisation did that, you want to be un-involved and yet you become involved - you want the village life but are forced into an abstract urbanity - you have the urban life but are discouraged from an abstract village-life although in deepest desire, you wish for it... the day when two speakers of the same tongue undermine each other's speech - by way of constructing the perfect Ypres' replicas of entrenching validations to stand opposite each other on the basis of argument per se, and so the argument comes... how then contend between masochism on one side and sadism on the other, when the former traps himself in a panic room and does it to himself, and the latter is kept repeating a knock-knock joke with no answer?*

England has become a place where
i don't want to socialise -
i wouldn't want to be in a pub
full of Irish or English -
i've become marginalised as a user
of the tongue - i'm a user
but hardly the attaché - the "where you from"
question is always asked, i'm here,
but where from seems to matter more -
it's not fun anymore - London is
slightly confused at it all,
they said the European Union experiment
is a failure akin to the Communist Plot -
but of course both were pre-readied failures,
the former was tackled by puppetry of the
American president, the latter by the Pope -
both were ****** - the populist assertion
of the dream of Nebuchadnezzar -
if history is hardly a hindsight, it certainly
is a way of sleepwalking -
the failure from places not formerly conquered -
the anger of north africa and the elsewhere
encompassing the Mediterranean -
invigorating a force of conquerors by the once conquered
by goose-pimple buttocks of the Romans not
heading north on the continent (islands are insulators
of the cold) - hence the once former conquered
trying to scold and try out their post-colonial
authority - white v. white won't work -
Scandinavians and the Baltic States weren't
ready for ***** Gaul or ***** Britannia setting
orders - the Roman didn't go that far -
the failure was imminent from a single dream -
history is nothing about hindsight -
the hindsight default is nothing but the wrong
of the waking hour for many a man,
to take a dream as a vector for forward only sent
as backward - never make history from the interpretation
of a resting body - from a dream -
to make history from a dream is to give more men
unrest in the waking hour - to make history from
dreams is to make history without hindsight
but with sleepwalking, and few men are given
the anti-psyche drugs for a sober approach,
they say: but i didn't drink... but their intoxication
came from dreams... a drunk man will stumble and fall,
but a man intoxicated by dreams will make more
horrors outside the realm of cinema than is already
there with an eager audience - indeed, a cinema with
an un-eager audience - residues of symbolism,
the quote: for king and country and such baffling e.g. plural.
Ukraine was almost ready to join... you could say
Russia and Britain pulled the project apart...
i just don't think you'll like this aggravated German
with the expulsion of Jews from Poland -
the Visegrad Group - partly because this is the undercurrent -
so when will the channel tunnel become a plot-line
for Guy Fawkes? it's already rearranging itself -
a new chapter - a new nothing - it never worked in
the first place because there was no respect for the diversity,
we shared a single phonetic encoding, sure, some of us
used diacritical stresses, one particular didn't -
but it was anti-representing the diversity, this was
supposed to be an European Union -
not the Post-Colonial-Pseudo-African Union -
the great colonial states ruined it, that's why the greatest
of them has left - the European Union should have
excluded Britain, France and the Iberian peninsula -
it was intended as the revival of the Holy Roman Empire,
but including post-colonial states invoked the realisation
of their colonial past, thereby necessitating an integration
of their past colonial subjects into Europe -
Britain left because they heard the news... Turkey is going
to join... well... never mind Rotherham, eh?

Prime Architect,  the absurdity of your art
fills me up like a riddle, bends the bars of
reason I'm forged within. A Byzantine
world - every fold and layer gyro'd in
astronomical administration, the scheming
of cogs clicking perfectly into place:
vast machinations leaving me windless,
birdsong squeezed entirely from bellows. Up
a lonesome trail; steep and narrow,
knowing faith is a sword too heavy to hold.

HAVE FAITH, they told me; prodded me
to constancy as a mother in S. Carolina backed
her station wagon into a lake with locked
doors and two sons inside. Evil has no horns
after all - it's a lozenge the flavor of a kiss,
there but not there, some puff of violet smoke
unraveling from a dancing brass censer.
The lance of Longinus pierces fleece;
the snake encircling the world swallows
its tail once more.

