Tuesday, 27 November 2018

Then and Now

A couple of days ago

I am trying to write you out of my skin.
That is to say: You are still here.
You are running in circles, you are making me dizzy. I am confused.
I thought these years had put me back together;
you’d found me broken, now we were whole.
Then you broke the promises you made and I’m not ready to break again.
I’m trying to write it all down, every corner and jagged edge.
That is to say: I am not finished.
I never can be, can I? I meant what I said. I never will be finished.
These words are stains on eyes and lips, on the tips of planes
that have torn the skies and crashed, buried in an afterthought.
I’m trying to end it all.
You already have.
I am trying to catch up with time, all over again.
It was light outside when you left for work. I was barely awake.
I should have stayed there, in sleep, in a permanent dream.
That is to say: I should have drowned.

Now

Poems are finicky things. Portraying a girl, wondering
what it is so wrong about her, what is so worthless?
And that is an accurate picture, and I would never
want to bury her without the decency of flowers.
She was just left to falter. She was just wordless,
having been betrayed before, just not by anyone
who had promised certainly never to do so.
A shock like that strikes the hours apart,
solitude can appear to push them aside with a touch,
and words start to flow and at first it's just hope,
getting all tangled in reasons, reasons that
trip over hemselves as they rush to leave.
Then it's just choking on doubts, covered in dust,
carrying you, the words all there and all lost
before they even leave the mouth. Unravelling.

The picture becomes different once you sweep up
the remnants, change the bedsheets, rearrange the life
you let go of without protest. Knots loosening from
around your heart. A sailor to the wind, to the stars,
broadcasting to the world- I am not broken, not
unravelling. This is nothing compared to what has been.
The memories and the memories of nightmares-
products of wanting and unwanting and biting back.
When you run, run away, isn't it because nothing
makes you happy? Or because you are asked to do so
and believe in the reasons? It wasn't one giant mistake.
But I was mistaken, I was gullible. That is a fact.
Running away- never explaining myself.
Running away- never letting the nostalgia in,
though it made me sick, though it made me ache.
Running away- finding myself somewhere
that I never expected to be. I'm sorry, and not sorry,
and I'm relieved I am myself again.
But after all this running,
I'm asking permission to return.






Saturday, 24 November 2018

Monday, 19 November 2018

Sharp Objects


From the TV series 'Sharp Objects' and quotes from the book by the same name, Gillian Flynnn

Saturday, 17 November 2018

Adoxography


Stay



The hope of what can be made real, even if it seems ridiculous ot others or highly improbable or very difficult to reach out for, let alone make steps towards- well, that's always better than the disappearing act. When you start to disappear from the world, you lose things: memories, friends, idiosyncracies, rroutines, purpose, aspiration. It might be a solution to the terror of failing and the fear your hope will never come true, but I'm leaning towards not abandoning hope, because it's it's always been hope that kept me alive. 

Friday, 16 November 2018

The apologetic verbal tic


8 Friday Thoughts and a song

i. I am my own worst nigthmare. A glass drops into my hand and my palm shatters- conclusion: I'm too fragile for all this. I try to bite the rust from beneath my fingernails- conclusion: there are endless walls and walks and rides and the damage collects, and I know it, I'm just no good at fixing it. A book opens and closes, another on top of it, a hand is raised expectantly in a school room- conclusion: I am a question, unsure of being answered. A phone rings and rings, hands shake, the blinds close- conclusion: I am afraid, I would prefer to be invisible. So why is it that it means so much to me that I am remembered, noticed, loved? I blush, I hide, I need, I rattle. I am a nightmare.

ii. Pits of hunger feel better again. I'm a fool and buckling and I know it. I used to be able to stop it. Where did the strength go? Where did the rain go? Why don't I talk anymore? I would give anything to go back and start over, to when I could be and wanted to be heard, and I didn't see a tombstone standing in my doorway, and I didn't see myself from above and see an eyesore.

