S.A.D

For a day or two
a warm green taste escapes the diesel fumes,
the heavy air hangs low &
pulls us close
enough to hear electric whispers on
                        the wind
announce the verdant birth of Spring…

then routine returns to smother it all
in bullshit:
            birdsong
becomes just more white noise we all ignore.

Spring soon ends & then, somehow languorous
                                        yet sudden,
sullen evening light of summer
begins again another doomed attempt
at bringing colour into every hour
of each dilating day.

Autumn begins: I hear
violins, a sigh that heaves from
                            everything,
as the light takes on a melancholy
tinge: austere admixture
of fading green & deep orange
as the once-whispering wind
devours the trees.

Now snow falls like dove feathers
laying quiet & still until dawn’s frail purity
breaks beneath our feet,
the mixed-up air already containing
greater darkness, low hanging Sun;
the light still bright but bleached out &
                                        luminescent,
clouds lingering white phosphorus,
as if
the winter sky is a war crime above us.

Every year becomes this:
the flower’s imperceptible blooming,
slowly turning
towards decay;

slow to remember & quick to forget
just how easy it is
for the weather to fuck with our head(s).

Different colours, different shades*

The track was carved too shallow to follow
but still remains & always will;

water warmer than blood & a bandage
of elastic bands & any paper
to be found proceeded by dreamless sleep.

In the morning a red-stained scene
of failure & a shame deeper
than the track that missed its path by an inch,
& lead instead to survival.

Weeks passed without a word
until, where the track ends
something was discovered
to be beautiful & trembling with life**,
in unknowing defiance of winter.

Then a morning came when
I awoke to the smell of your skin, &
the hope
that the journey would never be
attempted again

until the time was right
& the endless night would arrive

in due time.

*New Dawn Fades – Joy Division

**Three Peaches – Neutral Milk Hotel

Bipolarity in Post-Modernity Part ii

Living like this, through years-worth of wine-stained
painting on canvases of lying lips,

always breaking, always confused
with nothing left I’d hate to lose,
 
no single cell free of abuse;
through days trailing nights of half-honest,

moronic,
worst forms of self-help:

the drink, the drugs & the meaningless fucks.
Finding then failing to hold onto love.

An endless mire in which to wallow,
& cover myself in the mud.

Carving a semblance of meaning
by short-selling future living.

Scavenging for real or former feelings
to feed the worms that never stop eating.

Desperate grasps for hopeful moments,
for some sweetly fleeting comfort…

This is what it is to be in pieces,
to be comforted by your diseases:

these interchangeable scenes, these
dislocated repeating memories,

hoping for something beyond me,
for protection by all these words,

but all along I was wrong:

words are no protection at all.

Bipolarity in Post-Modernity Part i

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.

The present absence

A present absence expands & contracts,
hollow at the core as
                    thin thoughts
convinced that words
can poison internal organs
                    collapse
into a pool of stagnant water
where no light survives.

The days
                    fold & fall away
leaving only the faintest trace
of what once
existed…

                grotesque
& never-ending,
a thing somehow still alive, like
                a zombie
convulsing on the floor
in a room
with an unlockable door;
the Will conflicted, torn
between hatred
of daylight & fear of the night
bringing tapeworms beneath the skin:

rip them out, one by one
until the arms are nothing more
than wet ribbons of red;
            tattered remains of flesh
draped across bone.

Then wake up
                    alone
without hope
that this will end the way it always does:

new meds, new promises

& the slow return of memories that always
break your fall;

                    the pale shimmer
of phosphorescent ghosts.