He shouts
And screams
He throws
Fists and things
His face burns red with rage…
And they fly towards you
The words
The hands
The random things
But not at you…
Never aimed at you
Rage
To break the wall
To break it, not you
To shatter the glass
So he can tear it down
So he can hold you
And build you back up, and him too
And hold you, again
Mutter
The desire
to be honest
fueled by...
The need to
to say
shout
no
whisper
fueled by conflicting
emotions
thoughts
experience
logic...
(Nothing
but not empty)
and having nothing
in the end
to mutter
but desire
yes, I have the desire
to mutter
Time passes
So slowly
When you are
Going
To get
What you want
Hot having
And knowing
That is the pain
The knowing
Not having
Pretending
It is OK
The Unalterable Whey of Words
'The end... I am not sure, though. I can't... Any other way...'
Was that it? Was that how it came out? I can't remember. It was all so fast. So quiet, despite the yelling.
I can't remember the details, just the general. But it is in the details. It has to be. Writing is so much more effective. But permanent.
Left... When I walked away. What was muttered? Why wasn’t there a shout? Why didn't I write it out. Then I could even have read it. But to just speak? The breath, like the soul, like words spoken- not written- just disappears. Dissipates. Dissolves.
I need a glass of water. I haven't eaten. I haven't thought- about anything else. Food is too much. I am digesting life. I am eating myself. And that is numbness and indigestion.
Another coffee. And another cigarette. Rewind the... Reinvent it. Until it makes some sense.
I lost my nerve. I didn’t do what I swore I always would. Something new, something different. Forge… But in what? Out of what? I lost my nerve in comfort.
Routine and then tradition comes back in. Normal… If I could be normal. Go on. Go back. Not replay, not rewind.
Cold. The coffee is cold and the ashes are too.
‘I am not… I can’t… Any other way. Though, the end.’
‘The end…’ Was that it? Were those the words? The last ones. Not the last. But the beginning of the last. Is that where it ended? I can’t recall. I can rewind. I can’t replay it right. Too clouded. The anger. Tears. Tears. Ripped. Wiped.
‘I can’t…’ Or wont? Or… Why not? Who said that? Both, but who first. And what followed. Why repeated, echoed?
There was ‘no belief’ in there too. Or no faith? I can’t… Yes, I can’t—the exact words. And so, I can’t… The meaning.
Nothing has been picked up. Nothing has been changed. And how long has it been? I don’t know. My phone is dead. No power. No power to move on. Just another coffee to keep awake. Smokes to keep thinking. But not thinking, nothing new. Without certainty.
Before, I would have. I would have done something different. But so much has changed. So much changed. What I would have done. What that would have done. It meant. So much changed. But when? How long has it been?
Why didn’t I follow? There were shouts. Yes, shouts. But no screams. No fight. But a struggle. Things would have been different. Things are different.
A new path. Cut clean. Burned clear. Down trodden. I can’t follow anymore. My thoughts. I can’t stop thinking. No not thinking. Re-thinking. The future, from a past. Re-thinking. Past. Passed. Presence. It was there. I was…
A glass. A glass of water. I cannot digest. It is too much. I remember. In a glass of water, after the wine. And the stain. Fragments of it all. I cannot eat. Just a glass of water.
Grappling, clawing. To go forward. Clutching to hold on. The breath that dissolves. Dissolved and left nothing. Not even the words. Etched on flesh, not even scarred.
The bed. It is all I can do. No, not do it. It is where I can be. I don’t need to claw or grapple here. Just lay. And that is all. And I can, without holding… up or on. Down, holding it down. Letting it down. Letting down and not needing my nerve. No forging.
Want. What do I want? Of what? No, of want. The bed, of want. That is how it goes. And I am not strong enough. It is not strong enough. No, that is not the start. All of this, and therefore: not strong enough.
Barren paths. Lifeless or not yet lived? Aborted or born dead? To end or receive ended?
Nine days? It never floated. Nine? I don’t know. No power… Nothing to count. Nothing to call. No numbers are left. Too long. Just that: too long. Just too long enough.
‘… Though, I am. I can’t anyway. Sure, the end.’
Rewinding and replaying. Recreating, but from fragments. That way it will never end. Not long enough. Repeat, replay. Not counting. Counting on nothing. Not knowing how long, but knowing it is enough. If it goes over and over again. Yes, enough.
It will stop, if it hasn’t. Walk away. Dissolve. It will… A glass of water. A whole world out there. And all… a glass of water.
Tonight, and I know it is. What other night could it be? And it is night. So dark.