Jesus, be gentle. Come into me,
pop my doubt like an oozing fruit,
harness me to the light so I might saddle
and swing to the sound of your breath as it
sighs amongst the reeds. Test the
limits of my body as I have chewed and
swallowed yours. Communion makes
a cathedral of me, etches shadow
amongst the stars of the vaulted clerestory
as the nave shimmers with the swords
of flaming prayer.

HAVE FAITH, they told me, massage the
qualms from your dark marbles. Drop coins
down the wishing hole, let the godhead flow
through, like ink, to the parchment of you.
Alexandria burns again in the distance,
books yet unwritten exploding within us all
like the floral horror of a supernova.
Arcana lost, arcana found. Meanwhile, reason
and faith explode through the doors of the
friary, grappling like shadows draped upon
the thirsty Earth.

Iscariot, lay me in your bed of thorns and
mandrake, foxglove and myrrh; call me love,
drink blood from me as the moon sets over
Gethsemane. Let the light darken for a bag of
silver, let the bush burn down like a candle
smoldering cold. I've traced upon my bedsheets
maps of the world in its unmaking, lined shelves
with complete skeletons of extinct animals,
their hopelessness; the guts of this 7-day
world, veined with ribbons of gold, starred
by rubies and amethysts of the
deep-down. All of this, man's
betrayal of man.

HAVE FAITH, I tell myself; within the *****
of this bouncy ball clockworked amongst
the spheres, there's a place: vault
of the Animus, where God melts
away in your mouth, where Lady Macbeth
is still wringing her hands beneath
the font and the horses feast upon the
Eucharist of each other's bodies
like they were Easter hams, like their
blood were sweet wine. Where Abraham's
blade still shadows Isaac's binding;
where death has no power over us.

this country
America
has a lot to learn
from those that have survived
the making
and unmaking
of whiteness
this existential
exponential
build up
of advocacy
for noticing humanity
when it steps out of line

(imagine and picture your FAVOURITE THEATRE
remember that the SETTING tonight is
the stage you built)

first, i went to air my ***** laundry out
cautiously and deftly peel off the skin
from all the places touched and fold it up neatly
away, to be put into drawers
and brought out to wallow
on nights like these

the unmaking of a person is violent, yes
but it dully smells, too.
it is ***** and reeking with sharp dried sweat
wicked away in the cold
i go to fold away the memory of that cold
of my - huh, what’s the word -
b-b-b-bravery braced bent back breaking
on the side of a road that gritted its teeth

and i go to put the loneliness away too
in a suffocating airing cupboard
to not let it draw breath while it
watches the world go by
through a faltering crack in the door

INTERLUDE

(what did you do, those of you sat in the wings
and those of you pulling the strings
you washed your hands, reflexively.
you washed your hands again and again.
so nobody would think this dirt rubbed off)

now i am expected to empty the dishwasher
in front of a yawning kitchen window that
lets in not a chill but a blizzard and i am
unclothed unloading the dishes
i try to cover myself with a plate but there are
accusing eyes at the window here
to gawp at nakedness whilst i stacked bowls
into the teetering towers of a tiring told tale
i drop a misplaced cup and step on it
fall over -
doing a jig of pain, red hot embarrassing
feet dribbling lazy scarlet on the wet floor
what a spectacle, what a show, encore?

(and for those of you in the front row
i am deeply sorry.
proximity is pricier and more painful
and what i regret about this graceless fall
is that you had to witness it at all)

but all that’s left is to sweep the floor
so then i kneel down and sit there legs in dust,
inhaling until my bones are sandpaper and
chafing against the inside of my skin.
draw the curtain and

let me sit a while, please. in this dirt.
let me sit a while in this dirt.
oh, i know. i know my knees are white and
it is settling into my hair and inside my eyes
but i just want to sit here and be *****.
i have the broom - i am holding it, see?
to sweep away and brush apart and
pack it all up into a breathlessly shiny sack
but not just yet

(bored now, you make to leave)

unfinished i step underwater
but the shower is scalding and yes -
yes the ash falls off and the hollow thud
becomes a wet sludge
eking itself through the drain
leaving a grand total of nothing behind.

