Through the Forest,
a thousand years of struggle,
I finally find the clearing
but see nothing,
empty space & the remains
of all those who’ve been here before.
There is nothing here for me
I’ll continue to wander through the trees
I can see
true beauty &
I lose myself in the story
I read yet still
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.
together we 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…
The Janus face spits as a knife
penetrates just beneath the ribs,
drags a deep diagonal from
heart to liver,
& the organs slither
onto the floor:
Tasseography as grotesquerie;
desecrating rivers of gold,
watching as you piss into the ocean…
You’ve learnt nothing.
Still hiding behind the second person,
still lost in
the hall of mirrors,
to the stench left behind;
closing your eyes,
pretending that you’re blind;
that symbolic sacrifice will suffice.
So like a coward
& fuck up the last line