To S, for the last time…
Your smile, your
skin, your
hair & the soothing evening air,
the city pink as the sun began to
sink.
All this
& more
now lives
below a gravestone
alone;
dreams that breed with soil beneath
the surface:
an afterlife of nights spent with you &
our youth
we so carelessly wasted in
a bright & beautiful display…
I don’t want to visit the grave
very often these days.
Do you?
No more the warmth of your smile
waiting for me
behind
the door or
between the sheets; sharing body heat;
blood pulsing, hearts, random hearts beating
for each other in a cruel, cruel world**.
No more silences,
either callous or beautiful.
No more Blue-john stones & those future dreams
we
always secretly knew would never come
true.
No one knows who put the ice-pick through
the skull of Brontsein
& only we
know how it ended…
let us keep our secret, please, leave me
to my dreams
while you escape your fate
& be gifted that which you always
wanted
& History can be re-written…
** Randon Hearts -Laura-Jane Grace
The reasons why
hide
& you don’t try to find them.
Blind
instinct guides
& elides through space & time
until
you no longer know
how it is
that you find yourself
in this
dark forest.
Viscous to liquid, now dissipating
into nothing;
colours fading from the imposing painting
of the future now no longer
still in progress.
No more changes, no new creations
only the repetition of all that
always leaves you back where you began, yet
if the colours begin to brighten again
as always they have
eventually;
when the flames flare & the embers turn
to a fire fierce & dangerous,
perhaps
the painting will be beautiful again;
perhaps
you will change…
The first step to freedom is to change the way you dream,
to escape the constraints of the time &
space
into which you were thrown when first your throat
released that scream;
your first
entry into the ancient litany
of despair that is our shared language.
If the dreams will not cede,
if they will not submit,
then
when the knife punctures the skin &
sinks
down into the flesh,
something is released; not just the blood but
an obscene surplus; the pleasure of pain
gained by virtue of vice
& the sight of the red river flow:
don’t
take this as a joyous gift,
or as penitence for real or
imagined sins:
it is nothing more than violence
that cannot speak;
it is nothing more than
a voice too weak
to speak.
