And I felt you break
showering my secrets
with a hundred million stars
cast out new
throbbing to be
a speck in the great, big sea.
The way I’m sitting,
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.
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.
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.
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,
Things laid out carefully for the most important night of the year;
a private place hanging from the edge of an island,
a few heads that can talk and laugh,
a menu with options.
to fill up the holes between conversation
and light up the crystals lost in eyes.
it was the same.
In the morning between rocks, seashells, open bottles and sand
there were people broken
by the quiet horror of
This human thing,
it heals, it hurts:
it is the thing that man’s god hates the most.
This human thing
is a thing of shame and miles and miles of sunshine.
This human thing,
is a thing that sang,
and at pictures of beautiful flats;
played Pokemon Go,
shopped for Christmas,
while cities of ants burnt
with their secret mines of gold.
and bewilderingly apart
till humans things were dug open to find
that burns children, women and men
shooting air bombs.
The prophets are late,