The horizon slits the throat of the morning sun
& we become the mistakes
we filled the night with our complaints
of how your father hit you;
the man who raped you
& your drunken mother.
All I mention is my punishment for carving
“Nature is a whore” onto my desk at school:
My suicide attempts could wait.
Blood spreads across the sky &
we’ve drunk all the wine.
So what do we do now?
Return to the pain & the same
old memories we long since learnt
Or should we press our flesh together
laying like cats in the sun;
surrounded by the silence that speaks from the trees
Do you remember the faces
of all those abandoned buildings,
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 &
of the stage we were too afraid to admit?
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.
togethewe created a nostalgia
I can still feel,
& when our mistakes drift away
they will join the birds
who will sing for us instead.
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
It is September.
The apples will not stay ripe forever.
Your heart rat escaped the ribcage
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,
not of hights but the oubliette
where words forget to hide our fear,
& then the poem disappears
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.
we could all be so lucky…