I’ve felt the soft surface of temporal fabric,
watched the world begin to fold
organic origami elide
rearing over what remained of
what was no longer me.
& sound waves of colour,
cold feathers began folding down,
nothing remained but space & light,
a deep divide
between body & mind,
quick flicker of panic
as all thought plunged into ice…
then it didn’t matter whether
I lived or died,
try to write
or if I
“…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
Nothing left but the wet
but something else;
unheimlich; the body
though not yet cold;
failing to feel the ground
beneath my feet
I leave the room
to try & force my fists & skull
through a wall.
Sometimes I forget that you’re gone.
Sometimes I hate you for leaving,
but as you told me “c’est la vie:
la tristesse sera fini bientôt,
mais je suis désolé mon enfant.”
Sometimes I forget your face & panic.
Sometimes I take solace knowing
that now you’re nothing
& sometimes I can’t stand it.
My greatest regret will forever be
not being there to see
your final breath.
what I whispered to you when
all energy had left
will remain a secret
I will keep forever…
* Iron Chic – Know What I Mean, Jellybean
So bored of throwing stones
around the glass house of consciousness;
of exalting or bemoaning
Too many words already written &
even more waiting to arrive,
so why continue to
Is it only to kill the time,
or find some way to bridge
the vast divide
between us all?
Or maybe a failed attempt to deny
that the Rise is really the Fall;
there will never be a way to
& the words will continue regardless,
unmoved by constant confusion & doubt.
Consider that colour is given to us
from games played by light &,
that the liquidity of water is
a feature of a particular performance
between specific particles
bonding with each other
no individual actor has
the property of ‘being wet’.
What does that mean to you?
If it means nothing,
you can thrive in this world, but
if you strove to find any semblance