white rock exploded into perfect form
primary colours washing
the need to stay
the quiet is a heart beat
muted for a mother's
the is of a
a camera empties itself
as of faces
is your face
mask painted downi am not waiting
(i was never waiting for a coffin
procession, as they awaited
coffers opening, gleaming)
i disregard my blood;
imagine grimalkins warming
their crooked fingers
punctuating their gripes:
my mother suffered.
in turn, as i
when the day comes
there will be no thanks;
he will be happy
to have less
she will be happy
to have her breath given back
say we carry our memories with us
is just a large
handle on a hole
expressing your love
with a store-bought
mask, with plastic
painted tears streaking
down does not
endear me to you
(your love is a fictional entity birthed into an effigy
you burn cigarette holes into)
no, i will
i feel my capacity
battering my face
like an unlikely prediction
lets goRelentless as an ocean eroding
the creases of my cliff face
tidal waves of you
crash along my boundary stones
the push and pull of blue:
emotions white wash
i don't think the ground will keep
beneath me and i'll plunge
the push and pull of you
(are you waiting)
(are you waiting)
(are you waiting for an sos on the sand?)
arent said - WhenThere will not be any words when the time comes. Emotions will circle back on themselves like the snake eating its own tail: an endless cycle. Existing, not existing, consuming itself into oblivion, only to expel, excrete, create itself again. Constantly extinguishing, constantly setting alight.
I let the ink melt away the words I write on my naked flesh. Lick my finger again, rub out my emotions. I wrote them; childishly hoping they would find you. Like the words I say quietly in empty rooms, in empty expanses on other continents, hoping the wind will carry my thoughts to you.
I wanted to tell you, but being the coward I am, I don't know when I will. And if it will matter, then.
Words lose their meaning when they aren't said. When the receiver, the reader, the listener is never in attendance. Having never been invited, they have never had a chance to RSVP the event, to ever be allowed to show up.
(Meaningless: When not followed by action.)
In time, you'll completely forget about me. M
daily - like waterI come back to you unwillingly it seems. Walk back down these streets I've forgotten to walk along. They say it is never easy going back. I don't agree so much; I think it's so easy that this is what makes it so hard.
Where do you go on those days where all you need to do is walk? Hoping to find yourself in the brickwork of old stable buildings, do you ever look up just to see if the sky still exists, up there?
Maybe it only happens to those who look too intently at their own shoes, mistaking this for politeness I wasted too many years staring at worn leather. Maybe it wasn't very polite of me to say goodbye as I did, but politenesses are always so easily forgotten, I think I just wanted to stand out a little this time.
I assured you I would call every day, this became every week in practice it meant once a month if you were lucky and I remembered. I like that, luck and my memory being related. Maybe I should remember to be lucky next time.
This tea tastes the way you
home-boundi catch little insects with my fingers
it makes me feel so powerful
and having become god in your eyes, also -
take your sorrys with me,
shuffle through turnstiles,
take the line closest to the door.
i speak erratic, tongue sore
explaining away this
he said it was "very zen"
to undo, unravel,
of course i cringed.
having had your breath taken
you have the gall
to ask for
the city. Burnt outA violet tag catches my attention as the metal moves towards the city. Burnt out buildings sit comfortably silent in the fenced in wastes of grass; I wonder if anyone lives in there, knowing where all the holes are, sleeping between empty bottles and filth.
People shuffle around inside themselves, volleying thoughts in tiny spaces; a child tells his mother he would rather stand. A forever exists when I close my eyes, pinch the space between my eyebrows; breathe in deep into a sigh. It's black there, confused and consoling, but then one speck appears, and another, conjuring coloured hallucinations to dance along my lids, telling me to open up again.
Floodgates releasing, bodies sprawling, clustering in front of each booted step. I head for the stairs and take three each stride, hoping to exit quickly, escape the undertow. Advertising excrement greets me like a dementia patient, hoary, useless make-up, insisting I'm a naughty girl: I should visit more often. Bypassi
imagine my surpriseI c
Forget my interjectionsI walked around the cobbled streets wondering about you. Thinking I had important decisions I had to be making, come January. Comforted all around by another month of frolicking on another continent, I wished the world smaller so I could take you by the hand and show you all the broken stonework on the buildings I have fallen in love with.
