Woke I from an abstract dream of childhood
As I watched her fall asleep.
There is no pain like a silent lullaby
And God works in mysterious ways.
Connecting the DotsI've dealt in death with you. We knew the bill,
and going Dutch seemed okay. Colouring in the spaces
perhaps resolved the stasis of these outlines,
but now this painted portrait subtly repines
for life, for what small art is born of drowning faces.
Submerged beneath your throes I held a beacon,
ambling between your toes I worshipped Eve,
so saturnine, whose lips of time could not preclude
this fruit of mine. Alone at last, the senses brood
on rectitude, while nameless lovers leave.
Would you care for a lie? An explanation?
You must have your own, mine are gormless -
it was not passion, merely impassioned:
irrationally cherished, rightly rationed.
When did our days perceive this lacking
rousing spore on spore, spire and steeple?
Evoking the strange and sublime to embrace
the earliest preserver of people.
We’ve dueled with death and dice. But who can blame
the shamefully bored of rolling one too many times?
I knew the rules as they were spoken
and you let them be, bare, unbroken.
Death of a YearWe stand on the footstools of yesterday’s promises,
peering into the blue harmony of a timeless aubade:
the new year separates us from the old;
their rustic charms and world wise baubles
are fading, falling, kissing white December’s brow -
the magic is in wane, the Wicca in the wine
offers little relief in way of innocence;
instead the remembrance alleviates the holidays:
what a time it was, what a place it was –
what paradise it was - that spectre of Insouciance.
Last night’s basting, Jacobi’s painting, the real thing -
sooner or later everyone becomes a thing:
objects remind us of piecemeal courtships,
passion in a pendrive portends the minimalism of the soul
once feather driven by the heart dregs of Tasso – Toulmin
explains the six elements fundamental to each argument
with little claim to why we’re arguing and
even lesser qualification of why conflict needs a structure.
Structure, edifice, complex, fabric, battery cages
The Cycle of PassionNever knowing eyes never did haunt us
’Tis our own ditty which fails to daunt us;
The amorous rose or the lovebird’s lustre
Leaves but two shades for a season’s fluster,
Yet the poet’s pen is perchance guided
With rabid romance, nature unprovided -
For summer songs are bare conversation
Betwixt life and long winter’s predation:
Pale thirst for passion or higher power
Quenches its quaff in the quiet hour,
The soul’s tragedy is in demanding
Liberty lost from body remanding
Creation’s cold woes and callous joys, cannot grace
Vanity’s visage or the selfsame face,
In vain, we swallow the daily smother
To love ourselves, we love another.
Sleep Well, My SoulSleep well, my soul, the light has passed
’Tis dark, this closing hour,
Rest in peace, sweet life, at last
Let your toils awake a flower.
Dream deep, asleep, of each roving wraith
Which sought a home in thee
And sigh a little, for the wasted faith
Which were born of you and me.
And smile beneath the mourning ground
As the world clasps morning’s glory,
For the moon still dotes the earth around
And the sun gilds another story.
And then, in a squall of rain and rue
Lament life’s sole severance;
For god and men, we wept them true,
Slighting our Reverence.
The Fall of EpithilinonI
Let no man speak of wars whence
No answer graced our call,
Let man remember gods thence
Gods, watchful of our fall;
Speak in silenced sighs, men,
Dead men hither sleep,
No flag here flails, amen, amen!
Who can ever beweep
Our brethren in the deep.
Frightened colours breached the sky,
The church bells played a dirge;
The bustling hills and vales so nigh
In crimson rage did merge,
Archers with crescents held high
Keen arrows fell like sin,
The portcullis in sorrow, shy
Interred our fathers in
The last grave of our kin.
Wailed the night in thunder blare;
The mangonels did come,
Lonely trumpets singed the air
When Earth ravished our home;
The eastern tower, wasting wear
For a trebuchet did bow,
Fallen stone and ballista bare
Broke its stony vow,
As the beadle mopped his brow.
Mildly armoured, men at arms
Stormed the brazen fray,
Howled the castle’s cold alarms:
Ladder men up the brae!
Blazed in ire the fields and farms:
The winter’s yield was spent;
A Slice of EntropyLife is not form or symmetry or a stack of hours
on a dustless shelf
falling, hovering, floating, flailing
feeling comfortably numb
in a lover’s grasp
is the autumn of an ancient anarchy
knowing all these affections are temporary
and as they cease, so shall I
from a star to a star
streaks the dye of the unending night
shedding colour on what is alive
basking in the ambivalence of creation
wondering what is the great purpose
of existence, survival, procreation;
Why must life go on?
life goes on
fantasy, excess, poverty
of objective, of reason
naught lasts a season,
gravity is the do all end all
in the cosmos, time rules god.
