"unreachably" poems
I'm looking for a Neurotic Girl
someone who will break down before I do
someone who's not afraid to cry,as the tea kettle boils,
after telling me about her problems.
Someone I can worry about,and do unselfish things for, and offer some comfort to,
someone who depends on me for a change.
I'm looking for a girl
who isn't too confident in herself,even though she's wonderful,
at least in my eyes.
Someone who hasn't got her entire life sorted out, just yet.
Someone who'll realise that I can be a nice person, behind the facade.
Because these days I'm wandering
from party to party
from pointless
city centre venues
and all-too-familiar and contemptible
small town social haunts
and all I see and hear
are the attention-seeking, the unreachably friendly, the distant
and the involved
All swimming in mediocrity
If you'll pardon the fake sophistication of that last metaphor
And all I'm left to do
is wonder what it would be like
to find someone
who I could be Introspective,
Debauched and Nihilistic with
A nice Neurotic Girl.
But I suppose that would invariably lead
to some sort of responsibility
in my otherwise self-absorbed existence
I would have to pretend that I am a proper kind of person
for the sake of my fragile lover's much needed feeling of security
I would take it upon myself
to go out into the world
to keep a sort of balance for the both of us
spending headache-inducing hours
with people whom I cant stand
while she sits at home
and smokes
in bed.
Apr 13, 2012
Apr 13, 2012 at 7:10 PM UTC
Musk. Wind
whispers mysteries in the form of it;
it thickens thin air until it turns black,
black enough to
hush. Wind,
being black, absorbs your thoughts,
makes violent curls of them; thickens,
thickens thin air until it
transmogrifies
into pages and pages
stained black with disaster-
as if a hurricane crumpled
those could-have been white aeroplanes, potential
papered to fly, and flung them
into the pit of your mind to
sink
deeper
and
deeper
and
deeper
until
your poems were written and the casualties numbered:
each line a suicide of a thought that could have been,
each syllable ink-stained and bloodied black
by artistic integrity, or madness: the same.
This wind is your hair.
This wind is your territory.
Not mine. Never could I have met you here,
in this place
of your solitary being: where real poets exist.
I am not a hurricane: and I am not your disaster.
I have learnt and re-learnt how useless it is to define you
in terms of myself; how useless it is to define you
at all. A rationalist like me can never truly understand
what it is to be part of your endlessness, the sheer
mountainous immensity that constitutes your thrill.
Yes,
your hair fascinates me as much as any ancient,
spiralling, far-away Andromeda- but the fact
that even now, I've already tried to limit you
with words
shows the absoluteness, the solidity,
the density
of my misunderstanding of your... your...
And
real poets know that rationalists are fools.
You know
I am a fool.
I write these meagre verses
with unreachably cold computer technologies
thinking
that these words could somehow save us. Yet,
simultaneously,
I am some drunken nuisance knocking
vehemently
at your door, who turns and strolls
away
right before you finally
answer.
I am a fool
going home and seeing clouds
in the darkness. It is my first
time seeing them in the sky. First
time in nearly a month.
The moon illuminates the clouds,
and so do
the towers of highway lights in the middle of two roads.
One road leads forward, the other backwards.
As the car passes the towers,
the two lamps attached to each of their heads glow.
They streak on as the car speeds on homewards.
They leave fading tails like shooting stars, except they do not travel.
They are stagnant mind lights, peripheral memories; unmythical,
artificial.
They are not like you.
When I pass you,
You....
You...
You.
Please,
never believe-
for even a whisper of musk
to yourself;
for even a black hush,
to yourself;
for even one sliver, one strand
of Andromeda hair, falling
towards yourself-
that
Grahamstown
didn't mean anything less than Eternity to me.
It does.
I am not a hurricane. I am not your disaster.
You are far too much of yourself
for me to be even a zephyr
to you.
Jul 29, 2015
Jul 29, 2015 at 2:58 PM UTC
There is no one here. No replies either. To random sms that are unfair.
