The Forest

Through the Forest,
                             through
a thousand years of struggle,
 

I finally find the clearing
but see nothing,
                            only
empty space & the remains
of all those who’ve been here before.

 

There is nothing here for me
                                          so
I’ll continue to wander through the trees
until
I can see
              the sky,
where
true beauty &
meaning
hide as
I lose myself in the story
I read yet still
don’t understand.

 

Twisted Nostalgia

Do you remember the faces
of all those abandoned buildings,
mocking us
like a metaphor we wanted but could never touch?
 
& so how we turned to punk & the band that
                                                                                     turned to shit
because we fucked up by being too fucked up
on speed, weed, drink &
                                          the fear
of the stage we were too afraid to admit?
 

Sometimes,
I miss those days:
 
There’s a freedom in nihilism
so often forgotten or ignored;
 
nothing hurts those who believe in nothing
& care only for the comfort of pleasure.
 
The last man
cannot be turned back after walking the path
for too long.
 

That place was a contusion upon
the surface of the earth & we
                                                         were the worms
crawling in the dirt…
 
but at least we weren’t alone.
 
Somehow,
              togethewe created a nostalgia
I can still feel,
 
& when our mistakes drift away
                                                         one day,
 
they will join the birds

who will sing for us instead.

The neighbour

Closed fists with
                            nothing in his hands but
the dirt under his nails.
 
He tries to restrain himself yet
the eyes betray. The eyes always betray.
 
Loneliness, fear, confusion, repression:
they decay & the rotten
fruit grows the mould of aggression.
 
All living things deserve sympathy
in one way or another
 
but we should not mistake this
                                                         for permission.
 

It is September.
 

The apples will not stay ripe forever.

Heart Rat

Your heart rat escaped the ribcage

                                                        trap

too late to save its brain:

 

they peeled back the skin, broke the skull beneath

to search for what cannot be found.

 

Line after line we try

to shed our shroud of lies.

I aim too high,

                            afraid

not of hights but the oubliette

where words forget to hide our fear,

 

& then the poem disappears

                                                         when

you tell me how you held her in your hands

as she died.

 

Your heart rat was one of the lucky ones:

 

She was loved,

not experimented on.

 

If only

              we could all be so lucky…