The weight of the rain cripples the name
of a person in a place
you swore never to forget or let
& the songs & the long moments
of hands twisting time with bodies
entwined in nights we wish would never die,
but all things move toward their end,
& yet time hasn’t taken us completely,
so there’s no need
even as we
let go of what once was.
Some nights we cannot see the moon,
but during others its
repeats the silver nights
precluding those golden mornings
& then when
the morning light made me choke as
how the gentle susurration blended
with the birdsong & the light
curved like the branches above us
skin within which poison blends with pollen
& flowers blossom before I pluck them
to place in your hair where
they will wither & die.
The past still lingers in the present,
& refuses to leave with the grace
of living things.
This is what regret means:
never to forget someone
knowing of all the lives that could have been;
for the last time.
what’s the price?
Suppose you lied, suppose
the scars bring you pride
because they display your fight against life
since there’s no shadow without light,
no death without life,
you fought life & death &
Suppose, suppose you
the question came as a surprise – why
not try to act like you don’t know
what made you
strip naked & run screaming
into the abandoned building
licking flakes of old paint from walls bleeding cold
petals on the floor lost to rot
ing & ignored, what
does the paint taste like, why
did you decide to stop when
the dirt-black sky
ran to hide from the bleeding sun that never dies?
suppose you only wanted to try & fall
suppose that you never meant it at all.
So many rooms in so many houses;
spaces within which the walls have waited,
as I played various roles
in minor dramas, some
of my own devising,
So many days wanting to stay away
from this mess, this reluctance;
of purposeful action
abandoning us with
around the Sun.
The fragility of
that will not be themselves,
capable of knowing all this
while words emerge to seek
a story worthy of acknowledging
Either serendipitous or fucked up:
The choice is yours.
The choice is mine,
Nothing left but the wet
but something else;
unheimlich; the body
though not yet cold;
failing to feel the ground
beneath my feet
I leave the room
to try & force my fists & skull
through a wall.
Sometimes I forget that you’re gone.
Sometimes I hate you for leaving,
but as you told me “c’est la vie:
la tristesse sera fini bientôt,
mais je suis désolé mon enfant.”
Sometimes I forget your face & panic.
Sometimes I take solace knowing
that now you’re nothing
& sometimes I can’t stand it.
My greatest regret will forever be
not being there to see
your final breath.
what I whispered to you when
all energy had left
will remain a secret
I will keep forever…
* Iron Chic – Know What I Mean, Jellybean