Verse

I like to make you watch me cry

I like to make you watch me cry.

I like to go somewhere unseeing, unhearing

of ‘darlings’, ‘tell me what’s wrongs’

and other sweet nothings

—a place so far that you can’t save me from drowning.

I like to go there and cry,

while you watch helpless

as salt mountains crumble

and roll down my cheeks.

 

I like to make you watch me cry

quietly in a sort of everyday horror

while we sit at the table in silence

as if what we’re eating is just dinner.

 

I like to make you watch me cry

because it takes out my pain and all its pieces,

lays them out in a live exhibition

that you have no choice but to comment on after.

 

I like to make you watch me cry,

because after that game we just played

where you take the things you love and tear them,

darling, I’m feeling cruelfaced.

                                   

Image—photography by Rosanna Jones http://www.rosannajones.co.uk

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Verse

We’re sad because

I think we’re sad because we’ve built ourselves prisons.

Tall, beautiful cathedrals with a vision

into what our lives should be

forever and ever, dazzling in the horizon.

 

They’re easy, they’re the same

until never becomes a day

leaning on our necks with the deadweight of knowing

that the mountains we raised from the depths are falling.

 

We’re sad because it’s evident

that there’s nothing in the space-time continuum

that will just, please, stay put—

pristinely, never-endingly put.

 

But, we try.

 

By building perfectly carved out shells

around our beating selves,

in miniature monumets of places, things and faces

that have long lived and left their moment.

 

They once-upon-a-time made us remember

what it’s like to float in the breeze above the great big ocean.

But now, they’ve faded dead.

It’s time to walk out these mansion gates.

                                               

Image- Stairwell in Building 138 by Gary Heller

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Verse

Beast rally

We just want to rally,

to shout,

to hate,

to throw rocks.

Whether it’s for land, for thirst, for money, 

a man born on a shepard night’s silence

a prophet or a sage 

enlightened underneath a tree.
 

We just want to rally

to belong,

to break,

to feel higher

than them.

For books, for myths, for stories told

by long forgotten women and men.

 
We just want to rally,

to make ours

and not others’

to be known,

to be seen shining for fifteen minutes,

to be loved,

to be saved,

to be told that we are great.

To believe so deep

in our right to be,

to say it out loud, 

to live,

to kill,

to be beasts.

            

  

Photo by Aris Messinis

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Verse

How to leave a good man

How do you leave a good man who loves you? 

How do you leave when he doesn’t hurt 

but, you hurt nevertheless? 

—when he holds you 

but, you keep falling right through his chest? 

—when his words cradle 

but, don’t cause earthquakes? 

—when his promise is a fortress 

but, all you want is home with oceans and skies rushing in through doors and windows wide open? 

—when his love, only loves 

but, does not see. 

—when you know he will stay after breakfast 

but, he will never dwell your secret wells. 

—when he looks at you 

pleading, 

but, you remain a jagged mountain 

because embracing only makes things worse. 

And hope, is only as foolish as fear. 

 

So you stay hard, 

you stay ugly; 

and you let your life get blown along the currents of Venus and Mars 

while the rest of them throw rocks at your feet, hoping you will get back in line, 

or run. 

 

But, you stay still. 

 

You leave him. 

 

Because, if not, 

he’ll be the death of you 

and worse, 

you, of him.

                                                                                                                                            

Image—Lilith by Josh Brandao

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Because we’re all satellites

Because we’re satellites

set free in motion by the want of life,

 

we drift,

we encounter,

we love,

we fall under.

We collide,

we cry.

We drift apart,

and fly far out

until the leagues in between 

dissolve the ugly,

and aurify the pain.

 

Gold.

Wordless.

Honest.

 

When the satellites cross again—

as if by chance,

as if new,

as if it was meant to…

 

As if.

 

Until then.

                                              

 

Image—Orbit by Kate Banazi

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Verse

The night of September twenty third

And I felt you break 

showering my secrets 

with a hundred million stars 

cast out new

throbbing to be

someone,

something,

a speck in the great, big sea.

                   

 

Image – Avery McCarthy

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Excuses

The way I’m sitting,

the robe,

the cold,

the bowl being off-centre on the table.
 

The bladder- it’s always half full, half empty,

half full, I forget.

The cat’s whiskers being glorious,

the water boiling,

the long dust of drafting all this on the keys again.
 

The tingles on my back,

the unwatered plant- it looks like a wretched desert,

the dry patch on the back of my throat,

the water being too hot.
 

Peeing.

The preoccupation with how often I urinate,

the post-urination chill up the spine.
 

The palm trees against the pale pink sky being too good to not photograph-

being too cliche to photograph, on the other hand.

How the page absorbs ink making blotches marking my hesitations.

Him, sleeping.
 

The loneliness flickering in the light bulbs of the four a.m. train, 

and the racket that it makes.

The situation of the world in general. A distant, worn out panic.

The horror of five a.m. and them waking up, to this, to make this.
 

This whole thing of being.
 

Anything, 

something, 

to look away from this thing-

this thing I don’t interrogate for honest words, 

this thing I don’t want to see.

The fear of me,

me,

me.  

                                                                                                                   

Image source unknown

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