In absence of a poem.I chewed my pen to the niband swallowed the ink thoughtlessly,but no matter how long I thought,I couldn't say what you mean to me.I tried, I tried and I tested,every word in my diminutive range,but I screwed up more pieces of paperand happened upon something strange;I noticed words, which have served me,for all of my formative years,had no power to convey my gratitudefor the times that you dried my tears.Whenever I doubt myself (often),You're the one who tells me I'm wrongYou lift up my chin and remind me, waitfor the good things that will come along.I can't find a way to express howyou are the saving grace in my head.So words can't tell you how I love you -I hope my silence will tell you instead.
40810If only you were soulless.If you were mindless, blind,you and I could make a beautiful disaster.The press would write of our brief affair;they'd paint me (the woman in red) as pathetic.They will not consider how I need your loveor how it pains me so deeply to throw myself at you.I will not be remembered as a poet warrior.I'll be the eternal survivor no more.All who think of me will shake their bowed headsand tearfully remark; If only you were soulless. If you were mindless, blind, You wouldn't have been such a bloody disaster.
AfterIt follows me.My silver skeined ghost.An almost imperceptible thread;only visible when you shine light directly upon it.It follows me.It rides the underground.It hides under bridges,Under trains.It is woven into the spools of tar that form the roads between.Inevitably if I walk too fastit reminds me -Like the tug of stitches in your cheekthat reminds you; you have lost your wisdom.It reminds me.It trips me in doorways,when my mind is elsewhere.If I look away from it - - it slips round my neck.Another knot to throw over the beamsit mauls me without a fair chance.I tried to sever it. I can't.Only the corrosion of time has a chance.So for now, I am tetheredto the fragment of my heartthat I tore out for you.Although we have placed it in a shroudand declared it dead,the umbilical thrumming keeps me awake.It does not desist;the connection to that unwanted slab of meat.It foll
Of Nuisance LeavesHear me read it!Leaves clutch their ropy fingers around the tree's limbs. The zesty leeches bloom, crack open overnight and slip silently up the nearest oak or maple. They pierce the crunch of bark and penetrate deep into the rubbery veins.They feed. They pauperize plum and peach until they are heavy and brown; heavy laden with the stolen sap.When at last they reach their fill the tree can finally shake them off emphatically, desperately, until at last it is clean again. The tree reaches its black bones to the sky in praise and as a new year begins vows never again to be the victim of leaves.
A chance secondI lie awake, staring at the cornices.3AM: my fingers worry at the corners of my sheet.My anxiety worries at the corners of my rib.I bite and tug and huff out my miseryAs the silence keeps me awake.I lay with pressure of your absencePressing down over my nose and mouth.A soft asphixiation of the heart, of the sanity.It is a hot grey night in London.You are awake, startled by the sunlight.7AM: you can't lift your weighty skull from the sheet.The day sirens, but you stay, settled,Under the weight of your shroud, your loss,Only the silence keeps you awake.Unknowingly, for the first time in weeksWe are unintentionally in sync;Laid out in funerial colours as we die.It is a dull blue day in Dubai.
ShockwaveFoetalTrying to fold the pain upTo trap it between the paper cut limbs.Curled upProtectiveBut the shockwaves comePulsing from insideDestroying cellsRadiocactiveCurled upTo trap it between the paper cut limbs.Trying to fold the pain up.Foetal.
The White ThingsNothing is as far away as a minute ago.No matter how hard you row against the tidewe can never reach it, never return there.It's hard to sleep in the light of my regretsthat creeps through curtain and barriersto rot away and bleach all things white.It's hard to sleep knowing that no distanceis as far away as sixty small seconds ago.Immalleable, we rot, and things turn white.
VaseA broken heart can be excavated.Damaged tissue can be scrupulously removedand the cracks can be sealedwith the molten trails of gold solidified.The upturned cavity,once proofed against further damage,can become a pulsing vase for tulips,because even though your heart has been brokenit is still valuable beyond comparison.
