Author: poetryfest

on July 2022

the hair yellowed, overbleached
the numbing feeling in your teeth,
the biting bruised, the blood beading
the stomach with that sinking feeling

ruminating, retrospectively,
Plastic Beach by Gorillaz on CD
you said i told you so,
this is your innate inability to say no

(i think i could’ve predicted it,
i think my gut had pictured it)

the sub-let studio, semi-illegally so,
the branches bursting through the window
the spray paint fumes, the fibre-glass residue
the mattress on the floor, and you

you and Jesus Christ on a lighter,
and the faux-intimacy of 2CB,
her hair yellowed, over-bleached
her slender limbs like plasticine,
and the things you said, but didn’t mean

Maybe pain is a solitary moment, or rather,
the ink for our perpetual story.

The coming of modernity has wrought
such intellectual cruelty,

where we claim they sent us, only to find fictions
and contradictions,

in lands mentally and physically penetrated by
stunning policies, replacing our identities.

And we chose to believe everything hawked
about building nations;

constructs of self-blinded philosophers,
creating lives more pitiless

and transitory, for the pleasure
of fame and fortune.

Thus, why, too, shall we have eyes?
Is what we saw still worth seeing?

When clearly the inkwell is brimming
with our own complicit blood.

When the light is there
But it’s not as bright
Nobody cares
Or sees your fight

When the light goes out
It can’t come back
This is when people shout
And begin to attack

But where were they
When you screamed in pain
As your light dwindled away
You tried in vain

Despite your tears and cries
No one is there until the light dies

While the world is as far there
As it is here, let me find that
Third place

Like the place of open space
Of h o r i z o n length arms
Squeezing the sea
Or within the canopy of
Gently s a i g trees
w y n

Leave me be dangling freely
My feet over the cliffside
Of a mountainous cloud
Where I count bubble mounds
Laid atop the sea me
beneath

Trap me under the blanket
Where your love is free
Even triiipppled. That third place
Where our hearts are div/ded
Only by skin and bone

The loneliness of night
Something only the bottle or a body can soothe
Each stroking you softly to sleep.
To go without either is a terrible sensation as the dark of night can confront you with all those
deserted dreams you have placed in the furthest reaches of your mind.
The worst are the early hours, just before sunrise,
When the only souls you meet are also lost,
But at least, heading somewhere.
A warm home with loved ones maybe?
While you continue to wander,
Aimless
Meaningless
Returning to solitude, those dreaded dreams,
But at least,
A bottle.

It is night and I think of everything

the house by the water

the love that passed

of blind ears and deaf eyes

the loneliness, the celebration

and the silence of the night

everything is and everything was

a poet far away forgotten

because it’s better that way

in my mind I walk my old neighborhood

along the river of the city where I was born

of the friends who are there

and those you’ll never meet again

the place that became a space

or the space a place

Fold and press until th edges stay.
Don’t burn your fingers
and keep your hair out of the way.

Measured meters and ripped seams,
Clip and curse and sweep and steam,
make use of the faded reams.

Count an inch and mark with a pen.
Box the corners and curse the bobbin.
Check the back and sew it again.

4 in the morning

The farmers come to pop us out of our amniotic sacs,
tossing us into the daily grinder;
every body counts
to keep the Machine alive.

They instruct us, but never teach.
We memorize facts, but forget how joy once felt.

We pledge allegiance —
some of us will break that vow
the day we wake up
with dust in our mouths
and truth between our teeth.

They test us but never challenge.
We know answers, but never wisdom.

We boast achievements
without achieving,
never nearing
the person we were born to become.

Trauma greets me in the morning
Growing legs and stretching to lay beside Grief and I
My spearmint tea is poured with with tears of solitude steeped into my being

My phone dings, a message from the socials

this “relative” seeking to be absolved
“Hey I saw this *grief story* made me think of you (from a person I haven’t heard from since 2 days after Dad died)”

Next a message from 3:06 am…
“I know I haven’t been there for you with your grief after your dad. I hope you’re doing better”

The closer to the holidays, the closer I am to the realm of Dante’s Inferno.

So many levels to choose from…

So this is like the ex that called me out of my name once, 4 days after my Dad died. We then broke up.

This is like the man that I thought was a friend when my sister was experiencing that aneurysm (2 months after Dad died) but showed me his unsolicited penis and opinion instead.

This is like the person I thought was a friend told me, I don’t want to be around you when you’re like this. Can we try to see where you’re at in a few months?

This is like when that other “bestie” never initiated contact. Never uttered a word. Nor the other bestie because “I was a downer”.

This is like when I needed support and love and was met with the attention of my lonesome loneliness.

This is the part of the story where I can’t make this shit up,

They’ll say it’ll get better. I’m waiting now like I’m waiting for the 14 trying to get to work. Hummingbirds knew to find the best method of recovery —fly in any direction but love yourself enough to leave