Strings
A single string
Vibrating, a cordless agony
In D-minor:
I stand, I flail; I flop, I wail;
No, not again and never more:
I will make a stand, take my hand
And pull me there, pull me hard
Towards your light, away from
Perpetual night – across northern
Moors at midnight: we run we roam
Free as birds in early spring,
Like children without constraints,
Unshackled and full of dreams;
Our moon rests on the summit.
A single string
Slowly pulling
Our dreams
Into a reality,
Worldly vibrations
Of carrier pigeons,
The song of one
Becomes a lasting memory,
Our terminal thoughts
Accompanied by strings
Playing in consonance
Our final tune: our goodbyes
In D-minor.
February 2022
dying while trying to find an upward turn, cannot focus on the scene before them, their lungs are full of cobalt blue.
they are silently jagged.
they are silently folding in upon themselves.
the scene before them takes place under a night unseen but for the surrounding dull & dark. rotting city walls heave & yaw above, they gulp down the forgotten stars. from broken windows they pull the moon in & to pieces with tarnished silverware. the night sounds of eating in solitude, it sounds of congestion.
the pavement is cold & wet on their cheek.
their eyes are bright.
the scene before them is a violence of wings with a quick blade. the scene is a chaos of blood. cannot tell who should be them. neither one i suppose, neither one.
we do not deserve the knife.
we do not deserve the wound.
close their eyes & focus on the wind that snakes between. it is cold, smells of september, of a quiet & calm death, of leaves that will not burn easy, of moss that spreads in stealth. the wind smells of forgotten dreams, of extinct labyrinthian forests, of careless moments, of worn gravestones. the wind smells of sadness, & they take it all in as though they could take any more.
the wind is of asphodel.
let us sink through the asphalt.
the scene is muffled. a wet black cloth wrapped around angel mouths. the knife is an angel mouth. blood seeps down in, searching for them. why does the blood always search for them? wants to seep up their nose, into eyes, through lips. they are an angel mouth.
a black blood like a quiet cloth.
their lips crack & we mingle.
so deep now beneath that they have forgotten what comes next.
Kelp / A Dance for Two
You splatter the last of your blood
Like oil on cheap canvas,
The tubes of dried-out paint
Lie scattered along your path,
An attempt to paint a self
Too out of control to care:
A mere sidekick in the story
Of your life.
I walk around humming
A tune I never chose,
A hired extra in my own shoes,
Without lines or purpose
bar filling that vacant space
in the story of my life.
We walk in circles, you and I,
Dancing to different tunes
In different spaces,
I know of you but you live unaware
Of mine, yet we dance on and on
And that is all that matters
For now; if we ever meet,
Face to face, sparks could fly
And nights become our days,
The world our private place of play
As we find ourselves attuned
To search our destined spot
In this – our universe.
Becoming Poetry
How did you decide when your writing became poetry; when did you dare call yourself a poet, in light of those that came before. Was there a time, a moment, when the lightning hit the core; the eyes once dark and void saw the world without the veil: false and fake, like trees blooming in cold winter’s night. Was there another, like you a dreamer, wanting so see a world alight with the powers of the sublime, the fantastical, and the intense interior of the soul, exposed and fragile. How did you decide to continue, when the bleak dawn of day approached, and your words failed to manifest; when the storm brought only withered leaves; and all the little things once loved slowly faded beyond the realms of perception. How did you become poetry, when all else failed.
The Message
Not sure how to interpret the “message” I received last night / early this morning, as I awoke to a woman’s voice clearly speaking to me; speaking straight into my half-sleeping ear: Pop Art, although it might have been: pop art, as the light was out and sleep … deep. As always, when I get these messages I found myself resting on my left side, facing the empty half of the double bed; I felt dehydrated and my lips longed for moisture. I remained still, pretending to be asleep, gradually adding a fake snoring as I voiced a dreamlike mumbling of incoherent thought towards the apparition I dared not face, standing behind me: I was sure of that. After a while and after regaining awareness I tumbled and turned, with a speech loudly expressing I was rejoining the world of the awakened. The bedside lamp slowly lit and revealed no one in sight. No woman. No apparition. Nothing. I was alone, as expected.
unlock all futures
Death is my final poem,
I will write
Till the ink runs out,
I will write
The wordless eulogy:
Of days of night,
Of the raven’s flight,
Of the nomad,
The no-man – spoiled.
Death is my final poem,
I will croon
If only I could
Exclude tribulations,
As tributes
Like a springless river
Or a fountain
Of youthful dreams –
run dry.
Death is my final poem,
I will mourn
The empty parchments,
I will mourn
Their absence,
I will mourn
In silent – contemplation.
Death is my final poem.
The dawning of the frozen
Time; the unticking clock
Of awakening;
The primary cycle
Interrupted.
Hark! He knocks.
Death is my final poem.
Unwritten by hands
Shaking; by eyes
Weakened and the grey
Tears of a heaven.
Hark! Again the pounding.
Death is my final poem.
Distractions of deluded
Grandeur sail above
Innocent clouds.
Hark! Hark!
Death is my final poem.
Dissonance of unread Mail;
Drawers of dull knives filled.
Hark?
Death is the final poem
I will write
… as I unlock all futures …
