For S
Tu est le connard
tu sais le bon, mais
toujours choisis l’exception.
Constant
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
again.
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:
because
this isn't poetry
just another useless eulogy for
isolation.
“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
again.
****
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”.
Then our eyes found each other &
you smiled
as I fell silent.
Words for Ghosts 