Of ForestsPinecones are the skeletons of foetal trees.They are the hopes, desires and dreams of a forestreduced to the brittle, breakable bones under it all.They are the unburied memories of loss.
HAIKUWRIMOCOMPLETE 2013February 28th, 2013Dire desperationA feeble whimper for help;roar of these raw times.February 27th, 2013Gluttonous ash cloudsucks the moon's bloodand swallows the night.February 26th, 2013Bark! An explosion!Angry bodies escape thenetwork of lung cells.February 25th, 2013Silently cloning,multiplying, honing in,determined to kill.February 24th, 2013Tea and sympathyreadily availablefor my dear sister.February 23rd, 2013I will hold my breathas the north wind does the samewaiting for your love.February 22nd, 2013He hovers behind;Hamletian apparition.Always following.February 21st, 2013A long slow curve,your smile upon my shoulder,a scar of your touch.February 20th, 2013Dandelion seed,Where do you go while I sleep?To whom do you run?February 19th, 2013Whorls from fingersImprinted in the treesCount their rings too.February 18th, 2013Orchid explodes.Sudden
ScarsSee the sharpness of my tongue-nibAs the metallic taste in my mouth draws outA barking cough, forced outBy the dirty nicotine lining my lungs.See the blade of stubbornnessThat slices across my cheek bone;An amalgamation of all the times you pushed me.See the residue in my eyes,The remnants of all those times you forced meAnd I forced myself not to cry;Those tears condensed into a thick blinding syrupThat colours all things red.See the crinkle in my nose,The wrinkles on my heartAs I remember how you didn't love me. (Don't love me).See the burns on my psalmsAnd fingerprints singed offBy all the times you called me nothing.See the manacles, the barnaclesThe mutations and tumours.See the invisible scars of the Battle of Us.
Talking to the FurnitureRichard found himself talking to the furniture."Ahhh" he sighed settling into his favourite chair "lets have a nice sit down shall we?" The question lay down on the floral rug and withered away unanswered."What's that all about, eh?" he grumbled to the doormat that had curled up snuggly against the front door, jamming it when he opened it for the milk, as he picked up his post. "What's that about?""Right then, let's get the kettle on" he chirped conversationally to the kettle which blushed until steam came out of its ears and boiled despite being watched. "Lovely cuppa" he said in thanks, and the kettle whistled shyly to herself until she was calm again."Come along then" he grumbled as he grappled with the lawnmower, "Come along, come along then. That's a good girl".Richard didn't mind talking to most of the furniture, he had done it most days of his long eighty-six years. He had talked to the furniture as it had slunk into corners and nested in cupboards when they had moved in fo
Mother EarthMy body is the earth;See how under this bruiseA seed of malcontent sleeps.See what grows out of each poreAs the pain pours over again.There is rust in my fingerbedsThat poisons the rootsOf all good that hopes to grow here.I am the convulsing, revolutionof the convoluted Earth...I am the tectonic blades that clashand shout when I curl up and hide.You will feel me when I tremble,and fear me when I explodefor under the magmanimous skinThere burns a core of hateThat can't be marred by human hand.
Rock BottomThey say a rolling stone gathers no moss,so when I shudder to a haltThe rocks in my feet continue to grind.I feel the sand in my lungsand the regretful mist silting in my heartas the waves come back inreaching eagerly for my legs, spooling, churningover me. Rooted in my misery.I know the rocks in my feet will help me drown.
MatterIt is only a matter of timeuntil the stone lays down with the sheepand sleeps.Rested firmly above the holeswhere our eyes used to be.It is only a matter of matteruntil epitaph and eulogy diminish to dustand sleepbecomes the eternal home,not where our souls used to be.It is only a matter of factthat our words will become reductionist, redundant,and sleepilythe world will forgetwhere our words used to be.
