Past // Present // Future

Each anticipated day arrives &
elides into the past,
as we wait,
           again,
but for what?

How long will it take
for the pattern to change?

When will the cycle end?

With no past the future
becomes a desert &
                  the desert grows,
surrounding us
                  with the slow
creeping
of midnight mist…

with no future
the present becomes a test

you will fail unless
                    you refuse
to fight against
the meaninglessness
& dance instead

with the absurdity

Flowers & fate

Morning;
        horizon cuts the throat of the Sun,
        memory separates from fantasy,
        you fail to comprehend what you’ve become.

Repeating:
        the sky bleeds above the same scenes;
        same faces, same shapes & places & you
        always another day further away

from when it began,
from when so much sand
was left in the hour-glass.

So awful it was when you finally
realised the truth;
                    when the wildflowers
withered & the blue
                    slowly faded away.

Trapped
behind darkening glass,
seeing
no way out.

How
did it come to this,
when
did all the mess begin?

& yet
either the future already exists or still
it can be changed,

                    so wait

because
not every chain
is unbreakable.

Masturbation in the face of banality

I don’t know but I suppose it all
must mean something:

people walk & talk but don’t look,
too much in or out of love with…

what?

I watch while they live &
the birds in the trees wont shut up;
two pigeons are fighting
or trying to fuck.

I watch this &
still know nothing.

The wind grows sharp teeth &
greedily devours the trees,
in the static isolation
of our civil jungles,
& forest jails;
 
our vast deserts of furious action,

while weather beaten rocks are washed over
by the noise of conversation:

talk about what we love,
of who we hate & what went wrong
but only one to one.

In groups we speak of safe & comfortable
things:
weather, banal media &
commodified games,

to distract from the future that awaits
& the present confronting
us all
 
with the face of forces beyond our control.

Zabbaleen

& like any god
-forsaken thing, I want nothing more
than my breaths
– Ocean Vuong

Signals traverse spines & veins.

Eyes dilate.

Tracing ancient patterns,
the sinuous ribbons of memory
renewed through constant sacrifice

                rise:

another performance

of terror & necessity.

Some animals survive & others die,

while through it all

the light plays games across the spectacle,
watched over by gods
who know nothing of mercy.
 
~~~

Here though, there are no gods;
here the wind touches glass & concrete trees
fells greasy cardboard leaves,
plastic carrier bags,
cigarette ends,
empty cans &
people.

~~~

The Gazelle has broken limbs,
has lost it's noble frame
& the grace of such delicate movements

between jaws, claws, teeth &
brutal muscle;
adrenaline, instinct & chance.
 
The Gazelle searches for a place to hide

somewhere to die in peace before
scavengers arrive to tear away meat
from the warmth of life.

Such an ugly fate for a gentle beast:

watch the blood draining from a dead-eyed dream.

~~~

The Zabbaleen
have been forced to become human garbage.

There are many others like them.

It need not be this way.

Here there are no gods but
mercy could exist. This

makes me ashamed to be human.

What about you?

Enough

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:
                        2 am.,
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.

Every year
you plant flowers at the base of the tree.
Every year
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;

                        I wanted
to lay beneath a cherry tree
& bleed, buried beneath fallen blossoms:

no,
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.