She speaks French to me #1

For S

Tu est le connard
tu sais le bon, mais
toujours choisis l’exception.

Constant
répétition du mal:

pourquoi les fausses decisions et
pourquoi de la destruction de toi?

Regarde la merde se déverser sur le sol
est-ce que tu voulais, est-ce que tu a besoin?

Il y a ton futur qui se mourant:
tu es apprécier de lui faire?

The Gaze

“That which is light looks at me,
and by means of that light in the depths of my eye,
something is painted.”
– Jacques Lacan

The gaze contains a curse & a gift, it
turns us into an object yet
confirms that we exist.

The vision of the other can either
become a prison, a figment
of our imagination, or
the one & only means of escape:

take your pick, because either way
it's not what you think;

the light decides
between a painting or a stain,
between pleasure or pain…

everywhere & nowhere but
                    always outside,
it will eat us alive
from the inside:

thoughts of what the other thinks,
                    a black hole
into which we sink
as comprehending apperception
twists the thread
again & again…

                …until the light fights back,
& unties the knots: there is not (yet)
an answer, only the fantasy of two dancers
moving slowly then faster,
both tragic & absurd,
as an audience laughs
& cries as they turn.

Uncertain & Afraid

For S.

Last night I woke up & mistook
        your tresses
            the for fallen
        golden leaves
            of Autumn,
we were collecting for reasons
I forgot the instant I tried
to recall them…

…all that
        I remember was
the way we walked through a forest
admiring the gracious way
            that trees decay…

Do you remember last Autumn?

How we were fighting
to forgive each other for reasons
we needed
       to believe in
            without understanding,

like the words of a foreign song
playing in the distance?

We will die
whether we love each other or not*,
        but
            without forgiveness
we’re all fucked,

& love has to wait for hatred
& petty resentment
    to be castrated
           by humility.

All we have are voices
        defenceless
            against the night,
but when the weight of you body
        presses against me
the darkness ceases to be
        so deep…

So will you wait for me,
        & can we

            forgive ourselves?

* September 1, 1939 – W. H. Auden