iii. Somewhere, sometime, someone said I was going to be okay. I didn't believe them before. I believe it now. I am still porcelain and not stone. I am still rust but not decay. I suddenly finding it strange to be myself.

iv. Possible diagnoses (not yet invented): disenchanted brain; history not one's own (delusion); abandoning of flight; undemanding tightness; birdbath stomach ache; translucence; corner cowaredice; blind trust; a healing through scar tissue; sanity through sentence structure; a reckoning. 

v. I suppose this is half-imagined. Like imagining choosing songs to whistle in the mounains or to sing on the street, like a radio looping in your bain. Like looking straight into an eclipse. Meeting a cheerful ghost at a rundown factory. Leaving something special behind when you go.

vi. The walls sweat anxiously and you whistle softly to me. There's nothing but nostalgia in the clouds and a heart thrumming in my mouth- mine or yours? Why did I never have the right words to say? I tried to write them. I tried to be a dream more than a nightmare, but maybe self-knowledge at the end of it is better than being just a phantom of regret.

vii. Someday- if I have the time- all of this will get the better of me and that will be the end, and I'll go to a place beyond this with books and bathtubs or just waste. Or it won't get the better of me and I will shrug it all away, or else I'll do anything at all- with no exceptions, besides having to remain alone forever- to fit the puzzle pieces back together. Loss breaks me apart in a way I can't articulate. I'm not finished. I'm not crazy. I do love.

viii. I don't know where I am going, or who I am, or what I can do. You have to tell me. I'm just made up of mirrors. I've known dead-ends and disasters but I'm still here. I shouldn't be but I am. War should never be happening, but i is, always will. I don't deserve to be happening here, but I am. Isn't that some kind of evidence that magic really exists?




Tuesday, 13 November 2018

Words at dawn

I don't blame anyone for not understanding how it is to hurt with both hands, like a blown circuit. I worry that the genesis of my brain is disenchanted, uprooted from its stem, burnt at the stake. I feel like- I worry too that I feel like- my body is a lost continent; the evenings sit and become nights and become mornings without rest, just empty eyes. Am I rusting? Am I still here? Stitch me back to something. I hope this will be more probable in the next few weeks. Winter tends to the prayers of the lonely.

Sometimes I am sure I'm alive because someone else isn't. My life and heartbeat whisper obligations. I panic, I lose my lungs for a minute, breath pouring o ut of me, stale and hot like mercury from the remains of a broken thermometer.

I know I'm sick. I know I'm not myself. Does one depend on the other? I hope that soon I'll be able to look at my reflection. I wish I could feel it again- that glimmer of hope, even just a glance of that fool's paradise.




A new recording



I apologise for my apology (?) towards the end and all the quietness. It just moves me quite dramatically, the lyrics.

Split

Taking a stroll down the knife-edge path
dragged by apathy, vague ambivalence-

Looking in the mirror and the immediate
need to leave the room, lest you pull it down-

Out of breath, on the floor, in the shower,
forgetting the words to explain yourself.

Worth nothing? Worth nothing? No.
You are not merely the contours of shadow.

Where you are walking, dreams don't go.
I know that because once I felt worthy.

I want to be invisible, to disappear, but
that's not true. I want to speak, be heard,

I want to be remembered. I believed?
Didn't I? Yes, I always have, I still do-

I'm screaming into silence.

Saturday, 27 October 2018

There is no absolute truth

We cannot ever hope to win
without learning man's many games.
We can't hope to understand God
without learning his many names.

We can't see the top of career ladders
without counting their many rungs.
We can't define in other languages
without speaking their many tongues.

We can't know or try to quantify
without observing what's not seen.
We can't know a mile in other shoes
without being where they've been.

We can't say we know what's to be good
without knowing what is to sin.
We can't say we know others at all
without ever letting them in.

We can never say we know truth at all
without admitting our many flaws.
We can never say it's the right choice
without opening the many doors.

We can't see the sparkling of lighting
without the many claps of thunder.
We can't say we really live at all
without the endless ways we wonder.

