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.
The Compassionate Adulterer to His LoveCome live with me and let us prove
What pleasured springs eruct with love,
In thorn and furze, the bracken dew
Can wait an age; it waits on you.
But ours is terse, its timely birth,
Whelped by the sorrows of the Earth
That girdled skin round workday bones
To slight our kinship with flagstones,
Can broach the deserts of decline
And palliate this sin of mine:
Oh let the nymphs and dryads be
What touches thee, tastes poetry.
So let us lie, the sheets are strewn
In purple riot, the heart of June
Seeps softly in sumac and myrrh
Embedded with a scent of her.
If she sleeps, knowing all, she sails
Adrift a sea of stars; the tales
That serenade the thirst unseen
Are ghosts of garbles—never been.
And though our twine is verboten,
And dawn will cite this fear of men,
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me, and be my love.
The Old WaysThe old are always protecting themselves
in the way they speak, shouldering words
as they soldiered on through pink and pittances,
buffeted by diminution. They dice their words,
dealing only as little as it takes to enamel flavour,
retiring the rest into Tupperware paraphernalia, repairing
to the bedroom, inaudibly behind a hardcover, which bides its while
where the wind blows, bartered by borrowed air.
Always the unheeded precautions: the seasonal stew
may babble with solicitude, never gusto
while the julienned aubergines justify every austerity measure
- each a testament to the Great War -
the quiet war of animation and attrition
as winter finds a comfortless corner to die.
Each a Diogenes to his own cause, saving scraps
of dignity in misplaced parables and promises of bequeathal:
the old play the precarious sport of procrastination.
Enumerating the fears of the same dogeared journey,
the prognosis of the situation is hardly original:
'When I was your age' - begins the fated period d
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.
Your feelings are validI once read
that a teaspoon of matter
from a black hole
can weigh thousands of tons
so think about that
when someone tells you
your problem is no big deal
it may not look
like I have the weight of the world
upon my shoulders
but it sure can feel like it.
FarewellThe sudden void into the unhinged mind of a demented soul,
The rapture of a lucid dream, falling into an obliterated consciousness
The devastating coma of a genius protagonist, completing the epic tale of a life
It was all but a dream, a chimera, an excruciating lie.
The nothingness digging its claws into a cryptic vision,
The finality of a banal, vain existence
Never to be remembered, nor praised for its perpetual battle against agony.
There is nothing,
Nothing but the sharp sound of shattering glass,
Nothing but a hollow shell on the edge of the world.
This is where I depart, this is where I bow down,
This is where my crude hatred vanishes with my existence
There is nothing but a vague memory, of a silent soldier walking against the wind,
The pallid remembrance of a once scintillating simper
Good fortune to you all, for my path lies beneath the river
And with it, a single breathe to be released upon all as a somber farewell.
Fairy Tale GirlFairy tale little girl.
She wears a crown upon her head,
And befriends the monsters under her bed.
She sings songs to birds.
But no one ever heard
Her cries when the castle walls came tumbling down.
Real world little girl.
She weaves herself a fantasy inside her mind.
Hoping to find
The same peace from when she was young.
And she's like water colors.
So soft, and easily washed away.
She is the soft blues in the morning of a new day.
I found her hiding within her tower.
Far above the real world below.
She is so broken but never lets it show,
So desperate for some fairy tale ending.
She asked me quietly one day,
'Do you think the world will ever be like my story books?'
I thought for a moment before replying,
'In order to survive there are some bad things you have to overlook.'
'The world is grey.'
I heard her say one day.
As if accepting the odd mixture of good and bad.
Her voice sounded happy and sad,
All at once.
As she ripped away the last page
In her story book.
beautiful.i hate my stretchmarks
the vertical the horizontal the ones running miles down my arms
stripes on a circus tent
my body is a freak show
75 cents a ticket
they are the bars on a cage
trapping me inside this prison cell of flesh
(not letting me run away
from all i once was)
reminding me that i am
still that little girl who
was told that she had too
much weight in her stomach
and in her thighs
to be called beautiful
my stretchmarks are the debris from when i tried to collapse upon myself
tried taking up less space
because beautiful is small beautiful is skinny
diets upon diets
because i've been told that
i am only worth the sharpness of my collarbone
Between life and death
again and again on my knees
broken by those who should help me stand
not sad nor happy in this life
and getting up
again and again
after every fall
more determined to keep standing
more desperate to avoid another
depression doesn´t hurt
it´s beyond limits of sadness
beyond any other feeling known by mam
being alive is too hard
there are easier ways around
why to stand up after fall?
stubbornly holding on worthless things
patiently crying when no one hears
broken pieces glued together
effort testing limits of strength
buying time to find more will
forgetting to smile
what did it feel like
for the last time?
Why I DanceI dance as if I am sick,
And the movement is medication.
As if getting up in the morning just to practice is the only motivation
To stay awake.
Because well- worn soft shoes
Feel like home.
The world is cold, and lonely.
But when I dance, there is a fire inside my heart, warm and lively.
I feel like a bird,
Like I am able to fly as high as I want.
Gravity, I taunt
As I laugh in its face.
Because the Earth was never a place
Because leaping across dance floors,
Allows me to soar
Higher than I could in my dreams.
Hard shoe dances make me feel powerful.
Like a raging storm at sea.
My stamps, and clicks are crashing waves.
But I am also the sea breeze.
Strong and graceful.
When I dance I feel like I am trading
Secrets with the universe.
My head is clear,
And my will power is strong.
I am a force to be feared.
On bad days,
The rhythms of hard shoes sound like a heart- beat.
A life line.
And I’ll dance until my feet bleed
Just to feel something.
Because dancing is the only thing
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
Dear Homophobic ParentsDear homophobic parents,
How the fuck do you think it makes me feel
When you walk out of the room crying
Because you can’t stand the thought of something I can’t control.
I’ll tell you that it makes my insides burn.
The living room feels like a closet.
Suffocating, and yet I can breathe fine.
I am choking on the air,
Polluted by your homophobic slurs.
Making uneducated guesses about things you know nothing about.
Someone ought to teach you to look shit up
Before you go about, shouting your false claims to the world.
My very existence is an error.
Some messed up chemical defect that went wrong,
I don’t belong
I am the Titanic,
To you I am supposed to be perfect
I am supposed to be straight, and happy, and fine.
But I am so very far from fine,
When my lungs are filling up with water,
Your words are an ice berg,
And I am sinking fast.
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.