Friday, October 05, 2007

If I was to write this pain

If I was to write this pain
Paper would tear and shadows under the moons of your eyes would feign
Which is to fade and yet attempt to make
A difference in the way I see you.

Which is why I do not write this pain. I do not,
For I cannot take your multiple choices,
Your Oprah, your wiping my sex so dry that skin yells desert hunger howls
with your sanctimonious sanitation.
Your hugs, your chicken soup, your Johnson & Johnson god
Who squeals and burps up words of love that
Cry from the fear of being burnt by the mouths of
Crow and I.

I do not want your help, your concern
your things that will soon be better.

I do not write. I yell.

I scream and howl and rage and shudder and weep at the inexplicable certainty of it all.

For fail we all must.

Leaves must curl, whiten, die.
As must this love, as must I.


N.B- from the archives. Dusted off, and glued back together.

12:30 am

An incredible ache
like the time you dared yourself to clutch
ice-cubes in your fingers
till nothing was left but water.

Here lies one who waits
for the cool drip-trip to write her name
with frozen-old-man-bent fingers.

Here lies one who chooses to tell the truth-

(that is behind
noisy psychotropic legging around a back n' white world,
that leaves territorial markings pungent tears where it
is ok to pause)

-The fact that we will all
smoke cheat cry weep
gulp rage suck kill
fuck break run sleep,
pull strings spin yarn
then darn the souls of ourselves
when fifty,
stirring cotton white robes in government homes, because:

Sometimes the pain comes not from what has happened,
but is due to the scientificonstantaxiomofreality that

Ice changes to water, water to ice. And that this
does not end....