Wishes and wills, thoughts, sentiments, impulses,
cannot slow that unforgiving arm,
or plug that black hole of impendence,
victory and defeat
will meet at square 1;
the cheers and the jeers will die away
in the violence of that
Life – 0. Death – 0.
Vita incerta, mors certissima.
You are StrongYou are so, so strong.
Whatever you’re going through,
Just keep on
The time it takes
Might be short or long,
But you will find
That perfect place
Where you belong.
Just hold on.
It's Okay to be SelfishSometimes, you have to do things just for yourself.
And that’s okay.
Sometimes you’ve got to stay in bed,
Empty your head,
And think of all the nice things
You've ever had said
And that’s okay.
Sometimes you’ve got to cry,
Scream like you’re going to die,
And just lie
Around, being sad.
And that’s okay.
Sometimes you’ve got to shut everything out,
Just forget about
What you want to be without.
And that’s okay.
Sometimes you’ve got to talk,
Just let the words walk
Out of your mouth,
Carrying your thoughts with them.
And that’s okay.
Sometimes you’ve got be selfish.
And that’s okay -
You do whatever it takes,
To get you through the day.
My Mother Found a Suicide NoteI'm going to paint
these white walls red
with a loaded gun
and the pull of a trigger.
Say goodbye to all
of my worries and insecurities
and add another notch to my razor.
Another handful of pills
to take away the pain
and the lies of yesterday.
Inhale the poison
to quicken the disease
that's slowly killing me.
Allow the numbness
to run through my bloodstream
and silence my demons.
My body is becoming cold
and I cannot feel a thing anymore.
The white walls are red,
my razor has another notch,
the lies of yesterday are gone,
the disease has reached my heart,
and my demons are quiet.
That's So Gay"That's so gay,"
Is what you say,
You've pushed one
Of your friends away.
"Oh no, honey,
Boys don't play
With Barbie dolls."
By enforcing gender roles,
You are killing
And telling them
That you'll love them no matter what*
Don't push your loved ones
With things you do or say,
Because words hurt;
But they hurt most
From the mouths of
The people that told you,
They'd always love you.
Saying, "that's so gay",
Or making them behave
In a gendered way,
Is telling them
That it's not okay
To be something
They can't help.
(And even if they could,
And it will hurt them
And every time you're together,
They'll be wondering;
"Am I wrong?"
"Do I really belong?"
Every time you say something like,
"That's so gay",
You burn someone's trust away.
And you can't build anything back
The Girl Who Was Afraid To BeShe speaks to me fondly
of passions and talents,
of guitars and stars,
with such breathless intensity
then stops short and
for speaking at all.
All because somewhere in her life,
someone she loved broke her heart
her beautiful words
and telling her to
keep it down,
People aren’t born sad.
We make them that way.
The Third DeathFor Ron
The first death
turns your body
into the grass
every breath of air you had
sent sprinting like children
across the blue-sky meadow.
The second death
is when the laughter
and champagne-gold connections
quiet into sparks.
Illuminating our cities
for as long as us.
The third death
is when your actions stop
It is never,
it is when post-heat velvet
bursts into a new cosmic flower.
Every kiss, every laugh,
all those tears-
they turn the Sun.
Every laugh of ink
that bursts from our pens-
that is the immortal part of us.
Life, this ball of beauty-chaos,
it is to be cherished.
You gave us
so many flowers.
May their petals live forever.
A Letter To The Girl Who Hates Her BodyA letter to the girl who hates her body.
A letter to that girl
Who scrolls through tumblr.
Admiring all of those models.
With thigh gaps that look cute with skirts.
And a waist that you can barely see.
A letter to the girl
Who looks at models,
For their curves.
The way their hips go outwards
And their size D cup breasts.
Please don't look in the mirror,
And hate the girl you see.
That girl is you
And she should be loved unconditionally.
Because you deserve love.
And how much love is not determined on your waist size,
Whether you're chubby or skinny
You're still so very pretty.
You're so perfect.
So for every time you look in that mirror.
And tell yourself you aren't worth it.
That you're arms are too big,
Your hips aren't big enough.
I am a woman.
I am strong.
I have a body like a castle.
A kingdom made just for me.
And I will not destroy that castle,
By trying to starve myself.
By taking brick by brick and dismantling it