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
Or should we press our flesh together
laying like cats in the sun;
surrounded by the silence that speaks from the trees
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
It is September.
The apples will not stay ripe forever.
“…poetry makes nothing happen: it survives” -W.H. Auden
The wish to kiss your eyelids &
that heavy weight of images
forever haunting you.
You’re no Princess & I’m
I cannot rescue you &
you can’t rescue me.
I still so madly want to believe
“I am with you / and know how it is”*.
I know nothing of your suffering,
that yours leaves scars & so does mine.
I’ve nothing left to write about, except
that will not leave me:
a Guillotine quick & clean,
in the most golden
morning light we’ve ever seen in our lives,
leaving only beauty behind,
the beauty of suffering.
Until all that remains are the memories
that help you perservere
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,
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
repeats the silver nights
precluding the golden mornings
“on peut pas vivre d’amour et d’eau fraich”