Heavy Is The Pen That Writes 'The End'

1) Nothing has been noticed yet. Nothing has been felt. Calendars still shed pages and schoolchildren keep growing up. Newsreaders always speaking in tongues, in muted voices giving soundless shapes to weightless words. The tide still comes in and goes back out. The clock tower chimes again; nobody hears. The sea is a mirror.

2. They will eventually say that they always knew, even as early as this. In basements and fifth floor apartments, these individuals have headaches, bad dreams they can't fully remember, persistent deja vu. Tiny breakdowns felt like repeated tiny earthquakes. The heavy bearded man sleeping on the street outside the train station has felt it. Collectors of article clippings reporting terrorist attacks and loudly declaring themselves non-believers probably felt it too. But they weren't to know this was the real thing. Many of the incarcerated population might have felt it with fight and not fear, but their view came in slices, from behind fortified walls, mostly recycled, or only remembered.

3. Light sleepers are woken by friction. Paperclips, earrings, the buttons on winter coats. They swear their televisions aren't working. They secretly swear that the figures on the television aren't who they are supposed to be, they've been replaced by impostors. Breezes seem to thrum and sunbeams whistle through hair and fingers. The postman signs in to work under the wrong name and waits for something to post. Under the cacophony of everyday, small bells are heard ringing.

4. No one can say the last time they remember a new novel being published and publicised. Favourite radio channels are tuned out when listeners realise they have heard the same songs on a broken loop lasting about a week, and every week starts and finishes to the same soundtrack. Magazine articles are chewy, conversations about current events stick to people's teeth. Charity workers are seen shredding their literature and begging for change. Something feels different but nobody says anything because nobody understands exactly what has changed. More people hearing bells, fearing insanity, accepting loneliness. The priest notices that the church pews are empty but so many come asking to confess that he dreams in black and white, and words in the confession box feel like words exchanged at the bank and at the supermarket. There's a commonality in the way food smells. Drinking water has more viscosity. It feels harder to pick up a pen. Furniture appears to sigh in frustration when you sit or lean on it. Newspapers quietly fold themselves.

5. Policemen cave in the cheekbones of a seventeen year old car thief. Their radios are scattered with reports of domestic violence, fire-setting. The neighbour's cat turned up dead in a garbage bag in the shallow parts of a reservoir. Breezes seem to bruise and sunbeams sting.

6. The heavy sleepers are woken by large bells ringing, knocking about in bell-towers. Some people hang flags from their balconies. Those who live on the ground floor throw beer bottles out of their windows. Long vindictive and threatening messages are passed back and forth between computer keyboards. A disproportionate number of people privately plan attacks on strangers, on family members, in schools and on playgrounds and in churches. Hospital nurses stay home with crippling migraines. A politician is quietly arrested on the grounds of sexual assault. Trees falling in the forest, everyone can hear them. Nobody explains why the leaks from nuclear plants are infecting surrounding civilisations. Nobody explains why no help is coming. Nobody explains God anymore and the priest wonders whether he ever existed. Roofs ripped off. Rivers drying up. The incarcerated broke out then broke back in, reading their own last rites. Bridges are teeming with people who dream of jumping.

7. Houses are left empty, when families pack their belongings into cars and just drive away, with nowhere to go. Policemen break the spine of a fourteen year old vandal. Most people don't read magazines or watch the news. Every well-known radio personality has gone quiet. When books and music records are burnt, people yell and cheer and fight, some throw pipe bombs, some set cars and houses on fire too. People don't pick up pens anymore, nothing is written, no names are signed. The monuments in cities cannot be repaired, and the pigeons that once crowded them stopped visiting.

8. Even the smaller towns are flattened, their foundations pulled out and crushed. People rarely say their own names with so little need to. Trains don't run and when the air traffic couldn't be controlled and a plane full of people making a last effort at escapism dropped from its road in the sky, nothing was left but ash. Breezes are bloody and violent, sunbeams stop. While the priest tries to pray, the congregation pull his church down around him and when he turns to God, all he hears is footsteps. Hundreds of people in a crowd followed one another off a bridge.

