There are words written by
two women I used to know
& shamefully I must admit
that I did not give
either the true gift of attention:
they knew me but I could not see
beyond the boundary of my affliction;
a selfish sadness
destroying everything..
From Saint Christopher
to Blue John Stones,
they gave me everything
& with that grace, with those
prayers I drank & laughed
& let each future be
consumed by the past.
& then when
I awoke
the morning light made me choke as
I remembered
how the gentle susurration blended
with the birdsong & the light began to
curve 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.
So many rooms in so many houses;
spaces within which the walls have waited,
unseeing,
uncaring,
as I played various roles
in minor dramas, some
of my own devising,
some not,
& most
being incomplete.
So many days wanting to stay away
from this mess, this reluctance;
the daydream
of purposeful action
abandoning us with
every movement
around the Sun.
The fragility of
everything;
inevitable entropy
& we,
the animals
that will not be themselves,
capable of knowing all this
wait
while words emerge to seek
a story worthy of acknowledging
that beneath
every surface
something waits
to be
misunderstood.
Either serendipitous or fucked up:
The choice is yours.
The choice is mine,
& I
can’t decide…
Nothing left but the wet
decaying process
of repetition,
not you
but something else;
unheimlich; the body
rigid
though not yet cold;
failing to feel the ground
beneath my feet
trembling;
I leave the room
to try & force my fists & skull
through a wall.
Sometimes I forget that you’re gone.
Sometimes I hate you for leaving,
but as you told me “c’est la vie:
la tristesse sera fini bientôt,
mais je suis désolé mon enfant.”
Sometimes I forget your face & panic.
Sometimes I take solace knowing
that now you’re nothing
& sometimes I can’t stand it.
My greatest regret will forever be
not being there to see
your final breath.
&
what I whispered to you when
all energy had left
will remain a secret
I will keep forever…
* Iron Chic – Know What I Mean, Jellybean
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
like 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
Words for Ghosts 