Hard.On days like this it is hard to move,it is hard to dress myself.Blouse, a chest plate; dress me in chain mail.- with the helmet on it is hard to see.It is hard to open my eyes, or lift my chin.On days like this, it is hard to be human.It is hard to raise my hands, to buttonor to brush my mangy hair.It is hard to construct the image of a personout of these destitute materials.It is hard to pump clotted, crumbling blood.On days like this, it is hard to be human.
DaleHear me read itThey will not silence the bells for you.The roses will not halt their will to wiltand lilies will disassemble under the earth.They will not dust Frankincense over citiesand trees will not bow down in griefwillingly donating limbs to become tissues.But throats will dry out mid-sentence andblack hankerchiefs will be dubbed into pockets.There will be enough salt to melt the iceembedded around the hearts of old enemies.Old enemies will turn friend once moreand the church will be full, packed with love.The world is unlikely to take a moment's prayer;Earth spins too fast to pause for any of us.But the meagre collection of people you touched(meagréd only by the tear-ridden knowledgethat you would have touched many more in time)Will ache tonight and whisper of your friendship.You were and always will be; loved.
TerminalI want to kill you.I want our love to be terminal,And for it to be wrappedaround your heart tight when you die.I want you to be lookinginto my eyes when you do,And I want you to knowwhat I have done to you, for you.I want our love to be terminal,Or rather; til death do us part.I meant what I said,I want our love to last until you die,Or I die,Or beyond that.Or; simply,I want to spend my life with you.
zeroi sworei would never number the poemsi wrote about myself because thatwould be like ticking off the daysuntil my breakdown;i was a moth, unapologetically throwing myselfat any gleam of hope; wasting my wingson industrial promisescolors always felt much moreappropriate for the purple boilingbeneath my heart and the pallidpurposelessness of my head,but i was born into a colorless world--no one sees me behind the metallic scarsof my skin and iron grating of my voice againstthe grain; no one sees me as more thangray regret or monochrome mistakes,no one sees me butall i ever wanted was for afallen god with feathered heelsto believe in me: to pray uponthe monuments i built forbroken dreams and to baptize mein his tainted tears,i just want him to be real. morethan anything, i want to be real, i wantto be more than an imaginary friendto various mental limitations; i wantto trade my liquid skin [evaporating]for a chance to bei am a moth and you are the lighthousei
Seam StressThe heaviness settled in like an anvil being dropped on me. I couldn't take the fog inside my head and the lead inside my heart anymore, so I sat in the sun to melt it away. I wanted to sear every surface until I couldn't feel anymore. What kind of life is that, though, to never feel anything? To never feel the joy of love; the way it wraps its arms around your heart and traces its fingertips along your veins? Even the pain of looking back at love's scattered memories is necessary to understand how beautiful the feeling once was; how lucky you were to have ever felt its lips press to your cheek, its breath collect in the hollow of your neck. Love does these things, sews itself right up inside you to close the holes within.You'll be told you'll find another. You'll be told to go, go and find happiness because all this is, is hurt, and nothing else. The problem is, your heart doesn't understand the complexities of bad timing or fear or settling for another because of low self-worth. You
Counting the Ringsinear my sick bedhe murmurs of how he's crumblingbut I'm still hereI've fought so long, I'm herefor a while I trustI believe this, I musteven when it's bad, becausehis faith alone is not enoughmy random thoughts of how longI have, and his thoughts of"will she be able to outlive me" -even at moments like thisit happens thatwe hold on and speak of a futureiirolling restless this early morn'you exhausted and Idrying up from a virusspying through the shreddingof 250-thread count bedding,between the hillocks of your shoulderswe never can sleepin anticipation for what's to cometo plant the seed and watch it growthough we will never see it bloomfor all the other things we knowand live beyond that fertile pastof what we did and what we'll doas sleep will still not come to usclose apart, we dare not fallfrom the tree that burns in seasoncounting the rings of our poetryiiithe moon has set,I wake in the darkto the rush of windI hear him rinsing offin the basi
SurrogateI stopped using his full titlebecause it started sounding too formal,and it’s hard to be standoffish with someonewho swaps albums and memories so generously,who loves German chocolate but hates the smell of oranges,who knows me by my boneless,drowsy form on the couch and by my words.And maybe one day he’ll askme to drop the title altogether and call him Brad,but I won’t.Because it sounds too much like dad,and I’m afraid of slipping up.
