Breathe

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
                                                          to repress?

Or should we press our flesh together
 
laying like cats in the sun;

surrounded by the silence that speaks from the trees

 

& breathe?

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…