Twisted Nostalgia

Do you remember the faces
of all those abandoned buildings,
mocking us
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 &
                                          the fear
of the stage we were too afraid to admit?
 

Sometimes,
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.
 
Somehow,
              togethewe created a nostalgia
I can still feel,
 
& when our mistakes drift away
                                                         one day,
 
they will join the birds

who will sing for us instead.

Persevere

“…poetry makes nothing happen: it survives” -W.H. Auden

For J

The wish to kiss your eyelids &
                                lift
that heavy weight of images
living beneath,
                forever haunting you.

You’re no Princess & I’m
                        no Knight:

I cannot rescue you &
                    you can’t rescue me.

Yet,

    I still so madly want to believe
“I am with you / and know how it is”*.

I know nothing of your suffering,
                                only
that yours leaves scars & so does mine.

I’ve nothing left to write about, except
                                the dream
that will not leave me:

a Guillotine quick & clean,
the blade
         glistening
in the most golden
morning light we’ve ever seen in our lives,
leaving only beauty behind,
                            even
the beauty of suffering.

Until all that remains are the memories
that help you perservere                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             

 

We were in the sunlight

& then when
            I awoke
the morning light made me choke as
I remembered
how the gentle susurration blended
with the birdsong & the light
curved like the branches above us
to touch,
        briefly,
skin within which poison blends with pollen
& flowers blossom before I pluck them
to place in your hair where
they will wither & die.

The past still lingers in the present,
& refuses to leave with the grace
of living things.

This is what regret means:
never to forget someone
or something;
knowing of all the lives that could have been;

to touch,
        briefly,
your skin

for the last time.

Broken corollas

For D

Pressing flowers between the pages of
stolen poetry books,
                    not knowing
or caring
how long the process took,

if it would work or just cover us
in the evanescing colours
of broken corollas…

Gladly wasting away the day
we’d discussed stolen poetry books &
                    plucked flowers;
distinctions & equivalence;
the thrill of transgression,
the ambiguity of possession.

Currents of nuance ran through us
as consequence of curvatures
            in time;
of our spines &
            invisible lines

where the light bends, blends & divides.

When the flowers faded &
                    dried,
we knew wasted time is not a wasted life,
only
that our ideas about true beauty
make it hard to live…

but if you promise to stay
I'll promise not to leave.