checklist of a masochistiiiyou were an untouched sunset,never before seen and familiarat the same time; delicately sheddingshades of pink the same colorof your starving voiceand I was most beautifulwith my clothes off, too much skinintersected by too many lines (neverthe near parallel you longed for)a hazy blur that made the nightsour own watercolor clicheiiyou were that cheap love songthat never sounded authentic,lyrics stitched through yourpaper skin; chords resonatingfrom your every wanting sighand you were surprised how muchyou needed me, from the concrete solidityof my ribs to the metaphoric indecencyof my thoughts, naked and tremblingfor your callused ears (or maybeit was just me, justifying the wayyou skinned my anxious layerswith your ravenous hands,like underfed beasts)iyou were the child cryingat shadows pretending to be monsters,running from the prospect ofgod and death and gravity;& you were the letter I never sent"I'm done apologizing forthe person I wasn't befor
Confessionsthere’s a lot I never told you1. I have a habit of lying, aboutthe simple things (like, yes Iforgot to remember and I swear bysoul mates and I’m in lovewith your susurrus voiceand no, I’m really doing fine).It was not an act of infidelity becauseI believed it, too.2. I’m infatuated with the conceptthat I am more or less fictional, thedelusive beauty a million men willdedicate novels to: I am fragile,a dust angel sent to save the worldfrom commonalities andmyself.3. Since I’m not allowedto remember your nameI will commemorate youin acts of escapism,killing off the piecesof the person you left behind.4. I believe in a past lifeI was a bird with a tendencytowards tall buildings; the sorry kindof bird with heavy bones and crumpled wingswho never quite learnedto fly away.5. I miss you. I used to thinkyou were a person, but now I knowyou’re the happiness I will neversee.6. I'm sorry.
Lies I Tell Us After Hours #1I can't live without youis a lie. I can. You willdie and leave mehere, persistingall truth of the sentence.
I am the wayward childI wish I had something more to offerwhen your joints ached and your bones creakedand you wept dust; (the cobwebs aroundyour tongue were a comfort once)but I am three times screwedover backwards and turned right around,breathing in gravel and praying onthe only consistencies I know likeon Sun-day we are in the house of Godand it won’t rain and dad won’t speakand mom will sit with pursed lips countingall the times we didn’t kiss her goodbyeand everyone will call it normal,everyone will look at the way I write wordson cracked pavement and get glassy-eyedwhen they speak softly and forget the soundof my own voice when I’m afraid; all those times Itripped over my own feet and walked awaywith wounded knees, and they will call me normal.I’m at it again, building barricadesfrom ashes and calling them friends(this here is fear, he visits me nightly;and that stale stain in the corneris actually anxiety, recuperatingfrom the moment it caught a
This is a Love PoemI must admit to less than innocent thoughtsabout the lithe lengths of your frameand the mysteries crowding in your eyes,clouded over with ecstasy (or affection,that word in the English languageforgotten in place of more life-threateningcontroversies, taking value over thefire-warmed embers of necessity and want).We cannot be ephemeral, not when lifeis the longest prison sentence I’ve beeninflicted with, and I still remember the scentof your surreptitious skin when werenamed conspiracies as derivations fromour [single] definitive state of unliving,an ineffable defiance ofmisery’s inevitable subjugation.
BuriedUnder the paprika house,are the bones of my fatherand nestled between riband reason, is our love.
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