Poetry

“Words are beautiful” Che said “but actions

are meaningful”.

 

Defiant to the end, 

before a bullet broke through his skull.

 

The man of action reduced to such beautiful

last words: 

 

“You cannot kill a revolution!”

Or is that just a myth, 

am I remembering it wrong

as I have done

so many times

(too many times) 

when

we spent those stolen moments together?

Why am I writing poetry

while you are on the other side of the

city,

living a better life without words like 

these:

 

only noise thrown into the void,

another waste waiting

for rejection.

 

Why did I choose words

over actions?

Tell a truth, or tell a lie

I get hammered, forget you exist / there’s no way I’m forgetting this”*

That city turning pink
in the sun’s slow descent;
the night air still vibrant
yet gentle now
                      as if
in its old age the day
had finally found a way to be kind
& calm without losing all passion for
the fire
          of summer; 

your hair, shed like feathers discovered in

my bed,
a mess of tresses untangled
& tangled again. 

Now all only a memory

of a scent & the slope of your shoulders
at 5 a.m in the morning; 

photographs of long lost days

when we still adored each other,
before the decay became
                                       poison: 

the silence, the speech, the years of peace

& warmth
& war
& lies
& tired eyes
& not fucking any more 

& bored

            so bored
of the performativity;
                                another
dancing monkey
out of sync with the organ grinder;
a comedy without laughter,
a tragedy without despair,
only anger.
 
 
 
All this & more now lives below
a gravestone with no
inscription,
 
our dream decaying
beneath the surface.

 

* Scott Huchison

Artemis and the Moon*

No more the warmth of your smile

waiting for me

behind

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

we

always secretly knew would never come

true.

 

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

wanted

 

& History can be re-written…

 

 

 

*Artemis and the Moon

** Randon Hearts -Laura-Jane Grace

Lost

The reasons why

hide

& you don’t try to find them.

 

Blind

instinct guides

& elides through space & time

until

you no longer know

how it is

that you find yourself

in this

dark forest.

A painting or a stain

Viscous to liquid, now dissipating

                                                         into nothing;

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, yet

if the colours begin to brighten again

as always they have

                                 eventually;

when the flames flare & the embers turn

to a fire fierce & dangerous,

 

perhaps

the painting will be beautiful again;

 

                            perhaps

you will change…