9. An epidemic of self-mutilation. Revolutionary suicide. It is impossible to stand. Nothing moves, nobody tries. Nobody knew the extent of damage until it was already beyond repair. Smoke does not rise, it just hangs, moving horizontally. The only things that don't break are the waves, boy's voices. Not even promises get broken anymore because nobody makes them. All the birds nested in one tree that was chewed up paper a long time ago.

10. Complete catastrophic destruction. Damage is entirely total. Nothing is felt but perhaps the very quiet motion of the hour hand on a clock.  The sea is white.



Friday, 5 October 2018

Telling Tales

Tremble by tremble,
Cold, low-burning headlights,
a beautiful disused sentence
folding crumpled mouths over
stretched broken curfews.
Winter never meant to hurt you.
Stories are so tired of being told.

Tales of Aesop and of Chaucer.
Broken bone, teacup and saucer.

Your short shadows.
Your loosened forgetting.
Falling like a hammer
Falling like a suitcase,
 full of ageing wistful neck scarves.
Didn't I say I don't do things by halves?
Stories now so tired of being told.

Brothers Grimm and Rumpelstiltskin.
Tired of weaving the same words in.

Until the facts forget themselves.
Until book spines crack the shelves.
Until the morals can strengthen themselves.
I kept the best until last.
Our fate is told by the past.
Stories not so tired of being told.

Thought machines and iron cutlasses.
Sleepless birds and grey trespasses.

Stories never tired of being told.

Friday, 13 July 2018

Carduelis carduelis

The growing blush and the beating hearts
of sun in flowers will bring the charm-

spreading wishes, adrift on seeds and thistles,
carrying rubies, bars of gold on each arm.

A call to these arms or a cradle song learnt
becomes bolder, meanwhile their charm ages

until years that have been burnt mean little
more than memories, left trapped in cages.


Tuesday, 3 July 2018

Hamlet (the first drafts for the musical)


Slings and arrows, now natural shocks can start.
Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.
The rub of words, words, words; I'm sick at heart.

The woman changes faces, I know her as Frailty.
And we know what we are but not what we may be.
Shake off this mortal coil, get thee to a nunnery.

The rest is silence and to thine own self be true
Though you listen to many, you speak to a few.
You see clouds in the mirror of nature, hanging on you.

The bad beginning, the worse stays behind.
Rich gifts wax poor when givers prove unkind.
There is method in the madness of my mind.


Saturday, 30 June 2018

The brittle bones, the fallacy.
Two telephones, buried at sea.
The lifted flag, the lost milk teeth
the paper bag and what's underneath.

A web you weave to catch bad dreams.
A heart on a sleeve, ripping the seams.
A secret past and secret scars.
Driving fast into a wall of stars.

A lighthouse beam, a lullaby.
A polished gleam, a butterfly.
The poetry that I never wrote. .
A symphony and an old love note.

A hymnal page, the sinking sands,
the critical age and the handstands.
The endless fight to conquer fears
Put world to right but no one hears.

A halcyon day, a rumour mill,
The buds of May, the walk uphill.
The watchmakers, the tides of time
The undertaker and the victimless crime.

A cracking spine, a cool pillow
The borderline, the black echo.
The language no one can understand.
The clenching fist, a holding hand.

A lone scarecrow, the warm weather
An open window, a bird's feather.
The telephone line, a pair of shoes,
Look for a sign among the cryptic clues.

A climbing frame, the ace of hearts,
the misplaced blame, a sum of parts.
A train station, the empty seats.
A publication by the king of the beats.

The stepping stones, the wooden style,
The distant moans, the gap-toothed smile.
The rule of thirds, and the quiet place.
The unsaid words to find in your face.

The ballet shoes, the broken string.
The lost marbles, or wedding ring.
A fire escape, a creaking door
A cassette tape and the sound of war.

A poltergeist, a crucifix.
A jewellery heist and pick up sticks.
A panic attack and a perfect plan
that leads right back to where it began.

