Do you remember the faces
of all those abandoned buildings,
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 &
of the stage we were too afraid to admit?
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.
together we created a nostalgia
I can still feel,
& when our mistakes drift away
they will join the birds
who will sing for us instead.
The weight of the rain cripples the name
of a person in a place
you swore never to forget or let
& the songs & the long moments
of hands twisting time with bodies
entwined in nights we wish would never die,
but all things move toward their end,
& yet time hasn’t taken us completely,
so there’s no need
even as we
let go of what once was.
Some nights we cannot see the moon,
but during others its
repeats the silver nights
precluding those golden mornings
& then when
the morning light made me choke as
how the gentle susurration blended
with the birdsong & the light
curved like the branches above us
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
knowing of all the lives that could have been;
for the last time.
So many rooms in so many houses;
spaces within which the walls have waited,
as I played various roles
in minor dramas, some
of my own devising,
So many days wanting to stay away
from this mess, this reluctance;
of purposeful action
abandoning us with
around the Sun.
The fragility of
that will not be themselves,
capable of knowing all this
while words emerge to seek
a story worthy of acknowledging
Either serendipitous or fucked up:
The choice is yours.
The choice is mine,
The heart is only an organ:
anthropomorphisation of the flesh
is just another lie
poetry doesn’t need truth:
My heart speaks to you
& my skin dreams of you.
Harmonic shivers* slither up my spine
whenever I think of all those times we
My fingertips have memories
of what we did to each other;
my liver is in mourning, my
veins keep flowing
as my spine
* Shivers – Against Me!