(SPOTLIGHT: and suddenly! the airing cupboard bursts open and reveals that the piles of laundry still reek, stinking sharply of sweat and ***! and it seems my dishes are still *****, lines of grease splattering down the clay! oh and the floor is just as gritty, smudging oil into the creases!

you in the wings, tired of this PLOT TWIST
you pulling the strings - wishing to cut them
you in front, i am sorry again but -

i can’t bear to try and clean again so -
let me sit and pretend, please
yes, yes, in this dirt with the curtain drawn
just a little bit more and i will get over it and
go through another spring of cleaning onstage so
please, let me -
let me sit here just a little while longer.)

Yes, she stole my thoughts*

devoured, digested and made her own
in the shortest possible time one could imagine,
made her imprint to make it a through job.
all between a stuporous sleep of my unmaking
after that frenzied mating instigated by
her  cheating instinct at its acme.

she did it quietly in the dim light
of the zero watt bulb,
after we slept together
for the first time;
it was eerie
my romanticized thoughts
were the first to
get drawn out,
a tree full of wild red blossoms,
the name of which slipped
from memory to oblivion,
migratory birds of different feathers
sitting on that tree chirping in love's sweet passion.

i woke up
when the thoughts circling
like blood in my veins were touched,
she was there prowling
with the look of a witch,
a happy one at that
how victorious she looked!
my angst has no place in her scheme of things
after that, she coughed and spat
and pretended ,IPR never was violated
When you get bitten by the
serpent called  lust,
and two ***** conjoin,
thoughts go down and hide,
one become unreasonable
and glide through moonlit sky,
stars wink, thoughts wink back,
and the stupor takes over.

yes, she stole my thoughts
how could one complain?
You need to be one or the other at a time.

Where might I be
in my last breath?

When the ongoing sunset fades into darkness
where absent stars twinkle, ignorantly,
and the oceans drink and ruins crumble
in eternal, perfunct serenity,
for there will be no dawn,
where might I be?

At the unmaking of history when origins die
and the land masses curdle and cover the sea,
when Poseidon emerges to reclaim his rites
while Hades laughs gaily, where might I be?

When time falters truly over caesura
-If "when" it can truly be considered to be-
And the void calmly beckons for matter's fair soul;
when the ellipse quietly loops, without warning,
and darkness pervades over freedom and truth
that cannot exist ingenuinely
for nothing remains except nobody,
if 'be' I can be, where might I be?


At the end of the pages, where the margins dissolve
live creatures of forethought creation who choose
to acknowledge the limits of what they control,
or not, says their God, says the author, says I.


For every soul, a collective demise.
And a needless debate o'er if preconceived.
But the truths I create are the truths that will stand.
And so, at the end, here is where I am.

THE UNMAKING

Time, that thief
had broken in
to my head as I slept

and stolen
not a thing
or rather removed

everything and then
put it back again
exactly but not-exactly

in the same place
so that I felt violated
and could not live

in my self again
it was as if even
my ghost had died

my ghost's ghost had arrived
taken the place
of who I was

I
no longer
I

your death
still
un-making me

It won't be easy and you won't get it straight
When the sun goes on you in agony
You be ready to go to madness to the great

I might been sad and broken and jammed
But kept your love in very tremble way
Once I'm done, I really am
I'll plead you leave and not to stay

You see Paris crying above your head
And gothic wind is to come to blow your heart away
October the fifth you wake up in your bed
Perchance you'll see it coming through the rays

You moved to Venice to obtain any good
But as for me I chose freedom
To lie and sleep and brood
Upon the past, and I still see 'em

The visions of you and me in flames
Burning down to the ashes
Our love which's unmaking to the frames
Now falling down with the smashes

Of the feelings in my chest
Goodbye I tell you at that fest
Of all the heart-broken ones
Never thought of joining the club

I never expect love to lie thus
And the fate that way to fool around
Is there anything that left for us?
Or we have nothing to be bound (to)?