The atomic clock, the dream seahorse
A rusty lock, an obstacle course.
A penny tossed, found on the street.
A fortune lost to the vast concrete.

An empire falls, a city grows.
A stranger calls, a TV glows.
A cigarette, a creased street map
A risky bet and a dripping tap.

A whiskey slur, a suicide.
The days a blur, the nervous bride.
A nightingale, a fireman's pole.
A lucky pencil and a last minute goal

A daisy chain, a pharmacy
A growing pain, a bleeding knee.
The looking glass, a game of chess.
An all day pass and a cotton dress

An inhaler, a mountaineers grave
A suit tailor, an underground rave.
A man's best friend, a Masters degree,
a pardon to mend, and a dictionary.

The bitten nails, the guitar chords,
the fairy tales, the hospital wards.
A Greek tragedy, a lucky break
A dead body dragged from the lake.

The thunder claps, the perfect ten,
the afternoon naps of way back when.
The foolish gold, the treasure chest.
The winter cold, the Sunday best

The ecstasy, the forget-me nots.
The peace treaty, the polka dots.
A makeshift phone, a string and can.
The long way home for the homeless man.

The paper planes, the splashing tears.
The picture frames, the Brighton piers.
The message I heard so long ago
and don't remember a word but somehow know.

The railway tracks, the acid rain.
The jumping jacks, the weathervane.
Something too bad to ever tell.
Just as sad as horses on a carousel.

The sunlight spills, the Richter Scale,
the wind that fills and pulls the sail.
A time capsule that no one found.
The deadly duel, the speed of sound.

The wishing well, the final scene
The kitchen hell, the quarantine.
A new currency, the falling leaves
The conspiracy no one believes.

A helter-skelter, a crocodile
The summer swelter, the final mile
The clever pun, the lost balloon
The eclipsed sun, the honey moon.

The one mistake, the highland fling
the homesick ache, the birds that sing
A twin sister and a toboggan sled
An orchestra on the ocean bed

A promised doom, one of his cons
The same perfume, the ghost of swans
The spindrift dancing on the beach
The mermaids drift singing each to each.

The static shock, the red yo yo
the city block, a grand piano..
The daffodils, the way night falls,
the yellow pills and the lecture halls.

The time you chase, the lips you kiss
That remembered place that you miss.
The words that fail, the fairy dust,.
The hold grail and the wanderlust.

A circus clown, a thirsty flower
A quiet town, an old bell tower.
The dinner guests, the soliloquy,
the cuckoo's nests and the library.

The human brain, the therapist,
a hurricane, the bucket list.
The one sentence that is true.
The repentance and you're good as new.

The story told, the war drum
The broken mould, the tunnel's hum.
A pledge we made when the sky was clear
Some people fade but I'm still right here.

The topmost shelf, the ruins of Rome.
The Divided Self, the nowhere home.
The huge tree roots, the ego death,
the muddy boots and the stolen breath.

A time to grieve, a crystal ball.
The make-believe, the wake up call.
These new delights with violent ends.
The city sights and the childhood friends.

The astronaut, the song you hate.
An afterthought, a big debate.
The work that's praised for it's content.
The voice that's raised in argument.

The cradle songs, the wrecking ball.
The righted wrongs, the Berlin wall.
 An open throat, the saltwater
The swaying vote and a problem daughter.

The rolling stone, the loneliness.
A large trombone, an awful mess.
Dropping the plates, I hear them clatter.
Everything breaks so what does it matter?

The copper wire, the candy floss.
A forest fire, a massive loss.
The dream that stays by a sapphire lagoon.
The hope better days are coming soon.

The censorship, the whitest lies,
A synthetic hip, the Nobel prize.
The democrat versus the fanatic.
A sleeping bat hanging in the attic.

The handshake deal, the paranoid.
The Achilles heel, the asteroid.
The paper route, the superstition.
Forbidden fruit and a premonition.

The golden ratio, the parted sea.
The status quo, the etymology.
The traffic jams, the hide-and-seek.
The anagrams and the doublespeak.

