It’s a quarter to twelve and I’m staring at this yellow light
Not sure if I’m looking for food or something to think about
I’m not hungry, but I’m certainly not full
A midnight snack fool with yellow light hue
The greens that occupy my bottom two shelves
Beach Boys asking about my favourite vegetable
Its aubergine if you must know, brain at quarter to twelve
But greens aren’t what I’m after, I’m in need of something else
Old dusts settle in your shadow, left behind
they set and stretch into the darkness of your past.
The wind against your face coaxes the dust off your hair
and all the grime floats away, settling on your trailing footsteps.
Love is like a Ferris Wheel.
You go around and around
And at the same time up
And then down.
It can get monotonous
So better to have interesting company.
Antonius Block is back, vexed,
wishing only for more war,
more murder. It makes more sense.
One cannot gut the wind
much as one might want to.
It has been seventy-three years
& she must swallow night, now, like her caplets,
when daylight is a dearth inside her peeling stomach.
The days are nameless & dirtied, those
that secrete from her skin come nightfall —
that she feels dust her creases mauve
& defuse through turbid water —
her throat takes them back through steam
pasting moon crescents to the tiles.
Certain stories are supposed to have certain endings. The die is cast. The storyline is set in stone. To not follow the plotline could almost be viewed as a sin, and to go off script oftentimes invites disaster. Sometimes you just have to go with the flow, and sometimes the flow can cause you to drown.
The day after Luke died, there was a puppy roaming in the driveway, maybe eight weeks old, but probably closer to six and just on the edge of being appropriately weaned. She was cute, as all puppies are, but there was a sadness about her. She had obviously been dumped upon us by someone who just didn’t want to be bothered anymore. Judging by how skinny she was, they most likely didn’t spend any money on dog food. I could envision her masters ripping apart the litter, separating the young and innocent from their mother as soon as possible, and putting their concerns behind them as they dumped their problems on to someone else.
do you remember when we kissed the Irish coast
with shaking lips, pointed to the waves
crashing against the rocks and imagined
how good we’d look trying to swim
alongside them?
your eyes were the same color
as the sea. I couldn’t tell
which was deeper.
The heart never stops loving,
it simply contracts
in splintered pain
when a sadness
taints the air
running though its chambers.
I fall into these folds of labour
contorted
posed
puppeteering
for love,
grief
or minimum wage