Burning

For you, the one I hardly knew…

I once heard about a Chinese ritual, of burning that which you

want the dead you loved to take with them:

I want to set fire to every scrap of paper; every scrawled poem

I gave you & you gave me.

I don’t believe they will ever reach you,

only that

ritual contains more meaning than truth

can retain.

Yet still I don’t dare

let the words we shared disappear.

Tonight I can write such derivative lines

For S (again)

Tonight I can write such derivative lines.

Lines such as:
“The moon is cold & beautiful, but so far away from me, just like you”.

The sun shines yet the trees are barren of their leaves.

Tonight I can write such derivative lines.

I love her, & she once loved me too.

Through days such as this I longed for her kisses.

She smiled at me again & again far from noises of the city.

I love her. Yet perhaps now I hate her, after those bitter parting words.

How not to love (still) her gentle green eyes.

Tonight I am writing derivative lines.

Thinking of how often I wronged her. Remembering how I lied so many times.

Listening to the old songs, so different now without her.
& the music fades into the ether, like vapour to the sky.

What does it matter that I destroyed her love for me.
I am alone & deserve to be.

That is all.

From my laptop speakers someone is singing. From a shitty laptop.

The night feels empty, & I am alone.

My mind repeats every mistake as if to atone for my sins.
My mind will not forgive me.

The sun shines on the same trees we walked between

So often. We are no longer the same.

She has another; a new amour more authentic than I; one

closer by birth & blood to the sea touched by three continents.

She loved me. Yet perhaps now we hate each other, 

after those bitter parting words. I have never known a love that did not hurt.

Without me she now speaks with the prosody of contentment,

writes poetry of new elegance, & my body aches for her.

Though I am not bitter. I will never want her to suffer,
& this will be my last attempt to speak to her. 

The Trial

Wear your robes & have your trial.

Find me guilty, don’t

believe a thing I say;

don’t believe it could just be fucked up sincerity:

make me the monster you need

me to be:

I’ll be your Narcissus, your spider

& you can be the fly, you can be

Echo

If that’s what you need.

“From a certain point onward there is no longer any turning back. That is the point that must be reached.”
― Franz Kafka, The Trial

Parallax

From viscous to liquid; a silent

eruption behind the iris;

beyond language,

not 

knowing how

or when or from where.

Do you remember those mornings,

the breathing trees observing a

moon fading & sun bleeding 

across the sky,

        your arm

linked with mine?

 

How time dilated &

the gaze was so benign?

 

Now,

two seasons

later & nostalgia sharpens that strange

blade: a weapon that leaves no trace

except for a particular posture;

glazed

eyes seeing only spectral projections,

the way cats seems to see

into some hidden distance.

 

From liquid to viscous;

the cat is not vicious, the blade

not dangerous;

 

our parallax view has changed &

separated. 

    

        One for

me & another for you.