The artifact, the coat of arms.
The signed contract, the lucky charms.
A rattled cage, a pitted peach.
The golden age and freedom of speech.

The hummingbird, the same routine.
The spoken word, the guillotine.
The wisdom tooth, the family tree.
The absolute truth and hyperbole.

The politics, the chewing gum.
The River Styx, the rule of thumb.
The little hours travelling in boxcars.
Keeping flowers inside old jam jars.

The purgatory, the barrier reef.
The allegory, the comic relief.
The chalk outline, the golden fleece.
A valentine and a masterpiece.

A flowerbed, a show of respect.
The figurehead, the retrospect.
A skyscraper and a rocking chair.
The newspaper and the serenity prayer.

The altitude, the winds of change.
The solitude, the mountain range.
Ear to the ground, story in the soil.
A merry-go-round and a mortal coil.

The silver screen, the alphabet.
The submarine, the safety net.
The vocabulary and Desolation Row.
The cemetery and the devil you know.

A message in Morse Code, an inglenook.
The less travelled road, the holy book.
The unconscious mind, the master race.
The moment you find it and it looks like grace.

The nom de plume , the Sistine Chapel.
The waiting room, the poison apple.
A sleepy yawn, an amphetamine.
The break of dawn and a tambourine.

The hierarchy, the boarding school.
The patriarchy, the swimming pool.
Mother's day. a cup of tea.
Feng shui and reality TV.

The improvisation, the summer heat.
A murmuration, a skipped heartbeat.
A kind stranger, a Swiss army knife.
The threat of danger and the meaning of life.

A hangover, a Suffragette.
A four leaf clover, a pirouette.
An election campaign, a case of frostbite.
A line of cocaine and the gentle twilight.

The curiosity, the Edelweiss.
The velocity, the paradise.
A weather forecast, your own keepsake.
An iconoclast and a little earthquake.

The new president, the bourgeoisie.
The long lament, the life philosophy.
The past connection you try to forget.
Making a collection of all your regret.

The curtain call, the dismissed case.
There wherewithal, the hiding place.
A skeleton key and exponential growth.
An insanity plea and a sacred oath.

A heart transplant, a turning screw.
A confidante, a dream come true.
A Gothic arch and a motorcade.
A funeral march and a masquerade.

The work of fiction, the vertigo.
The drug addiction, the mistletoe.
Modern jazz and a chromosome.
Alcatraz and a broken home.

A paperweight, an intrusive thought.
A blind date, a contact sport.
An archetype, rules of etiquette.
A tobacco pipe and a marionette.

A weeping willow, a fountain pen.
The fashion show, the three wise men.
A pantomime, a master of disguise.
Organised crime and wandering eyes.

The innovation, the give and take.
A hallucination, a birthday cake.
A careless blunder and a a turn of phrase.
Dare to wonder what is in a gaze.

The sad violin, the laughing gas.
The original sin, the fresh cut grass.
A watcher of game shows, a hit and run.
All the dominoes falling one by one.

 An accident, a research grant.
A circus tent, a nuclear plant.
The call to action and Murphy's law.
A chain reaction and a tragic flaw.

The third dimension, the tectonic plates.
The best intention, the direst straits.
The cover girl and the taciturn.
The precious pearl, the point of no return.

The hunting season, the olive branch
The voice of reason, the avalanche.
A sycamore and a nervous tic.
A prisoner of war and a walking stick.

The speech in sign, the tired feet.
The closing line, the bittersweet.
A small goodbye, a tale to tell,
The always why and a last farewell.



The Knowledge Fallacy

I wait for my backbone to pick me up, skin as thin as petals.
I wait because it will be clearer once all this dust settles.
Time goes by and I can see the spots that once were blind.
Time goes by and I feel I can understand more of my mind.
I think I'm getting wiser but perhaps I'm just getting old.
I feel like it's been twenty lifetimes but so much is yet untold.
Yet if I talk with conviction don't believe a word that I say.
Really, I know nothing at all anyway.

