No more the warmth of your smile
waiting for me
the door or
between the sheets; sharing body heat;
blood pulsing, hearts, random hearts beating
for each other in a cruel, cruel world**.
No more silences,
either callous or beautiful.
No more Blue-john stones & those future dreams
always secretly knew would never come
No one knows who put the ice-pick through
the skull of Brontsein
& only we
know how it ended…
let us keep our secret, please, leave me
to my dreams
while you escape your fate
& be gifted that which you always
& History can be
*Artemis and the Moon
** Randon Hearts -Laura-Jane Grace
The reasons why
& you don’t try to find them.
& elides through space & time
you no longer know
how it is
that you find yourself
Viscous to liquid, now dissipating
colours fading from the imposing painting
of the future now no longer
still in progress.
No more changes, no new creations
only the repetition of all that
always leaves you back where you began, &
if the colours begin to brighten again
as always they have
when the flames flare & the embers turn
to a fire fierce & dangerous,
the painting will be beautiful again;
you will change…
The first step to freedom is to change the way you dream,
to escape the constraints of the time &
into which you were thrown when first your throat
released that scream;
entry into the ancient litany
of despair that is our shared language.
If the dreams will not cede,
if they will not submit,
when the knife punctures the skin &
down into the flesh,
something is released; not just the blood but
an obscene surplus; the pleasure of pain
gained by virtue of vice
& the sight of the red river flow:
take this as a joyous gift,
or as penitence for real or
it is nothing more than violence
that cannot speak;
it is nothing more than
a voice too weak
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.