You Speak French to Me part ii

For S

Tu est le connard
tu sais le bon, mais
toujours choisis l’exception.

répétition du mal:

pourquoi les fausses decisions et
pourquoi de la destruction de toi?

Regarde la merde se déverser sur le sol
est-ce que tu voulais, est-ce que tu a besoin?

Il y a ton futur qui se mourant:
tu es apprécier de lui faire?


For days I’ve said only
half of what I did and didn’t want to say,

& did all that I do every day:

tried to escape.

I don’t know what I’m doing anymore
& escape makes such a mess on the floor.

Maybe one day I’ll make a decision
I won’t regret again
        & again
            & again:

always the same,
always failing to stand up to myself
& forgetting
to hide from the scaring knowledge

that all things are pretence
yet everything is true…

but I’m lying to you

I have no pain
just a feeling of constant nausea
& all the talk of trying to escape

is just a way
to plead for sympathy;

pathetic, really,

            isn’t it?


If I started to scream,
would you believe it came
from both pleasure & pain;

can you believe
               in anything
at all?

But that question came to me in a dream
                so ignore it:

                this isn't poetry

just another useless eulogy for


The War

Is my story more exciting than yours?

Or did you get those scars in a bloodier war?

The pen can be mightier than the sword,

but guns would kill us all.

If only you could summon up the balls,

to stain the floor with your bullet-ridden corpse


vomit away your soul


say goodbye with the sound of broken bones

with a leap into the unknown.

Would your mind change before hitting the ground?

Will you leave with a taste of regret?

The war started before you were ready,

the fighting will fall silent without you knowing,


you weren’t really ready for

anything at all.


“I love the sensation of shelter from
the storm.
I like it when it rains outside,
how it makes me feel warm.”
she said.

“I used to feel like that.”
I said back. “It’s a safety thing, I think”.

You said “Maybe…”

& I replied:

“It doesn’t happen now though, now the sound
just makes me sad.”

“Why?” you asked

“I can’t say I think about it
all that much any more…I just
don’t care.

It isn’t worth a waste of words.”

Then we were silent:

I was evading the question



Created from a structure of complex
cells & cells we find ourselves in,

always questioning more than answering;
lost in
the distance between who we are & what we love;
the difference
between what we do &
what we dream:

both subject & object,
language & animal playing games in the cave…

We’re the process of knowing that
we’re reading this poem;

body & mind,
trapped between time & the view from nowhere*;

double-helix dance of meaning.


Security is the supremacy
of survival.

To survive is a zero-sum gamed played
against the Universe,

ritual is the same old tool we always use
to defend against improbable odds:

compulsions of culture, nature
& the vagaries of contingency
create a worship of the Self,

but worship has always been dangerous:

people do not treat their gods well.

If they did
there’d be less fear of Hell,

or banishment.


“I wish I could feel content again, like
when we were young,
but I’m trapped by everything I
have and haven’t done”

I said.

“But you are content” you
said back. “You told me once,
that only the moments of fleeting, true
feelings mean anything to you”.

“I say a lot of things my love..
& I talk far too much”.

The our eyes found each other &

you smiled
as I fell silent.

* Sub specie aeternitatis