outside it is pouring, dark spilling over the sidewalk like a glass filled with the blood of something fragile. you and I are somewhere in this flood of warmth. the rain continues to knock on the roof, a witness to all of this nothing. time drips slow. quiet. you and I will part so soon.
It’s not as much a tussle as much as it is a boxing match; the dodging and weaving like swerving into traffic. The reason people must inevitably bury themselves is the same as why full stops must be full. You know the steps by heart: here is an empty space to be filled. Here is a name erased. Here is another lie for you to be placed in. Graves, too, must be full. You are boxing yourself into a coffin. Your heart is full of mud. Here is an empty filling to be spaced out, crossed out, placed outside of the boxes and the self. Here is a list of instructions for the heart to erase. Here is the box that got the trafficker hung, here is the weave of an executioner’s mask, the judge’s wig, here is the tussle you will bind yourself in, the bullet you will learn to dodge.
Inspired by real life conversations. I’m back on my bullshit of trying to bang out drafts in a single 10 minute sitting. Old title: “Springboard”
Our issues melt away and run, like dirty water into drainage pipes. Black fishes into estuaries. When we are out of each other’s sight, we’ll be out of our minds. Flushed away and forgotten. Invariably some scum stays: stains on a manhole. Is it disgusting? For me to wish thusly: I want to know everything. What are you doing right now? I wonder as I type these words, whether an old poem would remind you of me. Or maybe, an old Weezer track. A putrid display of cliche. Whether some strange, blackened memory comes rushing back out of the depths of the sewer we consigned ourselves to. Something no-one wants to see nor clean. Things – and people – we’d rather let rot somewhere else. So let me say it again, I wish to know everything. As if repeating it makes it any cleaner. I am scrubbing my mouth with this repetition. No matter how disgusting it may be – I want to know where each river ends, where every one runs dry. I want to feel this world: every festering wound, black-mold enclave, drip of a shedding. Every single shoddy half-written metaphor. I want to see you, behind your squeaky-clean 5-stars public-toilet facade. And I want somebody to tell me – that everything which was filthy was fine, everything which was wrong was right – that everything which was not, will be. Truth be told, I’d love it to be you, but I know. I already know the answer. My mind has no qualms with being in the gutter, as ever always.
Paralyzed and emotionally stunted,
poet finds solace in unread words.
Sometime tell me it’s wrong to
be. Mad, about everything and
nothing. Sad about something
for sure. If God is real, is this
ataraxis, or bad writing? Am
I a background character on
this ugly stage? The man in
a tree costume. I feed, off
the bright of these stage
lights. I stand reluctant.
I want to live – I want to
die. I see your message
and I don’t reply. The
sun rises; I turn away
into falling leaves,
denouement, exit stage left; to no
audience, no no no.