I AM WOMAN, HEAR ME ROAR
is what your eyes are screaming at me,
pencil scratching across page as
fingers stampede, stationary upon
your desk. don't you
know what you're doing to me,
with your Catholic faith and
artesian frame?? I swear
to your god (for I am
Protestant and yes they are different)
that you will ruin me and I swear
to my god that I would

love nothing better for in
your unmaking of me there is
a subtle art,
not an artifice, and it is
this which I adore, possibly
even more than I adore thee.

I want to shake them off,
the weird thoughts,
like a swarm of bees,
buzzing, whining, aimed at nothing.
Want to write me off?

Loneliness.I
observe the hands of a watch,
looks like they are not moving.
Time stands still.
Waits for me to move.

An atavistic ache.Again I view the world.
Everybody is making a sound without bending.
With dreams dead, I step into emptiness,
barefoot, to feel the earth.

Not going to quit,
free to **** my ghost,
I move into sunlight.

I am a craftsman. My hands are made of clay.
They're soft and wet and mould silhouette.
The last I made were without shadow,
The next will be more musical.
They will be spin around me -
Chimes in a western wind. Chimes of a different figuring
perhaps to hang in branches, simply as decoration.

If I rest, there will be no forming.
I fear this.
I fear the unmaking and forever sleep.
The chimes will awaken me with their shadow-music.

*
Squalls and storm clouds move inside me.
I hear thunder. Some say
they see change coming.
I see constant weather. There
is purpose in their forecast,
no in-decision and in a precise moment
the exact snap of thin ice.

*
I awaken before a bridge - reaching far across a rocky canyon.
Going to the edge and leaning over I see
the darkness of endless sleep. I hope to hear
water song and the expanse of rain-dreaming.
I wait at the bridge for a traveller like me to pass -
I will ask him to describe his journey and
The way ahead which I have not yet seen.

A living ball of white plastic twine
its bulb of body conscious
slim head pointed down towards the floor
chaos of legs whirling
knees bend inwards and go slack
like a flower opening and closing
a shimmering life
the size of my kneecap

hanging from a thread of silk
spider as a puppet
marionette legs
flailing as they play empty notes in space
haggling without gravity

mused into waking they paw at the air
smoothing the surface
of imagination

making and unmaking
an invisible tapestry

all these careless maids
whatever their purpose might be
whatever heartbreak is
the encroaching ends of their creations
meticulous in movement only
when the sewing
commences

In the morning
all the magic has worn off
the spider is a tiny brownish
common cellar spider
a miniature Daddy Longlegs
just the hull of what
was massive
and sentient
in the night

It's not all that it's cracked up to be
even when you're good and get the key
that lets you in
free from sin
unlike me who'll never be
a member

but I'm quite sure
the muses or the fates
can't hide the fact
that Heaven is full of
council estates.

shrinking violets or
prima donnas
have one thing in common
they're all dead and goners

. Imagine cherubs and seraphim
stood at the gates
handing out halo's
to all of your mates,
and don't forget the
council estates
there'll be rent when it's due
or you'll be out on the street
there are plenty of homeless
here you can meet
Jersey lil's
and cowpokes that drawl
Kilroy the star of many a wall

the ghettos
let's not forget the ghettos
the heat of the day
the union go-slows
the unending songs
of angels
lost souls at odds with
the angles

heaven is the dumping ground
and I being of sound mind
with a grip on things
wouldn't go.

She stepped into the wall of steam,
Allowing the shower to unmake her
From her neck to her ankles.

Never her head, never her feet.

Her head was an exploding star
Full of simultaneous destruction and creation.
Constantly making, unmaking, and remaking.
Impossible to unmake something while it's being made and unmade and remade.

It's all chaos and kairos.

Her feet cannot be allowed to be unmade.
Even in the sanctuary of sweet oblivion,
There are miles to go yet.

Chaos and Kairos. That's all there is.

My grandfather was not a boxer
but he loved to fight, throwing
punches at the faces of hard men,
left and right hooks, uppercuts
in barroom brawls and alleyways,
with hands the size of iron trivets,
forearms cut with ropes of muscle.