I am not sure. I don’t know. Put into place. Rewound and put into place. And stopped. Created and thought and with new nerve. And lost. Dissolved. Through(out) it all. Forged. But like an original. I cannot digest.
‘I can’t, end. Sure. Though I am not any other way…’
It is not a still birth;
It is not an abortion;
It is not to be barren.
It is to live fully
But not to live well or long.
It is to live and to die.
To live fast, with eyes closed;
To think slow with heart open,
Wide open without reason.
To live like , a poet,
But not like an wise old bard.
To live like a drunk drifter.
And to die like a tramp:
To die young and unconscious.
To die young having been conscious.
To die young like Dylan Thomas.
From the depths
of my wounded soul...
The darkness
that consumes me whole...
The tragic
the guilt that I hold...
The choice
has left me so cold...
All my life
never so alone...
Leave it all
to roll, roll a stone...
And that is
all it ever is...
All the work
it is what it is...
The return
eternal return...
The same, same
it's this constant burn...
Driven, drive
Always better, even too late, than
Never
The want that waited
Buried, bones brought
Back to flesh
(reincarnated)
In the solitude
Like catacombs
Masks and memories
(a past fleshing back)
Flesh to bones
Eyes in empty sockets
Gaze back into yours
In your mind’s barrenness
(fruitful alone)
In the solitude
Waiting…
Alone but not abandoned
Left but not behind
(but how to go on?)
Struggling on
A part, not alone
The eyes that gaze
Into yours
Alive, but your heart
(in infinite isolation
At least here)
Detached, disconnected
(but whole)
I need nothing more than to write
But life is [(all) (else)]
I need nothing more than to write
And live
A life that fuels
A life that is fueled
Nothing is more than a touch
Of skin—soft and cared for
Of pen—on paper
The caress of cursive
Of her hair
On paper
With my hand
Feeling is…
First and last
The feeling of the word in your mouth
Of the thought in your mind
Of your smile in my eyes
Or a tear
(on the page)
Worn… Torn… Wetted with tears and torn. (Wetted, torn and torn.)
I need to write…
To leave one
to another
Who waits
but not waiting
secure
Waiting: the curse of
not being
not with
and not without
not alone
you wait, solitary
not being you
how you want to be
not yet
Not waiting… but knowing
but not knowing
Being…
the question mark
Here, I am in prison
trapped, held up, caged
thoughts controlled
body watched and corralled
like livestock
waiting to be slaughtered
Here, my mind is trained
to think only of this...
To think only for them
and when I escape, my body free
my mind is still there's
It is consumed
There, when my body roams free
Among people, on the street
In the rain, in the sun
my mind is...
Not with me
It is confined
There, in the smoky bars
My eyes make lines
For someone else
But only lines
Only eyes
Trying to connect
Everywhere, my heart is held
Not imprisoned
In your hands
And I wish
It was held
In your chest
Love teeters on the brink,
always, of death.
Searching, struggling for just
one last breath.
One last one on her cheek.
Not a kiss, just
a breath that holds more soul
passion and trust…
But love is not threatened
from the outside.
By nature it is tortured:
side by its side.
Hold her like a lover,
and to love her
and not without passion
but not to have her…
A world away
or only Half
but far enough to,
to wear and fray.
Where is the center?
Can you find middle ground?
Always: one lost, one found.
How places change…
It’s uncanny.
Time’s the horizon:
such a wide range.
It’s so uncanny,
how time changes everything
and selects nothing…
A world between
time, place between.
You are the center.
You are between.
Hold to yourself now.
You are a world, beautiful.
You are beautiful.
The words on a page
Are there to tell you
That I still care and
Do all I can for you.
To put voice to them,
To say how I feel…
far beyond my skill,
with my dead tongue of steel.
The thoughts my heart feels
My mind cannot think
Though I look for words
Like a drunk does a drink.
My heart, it bleeds so,
(and often it cries)
Whenever I am
Unseen by your brown eyes.
The words on this page,
Never able too…
No, no words could show
What my heart feels for you.
I Need Dreams
I need you
only in my dreams.
I see you
and just then it seems...
(Like nothing is)
can
always
moonlight, like the sun
I smell it,
fresh air, the spring day.
I hear you
words you never say...
(The nothingness)
trust
doubt
the things, never done
I miss it
the touch of that hand.
I feel it
the burn of a brand...
(sweet bitter kiss)
held
left
the burdens we shun
It doesn't smell
like you
but I know
it was there
you were
scent slightly less fleeting
than you
and a relief
both the scent
and its departure
the pain
and its passing
I hold you
like a scent
yes, I hold you
not at all
but you lead me
and I am held
