For the one I hardly knew. Forgive me, I don’t know what else to do…
Today I read the last words you ever wrote:
it was a diary of your feelings
& your last poem…
You wrote so beautifully about the sky between
sentences expressing a tiredness so deep
you just wanted to die.
Knowing I failed to help you lift your head
more often; to help ease your burden;
to love you as you deserved to be.
Now there is no way to say sorry
& stay with you in that other world
you wrote of in you last poem,
one you wrote for me…
despite being only another drunk,
an idiot, rare & wild only to you,
yet even I could see with these
eyes of “ever changing colour”
how delicately, intricately woven you were
before your threads
on the wind
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…
For my father.
So that you wouldn't die so undignified,
I wanted to force a black rose
down your throat, so
that the thorns
would pierce your larynx
the animal noises;
capable of expressing
only pain & existence,
belonging to you alone.
Your cells were in rebellion:
First, they conquered your lungs,
before taking your liver
traversing your spine,
they laid siege to your brain:
dead pixels in your irises,
think of machinery, but
doesn't feel pain.
Hours dragged past like sandpaper against glass.
I held your hand, sat by the bedside as
until suddenly, what remained of you
& pulled me close enough to hear
your last words…
& that's when I saw it, in the final moment
of your lucidity:
the eyes of death
staring back at me.
*The Eyes of Death – Off With Their Heads
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.