Eventually, after decades of stitches
and bruised knuckles, after his hair
turned white and his eyes clouded,
he would shadowbox in the garden
behind the dilapidated potting shed,
swinging slower, less light on his feet,
but safe in that manicured square
ringed by boxwoods and evergreens,
the bees in spring buzzing applause.

My grandmother would watch
him from the kitchen window,
in a sweater she always wore
regardless of the weather,
and wonder what he was fighting
against, or, perhaps, fighting for.

And that’s how my grandfather died:
throwing a final right cross in the air
before dropping to his knees at last,
knocked out on a mat of green grass,
washed by an unexpected downpour,
water collecting in opened red tulips,
loving cups in full bloom, the first
ten drops of rain counting him out.

Standing in that garden decades later,
I know I am no fighter.
Approaching old age, hands in pockets,
I watch for signs of unexpected weather,
worry about things beyond my control:
car crashes, cancer, electromagnetic pulses,
the minutiae of a thousand apocalypses.

Is the future drawing back
a left hook I will never see
coming? Will a haymaker
hit me like a hammer,
unmaking my family
before the final bell?

And suddenly I realize:
maybe I should have
learned to throw
a ******* punch.

There is no word for these:
Old friends in new bodies
gOld souls with
Ancient minds and
Youthful eyes.
Some of us have
The blood of Mary inside
Others raise from wakeless lakes
You, I beileve, have both.

Balancing on her railroad ties
She whispers,
That's your own impression
And she adds,
Why do all your smiles pass like clouds,
Instead of sticking around like thick crowds?
Because! I answer ( in different words )
Even the best eyes, still
Cannot untie our blind minds,
Cannot disarm our arms,
Cannot keep our feet from passing on.

Fair, she allows
But now, quiet your mind
Forget your words, and
She starts to hum softly
His soul circles him, it turns
The passing train breaks his trance
Buried back in his body now
Hearing pistons pounding in his head
Dreaming up old friends again,
Real and fake, then
Unmaking them, one by one
Finishing with this one
Lady of the lake
Toes tickling the water, blond curls like clouds,
Eyes belying death...
How is it this one shares a friend
In us all?

goes my ever unsteady heart.

It does not take a pile of torn-up forget-me-nots
for me to falter,
just a name;
Your name.

You are my solemn unmaking,
the end where I begin,
you possess the irrevocable capacity to have written me in reverse.

**** it.

For Ben

My heart breaks for you
My baby boy
Your world has fallen down
My soul cries out for you my love
I can't kiss away your frown
It's been an uphill struggle
But you are not to blame
I understand your life now
Will never be the same
One day I hope that you will see
That all of this is best
Until you do, it will be hard
It's one of life's cruel tests
You'll always be my baby boy
That will never change
My love for you grows stronger
Though dad & I are estranged
You do not need to choose
One of us to love the most
We will always love you
Remember that foremost
I wish it could be different
That we could have made it work
That your life did not have changes
That you had not been hurt
Please be kind to yourself my love
Do not let this be
The unmaking of your excellence
That I could not bare to see
I will always be here for you
I'll always be your mum
Forever loving you my love
In all the years to come

(C) Pixievic 2016

the river breaks open (like ribs)
unmaking the earth in quiet tongues,
it flows unendingly:
she
does
not.

each stone hums her absence (or mine?)
while its waters slip soft knives
between the spaces where a heart
once folded neatly into hers.

the lake is still, an unfinished
sentence—its surface holds nothing
but sky, which has always been
indifferent. I do not reach
into its shallow silence;
I know it would not forgive me.

(oh
the sea).
each wave rises only to fall,
its breath (a sob, a scream, a sigh)
pulling the shoreline apart grain
by aching grain—
and i stand
where foam clings to my feet,
wanting
to
follow.

i write of the water because
it moves and I cannot.
because the tide swallows her name
and spits it back (broken,
empty,
wrong).

grief is not a thing
it is everything
it is the way my chest
folds in on itself like a ruined map.
it is the sharp edges of nothing
scraping against everything
until only this ache remains.

and when the river hums, when the lake stills,
when the sea pulls me open
just to leave me raw,
i know—
absence is the heaviest thing
i will ever hold.

