Begun
I’m on the cusp of freedom,
but it’s one left-turn from losing faith,
falling hard for hopelessness,
like young, obsessive love,
wasting in the waters,
wallowing while grinning,
a drunk slur melting my expression,
revelling in ruminance.
This pity too is one deep breath
from the imminent escape,
the blatant understanding that there’s no such thing as fate,
unless we take the concept to be nothing in itself,
the story you have written, given to your younger self,
impossibly told back to you, before you had begun,
and begin you must, it waits for none, it has begun,
it has begun.
Mr Relax
Mr Relax
enters;
brim, trim, slim, a grin
departs
as if a whisper flown
and sewn into our skins.
It wins us over, and over,
and over,
so.
this. bliss
trickles;
hiss and kiss the coals,
souls turn to him before eyes –
wide at the centre,
tied to let enter
and paddle in their pupils.
Myself? I can’t stand the man,
preferring to hold too tightly to little,
than letting the lot wash over,
wash through,
wash me clear and clean of identity
that long I’ve left to grow like mold
in my cupped hands, in my clasped hands,
both dark and damp environments for fear to grow,
and convince you that it’s medicine;
too sick to even understand the prison that it puts you in…
I’m listening. I’m giving in.
I feel my smile-lines deepening.
I know that I’d be happier if only I weren’t grimacing,
and trying so damn very hard
to carve each pebble on the path.
Tenure
Let me tell you who I am,
and what I do –
if they’re distinct? –
then you can make up your own mind
if you’re living true;
being me, in you.
***
An early bird, I feed the dogs,
and head on down to an empty gym,
enjoying the absurdity of exercise at dawn,
finishing my workout before you’ve even woken up.
A pot of coffee on the go, I catch up on the news,
rifling through my email, making notes so not to lose
the feel for how the day will play, and pander to my goals,
so by the time I enter in, I’m prepped for all the roles.
It’s after five, but not yet six, I wrap up to head home;
I use the walk to file and form the things I’ve come to know.
We walk the dogs, we cook up food, we catch up on our days,
we wonder about the future, or we roll about in play,
or find ourselves absorbed in tasks, and all can be okay;
variety forms edges to our long-extended stay
upon, within, beside this earth – for which we shall adventure,
and document through artful means
that long outlive our tenure,
so that we may be remembered by the art we leave behind;
impressions of the time we took to organize the mind.
What we owe
Given all the time we’ve had,
and were it now that needs and musts
come to the fore, and bear their wares –
a fierce demand that forms implied,
in lieu of calling it by name,
or of looking it in the eye –
then we in turn must inside-out
and empty all our carriers of coins;
the tax is high for what we owe.
The only thing we learnt to grow.
A better day
It might have been a better day
had all the stars and paths aligned,
but think of all the whats and ways
we’d miss if all were as designed.
Poffertjes and Chocomel
Remember how we’d cycle down
and round about the bend?
Through avenues of trees, we’d weave,
and huff as we ascend
the path through dunes, the sea in view –
a promise at its end;
where poffertjes and chocomel will welcome us as friends.
Swell
I caught myself
falling
face first with eyes closed…
and it felt like dissappointment when
I managed to regain consciousness,
regain balance, retain my teeth;
I wonder were it better if
I’d dashed my face into the corner,
breaking something, or many things,
so that I may be permitted to stay home awhile
to recover from the falls that neither
bleed, nor bruise, nor swell.
Valiant
The flow between the swift and high,
in slips, and steps, and slides, together,
make this a feast for those who yearn
to taste the thumping force they weather;
dancing through the dash of storms,
wherein the thrawls of crimson valor,
name themselves as Kings, as Queens,
as Gods to those who tap and stagger.
Outgrew
Imagine it.
And imagine then that’s all you had;
a slither of reality –
no. Ideality. –
existing only inbetween
material connections,
like sequencing the static,
making messages of snowstorms,
reading not between the lines
but all the edges of your letters,
drawn out to both confess and hide
and seek and lie and whisper
halve truths, whole truths,
broken thoughts and details,
alluding to a truer you
that once you knew;
at once, outgrew.
