Tell a truth, or tell a lie





To S, for the last time…


Your smile, your
                       skin, your
hair & the soothing evening air,
the city pink as the sun began to
sink.

      All this
& more
now lives
below a gravestone
                            alone;
dreams that breed with soil beneath
the surface:

an afterlife of nights spent with you &
our youth
we so carelessly wasted in
a bright & beautiful display…

I don’t want to visit the grave
very often these days.

Do you?

Twisted Nostalgia

Do you remember the faces
of all those abandoned buildings,
mocking us
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 &
the fear
of the stage we were too afraid to admit?
Sometimes,
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.

Somehow,
together we created a nostalgia
I can still feel,

& when our mistakes drift away
one day,

they will join the birds

who will sing for us instead.

On peut pas vivre d’amour et d’eau fraiche

For S

The weight of the rain cripples the name
of a person in a place
you swore never to forget or let
                               the silence
& the songs & the long moments
of hands twisting time with bodies
entwined in nights we wish would never die,
disappear:

but all things move toward their end,

& yet time hasn’t taken us completely,
so there’s no need
                            to forget

even as we
let go of what once was.

Some nights we cannot see the moon,
but during others its
dignified light
repeats the silver nights
precluding those golden mornings we spent
bathing, deluded
& content.

We were in the sunlight

& 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.

Anamnesis

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…