Everything moves in the river,
even the stones erode slowly &
We are no exception.
If you try becoming a prisoner
in love with their guard, then maybe
existence wont be so hard
when you search for the spirit in the bone
be prepared for disappointment:
the sickness is indiscriminate &
it never goes away.
Everything moves through the river,
You are no exception.
You have a favourite tree in this city,
& the one he hung himself from
is in the same public garden.
You took me there once:
we were drunk.
You climbed the trunk & sat on the branch
where he swung
for hours, years ago, until
the grounds-keeper found him in the morning.
& quit their job soon after.
He is always somewhere in your mind,
the memories you want desperately to survive
come flooding back to you sometimes
& the pain in your eyes is unbearable.
So much trauma.
you plant flowers at the base of the tree.
you despair as age reminds you again
just how young he was.
So much trauma.
I asked permission
& you let me sit on the branch with you.
Looking down on the ground,
every suicidal thought returned &
I realised I wasn't ready;
to lay beneath a cherry tree
& bleed, buried beneath fallen blossoms:
I wasn't ready then…
was your friend?
You asked me & the only answer
that I could find
was that some of us need more
than life can provide,
but we search
until the searching
becomes too much.
Here we are as we love & complain,
orgasm & menstruate;
vomit & piss & waste our hate
on the smallest of things.
Here we are
with or without
mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters;
comrades or enemies;
consumers or revolutionaries*,
attack or defence,
for or against:
reasons so solid yet insubstantial
at the same time.
An accident upon infinite accidents,
as to constitute a miracle,
here we’re alive
to the glorious light:
your life is not a cage, a stage
or a performance,
it’s just an accident.
You’re alive, & one day you will die
So…laugh until we burst**?
*Those Anarcho Punks Are Mysterious – Against Me!
**Idioteque – Radiohead
Returned now to habitude & ugly
old attitudes resume.
Refrain from razor-blades against
but now place them instead between the teeth
so during sleep the mouth
fills with blood
forcing shame to keep
a silence unredeemed
by graceful movement or delicate features;
eyes that do not see the open,
of the pulsation, the differentiation
life from death, death from dying.
Until, once again, the morning comes when
a mother bends to brush against
& the animal rejoins the wild challenge
begin a new day, with
different hunters, different prey yet
always the same ancient struggle
the panic, the shit, the pain that afflicts
all living things.
Grace is acceptance, grace is
for the hunter to eat the prey must die,
& for each to drink
the gaze must sink down toward the water.
There, where the reflection resides.
There, where there is nowhere
In the beginning
there were two Lovers & one Mother.
The Lovers believed in her dreams & she
believed that memory hides like
shadows in light,
like death in life.
The Lovers soon decided that
they wanted pretty lies
equating beauty with simplicity,
demanded a story explaining everything.
So the Mother told them
that songbirds never remain in cages
without dreams of escaping;
that agape love
is a concept only a virgin could conceive of,
because rejection is integral
to all romance;
must be sacrificed to indifference
or love means nothing; fabric stretched too thin
always tears apart at the seams.
The Lovers rejected this:
they wanted comforting,
to believe in their selflessness
& inherent goodness.
So they ignored the Mother, searched
for a new teacher & found the Father.
The Father took the little songbirds &
plucked out all their feathers;
broke their necks
to make them
& refused to answer any questions
Permutations of motion though matter;
the ecstatic union of void & fire;
in differential display:
use of language the only way
for the feeling to fade
& finally escape
from my bones?
Can't I ever
go beyond what is here in front of me
& reach the place
I want to be?
Escaping the maze
is not an option,
so I remain trapped
in oxymoronic structures;
where concept concedes to content;
& all measurement
reach their limitation,
but grammar still remains needed
for practical reasons.
Without language there is
no way to express
of frustration & unease
echoing through me,
as I witness
ripple & sway
when thrown stones
disturb the surface of a lake,
in brief undulations,
until they can be seen
but you're too far away
for me to care.
Even if absences linger within
there's nothing comforting
in that knowledge:
what remains of the lost
is not enough.