I can look at photos you've taken, and your appreciation for beauty brings tears to my eyes. I'm not even sure what kind of love that is, but I know that it surges through me in a way that feels... fragile. Last night after you left me I walked in the dark for a long time, and I could hardly breathe. Not for fear or for pain or for uncertainty, but... because my body has always acutely known, whenever I see you, how utterly inadequate it is to contain and channel the joy I am capable of feeling. I walked because I could not be still. Something was coursing through me, a wild, unfathomable elation, an awe to be alive. In equal and opposite intensity to the depths of pain I've felt, it rushed beneath my skin, pressing out from my fingertips so that I had to clench and unclench my hands just to rein it in. I took deep breaths just to hold myself together, because somehow that euphoria was working its way in between the molecules of me, pushing them apart, trying to expand me into something vast enough for it to inhabit, and unmaking me in the process. I have told you that you may **** me, and what I always meant was that- that you bring forward such incredible, unprecedented love and wonder in me, such joy that something in me realizes what I usually ignore: That I was simply not made durable or enormous enough to survive my own capacity to feel. It is that sweet, aching mortality that I experience every time I love. I am addicted to it. I am in awe of it. That lovely expansion of my heart against my ribs, against my lungs, which makes me gasp for air and cling to the life I need to continue living to experience more of this indescribable elation. When I look at you I know that I am so, so very unprepared to love the way I do, so small, so breakable, and so....eager, to throw myself in, to pour out this passion that demands so insistently to be expressed that its restlessness inside of me presses me forward out into the night, to wander until the sun begins to rise. When I said I would love you with the same level of desire that every living being has ever had for its continued existence, this is what I meant. I MEANT it. I mean it. I've given up being scared of it. This...is a gift. I can feel this. And I will. I will feel it until it either crushes me, or changes me. And I will feel it for you.

Today I managed to convince myself that there was not a single soul in the world who loved me
That I was alone amongst stars whose names were long forgotten
Just as my own name was on the prescipice
Already a half murmered phrase, a syllable dropped here and there
Just me in inky sky watching my own hands crumble to smoke
Carried away on a wind that will not even return my echo to me
I saw a shooting star and recognised her for the girl I sat opposite on a bus once
Dared not call her name for knowledge she did not herself know it anymore
The smoke climbed further, my arms and all the nerves inside them
Unravelling into shadow, even as my own shadow had long since fled
Once upon the sunlight I could have called forth memory
Gripped his heart in my fist and demand one more day
Another aching hour before the unmaking
The smoke has her silken hands around my neck
Tender as an embrace I collapse into her mouth
As I am consumed I see the faces of everyone I carried inside my heart
Forget their names, their voices, the colours of their eyes
And am too forgotten by all but the nights' cold quiet
Everything is lost to the hungry dark
Small, but a death just the same

WATCHING UTD. IN A TUXEDO IN THE MIDDLE OF THE BAY OF BISCAY.

first day at sea
( all at sea )
only sea to be seen

"O...k...I am...going to...
turn my back and when
I turn back again

I want whoever
took the land to
put it back

and nothing
will be said
Ok...1, 2, and...

the sea only
laughs at me
making and unmaking itself

attempting to create
an infinity of
water

the waves
the sea's thoughts
made visible

Utd. win
2 nil
I lose the tux.

It's only on the nights that everyone's busy and my mind isn't occupied that I sit back and think about what we would've been doing on a quiet Saturday night. When my parents were out of town and the house was chilly and smelled like peppermint from the tea I'd be drinking.  I make my bed because I have nothing better to do and think about how we would be unmaking it in the most beautiful way if you were still here. But who knows if you're even you anymore because I haven't talked to you in so long. I drink alone to get rid of your memory, but I remember how your kisses tasted like ***** and strawberry gum and stop to cry for a moment because I miss those kisses so much.  And now I can't even make myself peppermint tea because it reminds me of the peaceful nights when I thought you loved me.