Some people see a house of God, others walls and a roof.
Some aren't persuaded by Einstein, others claim to have proof.
Having faith that there do exist that which you can't feel or see
must bring comfort, but it never felt comfortable to me.
When our beliefs are wrong- textbooks and papers on heuristics
and research into judgement fallacies all backed up with statistics.
We put our trust in numbers but we invented the scale.
We picked out the measures, deciding where evidence will fail.
I'd tell you to shun the idea of proof but don't listen to what I say-
Really, I know nothing at all anyway.

Life experiences take on a shape, always changing as you grew.
You poured into the mould and now that shape is shaped like you.
You've seen enough of living and had the use of your free will
you're sure you know your every fault, idiosyncrasy, fear and skill.
There come moments of epiphany, and they feel so profound
I think I see completely but when those breakthroughs come around
Life throws a curve-ball, something unseen, so I have to say-
Really, I know nothing at all anyway.

Can't ever be certain, can't ever know if it's fact or fiction.
You can't ever seem to know enough to make a good prediction
about what is going to happen and how you might react.
All you can do is remember it and make your own kind of fact.
When so much is chaos there's only one thing we can choose-
will the past will inform the present or become yesterdays news?
With nothing to prove it can feel liberating just to say
Really, I know nothing at all anyway.

Dear You

The musician hides behind the microphone.
An admission of shyness or sleepless and
he was the birds, all fluttering in flight-
finally a safe place in the world; freedom;
forgiveness; the future that you found
in your wishful thinking. That part is easy.
It's not an aching radio or wondering,
worrying who controls lines of questioning
about the nature of things; or falling
back in time or into an old loop, a song
you don't like; or people always getting hurt.
Dear Birds- Dear You- Do you know me?
I wouldn't want to assume. I'll only end up
in a darkroom with all the underexposed
and overexposed images I made up like
metaphors. Do you see right through me?
Somehow, you keep my mind on what heals
and what's realised and what fits- because
my body for the first time fits perfectly here.
Dear Musician Behind The Microphone-
I see you. You keep singing and, smiling,
I sink the boat, and we are breathing in
river water. You are a song between stars;
all the birds; my safe place in the world.

Contents

Inside my head- the broken faucets, the drawings
penned by clumsy hands, a poem I might write,
admission of failure, things never stopping,
a series or sequence, a set of rules, it was too late.
Sorry I wasn't at your party. History and distance
between experience and uncertain other parts,
dimmed by nights that are constantly refolding 
and the fear that nothing survives. Inevitable,
like shyness or shame or falling asleep.
This has nothing to do with happiness.
There will always be another set of rules.
History can rewrite itself as often as it repeats
and the old dull pain, stitched to our boots,
just as it had to come from somewhere, like
old tree roots, has to lead to an end elsewhere.
When I ran out of lullabies I learnt the story
of what the night is thinking, learnt the sorry
that is empty- we're doing this to ourselves.
Forgiveness. Harp strings. Broken faucets.
Birds fluttering. Clumsy poems. Almost on time.
A familiar laugh- I also found inside my head.
I always knew it wasn't all fear and failure
and wanting and worrying, but I guess I forgot.

Poetry forms example

A while ago I made my own poetry form that was a poem that could be read left to right, line by line, as any other poem would be, but within it were three other poems, to be read down in the three columns. When I wrote it, each column had a different meaning, and eventually I made it so that the two furthest columns were opposing each other with regards to the poetic content while the middle column was balancing and finding a middle ground in its meaning- you can see it here: Mirror(Me) poem
Since then I have tried to replicate the poetic form but have never been able to work out anything that carried the same meaning and relevance found in where that meaning was to be read on the page. Yesterday I was listening to some songs and used them as starting points to try and at least use the basic poetic form- the poem that can be read left to right, line by line, as usual, but can also be divided into separate poems in the downwards spaced columns as it's written. These very short attempts by no means have parts within them that offset their other component parts, but they can be read as four separate poems, with separate meanings. I'll keep trying but I think the mirror poem was probably a lucky one.