I tried looking for the extraordinary,
But my companions were the sun,
So what if I found the ancient ruins?
the long lost treasure?
the fountain of youth?
What would I do without the mundane?
the heroes and villains and winners and underdogs that continue to touch our hearts century after century after century?
Over echoing skin I tread,
Upon the warping litter-leaves, all mould’ring,
As thoughts do triter starving minds;
Beside me saunter eyes, some blank, some talking,
Voicing those pulses of silence,
Those aches of days, echoing days, ennui.
This is it –
forgive the boy with the ripped jeans and bruised knuckles, his heart is heavy, his ribcage is a song he doesn’t remember the words to. forgive him and his curses. he’s still trying to perch love on the tips of his tastebuds, no one taught him how to swirl it around his tongue and breathe it into someone else. he doesn’t know it’ll come back to him so he’s holding on to the shred he has left. forgive him. hard. like you mean it. like he’s worthy. like it’s the only thing that can save him because in many ways, it is.
Years ago, I wondered worriedly how I was ever to live on my own. I knew that the pulsing, coloured, light-born blotches I tried to nail down with my eyes like chasing an itch a layer too deep on your palm would mutate clumsily and look like madmen with stalactite teeth, the empty room…
Last night, I dreamt a gypsy held a razorblade between her right thumb and index finger, drew one more thin line across my wrist and taught me how to turn my scars into treasure maps. I hid blood red pieces of myself in her crabapple hands, sugarcoated my tongue with excuses until she said to me “your veins can only bleed so much warmth before you turn cold entirely”. This morning I tightened the screws on all six of my sharpeners, threw out every jagged glass bottle edge stained rusty with blood and dead skin cells. This morning, you smoked one last cigarette and stapled a nicorette patch to your bicep. This morning, we both chose to live.
poetry is the barely touching fingers separated by a universe
the distant longing always felt
the casual uncertainty of peace
the breathing death in suffocating life
perfectly useless sense
the why that is the answer
to the mystery
that is truth
‘what is poetry,’ you ask
‘it is you and it is yours,’ i say
One single day from each and ev’ry year
Is set aside to celebrate your birth
And reap well-wishes from your flock of friends.
Please count this as my wish, for what it’s worth.
I wish you blissful sleep (sometime tonight)
Awash with dreams that might curl others’ toes