Give
Give over to the soul who tolls,
and steals you from the sandy tower,
rings hard and true on every hour,
demanding that you give again.
Give everything you had reserved
for dire needs and empty shelves,
and spill it bare upon the floor,
to be adored, to long for more.
Give in and let it drag you far
and low beneath the peak and crest.
Come rest where memories bury deep,
where waters take and give you sleep.
Just so
Is it any wonder how
the lesser now at best allows
a sense so dense that sheets feel tense,
and heavy on the belly of the everyday disguise
that rumbles with a hunger, and sends tumbling his eyes,
lolled about and rolled throughout the wetness of his mind,
a blind grind, spit n’ shined disgusting kind of kind
that doesn’t know it’s mocking as it’s fucking from behind;
it’s as designed, it’s as designed,
the better the devil you know,
lest find yourself accomplishing transcendence from ‘just so’.
Holes
The trick is to have just enough
to rouse the raw, and rest the rough,
and hold, and hold, and keep it fed,
lest wake the rested, festered dread
that bends the heavy bottom shelf –
it waits for me to less my health –
and not but fifty feet from here,
the train blares high (and low) in fear
of lost, of poor, of tired souls
who head, who sink, who long for
holes.
Reset
Sometimes we find ourselves encumbered,
sooty with our tribulations,
heavy with our trials,
loomed over by mountains,
and tripped up by molehills;
our hands and knees are grazed and stained,
our faces flecked with dirt…
So burn it all!
Tear off your clothes,
and throw them into fiery pits.
Come roar with me
in flame,
and shame
the hurricane, by comparison.
We’ll blow and torch it from our skin.
We’ll watch it sizzle,
and scorch,
and spin…
At last.
Not a sound but beating hearts.
Not a tree or blade of grass
surrounds-
just us.
Just…
now.
Just blackened earth, and ashy sheets.
Just glowing coals, where once were eyes.
Just red-hot poles, where once were bones.
It…
emanates,
eliminates,
and consummates the act.
We let the winds brush off our skins;
our souls,
revealed,
intact.
We cool,
collect,
breathe in,
accept.
We rise,
redress,
breathe out,
Reset.
I wish I’d cooked you breakfast
I wish I’d cooked you breakfast;
toast and eggs,
layed out in bed,
and spread like butter on pancakes.
I wish I’d bought you flowers;
pink and red,
all preened and stemmed,
on the table for when you come home.
I wish I’d cooked you dinner;
candles and wine,
with plenty of time
to relax, to unwind, to entwine.
But I commit to much more than a day,
to much more than a temporary scene,
for I intend to begin and to end
every day with you kept like a queen.
And every day will be our Valentines,
for as long as the winds kiss the sea.
My Intended Artistry (MIA)
It’s Sunday, and it’s morning.
You’re sat up at the breakfast bar,
elbows propped, coffee in hand,
legs crossed and bare,
pearly in the breaking light,
a pale, blue button-down does little to cover,
and I too feel exposed with this obvious grin,
not so much ‘staring’ at you
as ‘bathing’,
dabbing at the pinks in your palette,
every bristle coated in your color,
your magic,
and I ready myself to paint a masterpiece,
but stop short.
Head tilted, stepping back.
I lay my wetted brush,
and soak in primal views.
I could never paint a picture
quite as beautiful as you.
Raw
If I could scream
for twenty minutes straight,
I’d still have so much left inside.
I long for love to tear me open,
rip and split the shell that hides
and strangles me till I can’t see.
It burns to even fucking breathe,
cos every word has brakes applied
and sings like stings in both my eyes,
and punches me from inside out,
a hammerfist fights through my chest;
it thumps and roars against the cage,
throws itself against the bars, and whimpers through its rage.
Witness here the ugly side to passionate enaction;
the equal, opposing forcefulness of raw and fierce reaction.