So I bought my bread and cried in the neon-light because the feeling of being isolated and free at the same time corrupted my soul so brilliantly that I had to let my eyes record the moment silver. I don't know if you would lift your head and look at the same things that make me stop the flow of pedestrians, but maybe we could swap notes and get a crowd of really angry people behind us.
lady macbeth remembers her motheri was her kindling, my teeth
set the spark. all i do remember
is the trembling.
they say that once born, once raised to suckle
from my mother's flaccid breast,
i chewed so violently at the bit of life
that i brought blood.
they say that i would not be pulled away at first,
squalling like a small animal mangled,
pink petal lips demanding gore.
my mother's touch was gentle henceforth,
her fingers ghosted with flour
twirling themselves in my hair.
she held me as a dove. an egg.
she supposed love could cure me,
serve a balm to the black devil warts
on my soul. here, a spot of sunshine.
here, the grains of sugar held out to me
on her fingertip. she called me angel
and found the shrunken bodies of the flowers
uprooted. she called me precious
and found the mice, fetal and unblinking,
underneath my pillow.
her love might have worked,
had i not seen, each time she turned,
each time her eyes first found me in a room,
the glassy fear that she then tucked away inside her
ma merei think my mother thinks i'm blind,
that i see only my own faults
and forget the fractures in her composure,
the fissures in her failing heart
that keep her awake at night.
i fear she thinks i do not see the strength in her scars.
i think my mother thinks i'm deaf,
that i cannot hear her silent sadness;
it has always echoed
in the halls of this family home.
maybe she thinks i do not hear the wisdom in her words.
i think my mother thinks i'm numb,
that i do not feel
the eternal love in every touch;
i know with absolute certainty
that no one
will ever love me
like my mother does.
every hug is a blessing that brings me home.
but maybe, my mother has it twisted.
i'd do anything for her to see the beauty in being faulted,
to know she hears me when i say 'i love you',
and be assured she feels my heart when i hug her back.
Stunning, the message
Outrageous to the knowing
Superb, the technique
Hilarious to the informed
Master of his Art
And in this dark harvest of season
My life has completely lost reason,
For which or against to decide.
All lost in a savage and endless, bleak tide
In sadness and in kindness
In light and in darkness.
In a boat made of hope
I shall sail to tomorrow,
In a winding hurricane
Made of treachery and sorrow.
There's a spear, endless, and colossal spear...
Piercing, slashing though my head.
Starting somewhere in heaven,
Ending somewhere in hell.
Fighting, burning, crying, crashing.
Are the armies within.
In my head they are all thrashing.
On the heaven's and hell's whim.
To be light or to be darkness.
A perpetual array.
It's not merely my choice,
But the choice of the way.
It's an option of the voice,
It's a thin line of gray.
Is it a choice forced by fate,
Is it a pre-set time and date?
Or a choice to which I myself sway?
But here's our story anyway .
"Nothing that I do will matter.
As all things will merely shatter!"
All my hopes thus darkness scatter,
As it shoves me a decree.
As it si
All Hallows EveThey say that on this night the witches ride,
that spirits walk and churchyards spew their dead.
It isn’t true.
It’s said the stench of hell infects the earth
and healths of heated blood are downed.
But Hamlet lied.
The dead know nothing, the living less.
There are only poets with blood-nibbed pens;
souls hung between high heaven and deep hell.
SapiosexualI don’t know what I’ll do
when the first fistful
of dirt hits the bottom.
Maybe I’ll follow you to the grave.
Or maybe I’ll pray
for a zombie apocalypse,
so we can dine on each
other’s brains one more time.
waters worry the pristine
sand, washing blank paper
into a bevy of tidepools.
The hush of the surge whispers
its song into conch shells;
the tinge of brine mingles
with coconut milk and dried
seaweed clumping the beach.
Hermit crabs dot the strand
like constellations, waiting
for soothsayers to read meaning
into their trails before the waves
wash them away like comets.
I think of youAs suns set afar and mountains flame
And eagles, turning, turn to fire
Ash cold, alone I lie
And think of you.
Deep in the stillness,
I wander but a ghost thru mists of shadow & sanguine ..
And the trees bathe in the mystique of Night’s serenade
Covet thee my love immortal,
for we are hunters of a dream untamed;
poetry bleeding into the abyss ...
Candle whispers drink a sky of wine, unto where I sojourn —
in the caress of your lips, and ache of darkest Moon
— Arthur Crow © 2013