Breathe

The horizon slits the throat of the morning sun
& we become the mistakes
we filled the night with our complaints

of how your father hit you;
the man who raped you
& your drunken mother.
                               
All I mention is my punishment for carving

“Nature is a whore” onto my desk at school:

My suicide attempts could wait.

Blood spreads across the sky &
we’ve drunk all the wine.

So what do we do now?

Return to the pain & the same
old memories we long since learnt
                                                          to repress?

Or should we press our flesh together
 
laying like cats in the sun;

surrounded by the silence that speaks from the trees

 

& breathe?

The neighbour

Closed fists with
                            nothing in his hands but
the dirt under his nails.
 
He tries to restrain himself yet
the eyes betray. The eyes always betray.
 
Loneliness, fear, confusion, repression:
they decay & the rotten
fruit grows the mould of aggression.
 
All living things deserve sympathy
in one way or another
 
but we should not mistake this
                                                         for permission.
 

It is September.
 

The apples will not stay ripe forever.

Persevere

“…poetry makes nothing happen: it survives” -W.H. Auden

For J

The wish to kiss your eyelids &
                                lift
that heavy weight of images
living beneath,
                forever haunting you.

You’re no Princess & I’m
                        no Knight:

I cannot rescue you &
                    you can’t rescue me.

Yet,

    I still so madly want to believe
“I am with you / and know how it is”*.

I know nothing of your suffering,
                                only
that yours leaves scars & so does mine.

I’ve nothing left to write about, except
                                the dream
that will not leave me:

a Guillotine quick & clean,
the blade
         glistening
in the most golden
morning light we’ve ever seen in our lives,
leaving only beauty behind,
                            even
the beauty of suffering.

Until all that remains are the memories
that help you perservere                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             

 

Memory

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,
            dissapear:

yet all things must eventually fade away

but time hasn’t taken us yet & so
                            there’s no reason
to forget everything even as we
let go of what once was.

Some nights we cannot see the Moon,
but during others it’s
                       dignified light
repeats the silver nights
precluding the golden mornings
bathing, deluded
& content.

“on peut pas vivre d’amour et d’eau fraich”

Remember?