I don't want your time. I just want to be able to breathe.
And that's easier with distraction.
Silence, actually. Or Haines. Or Hauswollf. Or silence.
But I can't breathe.
Can you remember when you lay on top of me.
Naked.
With your whole body weight. Skin on skin.
I could breathe under your weight.
You were my air.
Pathetic **** Disgusts me. I resent myself. But I can't breathe.
And yet I'm too cowardly, or the question of why this far and no further,
when I want to cut off my air for good.
It's all there. Simply because it brings a little peace.
Control.
I can. I can. If I really can't anymore. Or want to.
It bores me.
Everything's on the right track now, isn't it?
But you're not coming to see me.
A friend said I shouldn't put it like that.
So that I wish you would visit me again.
I meant the dreams in which you were there.
You told me that we had to find your belt.
What belt?
I replied
that you were a pile of ashes. You didn't care.
But now, after three years,
**** again,
three years,
look, I live around the corner from you now.
For three long years I have avoided this area.
Took the longest detours, counted the shadows.
there were always 114.
i don't want to see your window.
And now
I live here.
In your area. The area that so often seemed unreachably far away when we wanted to see each other.
And we always wanted to see each other.
Sitting in the back seat of a car, I drive past.
And stare into your window.
drive past, sitting on the hard wooden bench in the streetcar.
And stare into your window.
In the unbearably loud subway, I pass by, twisting my head, standing on my toes, twisting my whole body.
So that I can stare into your window.
have stopped counting them. the 114 shadows.
And can't breathe.
He's outside. What should I say?
Why am I even talking to him? 40 euros.
You died for 40 euros.
That's what I say. Yeah yeah yeah... free will, not your fault, grown up... yeah yeah yeah I UNDERSTOOD.
Doesn't change my guilt.
There! Now! I remembered that you weren't just in my dreams.
And now I demand from this world that you look at my balcony.
I “want” nothing.
No needs
except rest.
And Haine…or... Hauswolff.
And now is the point where I no longer find it fair.
Not in a dream.
Sit next to me.
Put your entire weight on my naked body.
Let your sweat drip from the tip of your nose into my mouth and let me taste the salt.
Not in a ******* dream.
Come here now.
Please.
I know..
I can't come to you. You are no more.
I don't know... I still want to be.
I think so.
It's finished.
The spiritual **** disgusts me, your talk disgusts me, I disgust myself
And probably the only reason I haven't hanged myself yet is because I think, I've lasted this long.
Aug 11, 2024
Aug 11, 2024 at 5:15 PM UTC
Here’s the thing:
I am okay because I’ve learned how to distort the pieces of us, the pieces of our story
I forcibly separate the past from our current reality
The you I know now isn’t the you I used to know
The feelings I felt for you, the words you spoke that filled me with an irreplaceable notion of happiness, are all distant memories
They have no place in our present
Even though I see you now, even when we’re sharing the same space, same bed, same air
I miss you
Because the you that I fell deeply in love with
On a bench alongside the garden of roses beside the lake
Alone on a balcony in Paris
By your side on the dock, underneath the blanket of stars that allowed us to fool ourselves, fall for the facade that we were possible
Isn’t the person you are to me now
You are unreachably distant
I think you’re choosing to be different
To help me, to make it easier on you, who knows
You won’t let me in, and I don’t know if it’s because you’re afraid of what that will mean for you, or what that will mean for me
Perhaps it’s a little bit of both
You could be simply a victim of your own immensely busy life, choosing to rarely classify me as a priority
Or maybe you’ve decided that we’ve been reckless, careless, stupid, one too many times
But I don’t know how to be anything aside from that
One word from you, one glance my way
And I realize that denying that, denying you, would be turning down an irrepressible part of myself
A part of me I will never be able to ignore -
because it’s the part that will always belong to you
Jul 7, 2017
Jul 7, 2017 at 2:41 PM UTC