Author: poetryfest

Is gone.

She was probably on her way out, even, the many times you chose to ignore the raging fire behind her thinly-veiled mist. Who could’ve thought?

Who could’ve thought that of what you thought was likely a storm that would pass with the night, clear up by the crack of the dawn, would leave no trace of her by morning?

‘Let bygones be bygones,’ some say. But hard though it is to not reminisce about your times together; hard – to just give in to it like that. You sift through the memories and latch on to the bad ones; admittedly, there weren’t many of the other kind.

‘Aargh!’ you scream in frustration, ‘God!’

She was not so very unlike this immature lover who after one ill-fated fight, barges into the attic, then struts her suitcase half-open through the hallway and across a crowded room to hastily throw in all her things – postcards, sea-shells, clothes neatly folded and never used. Then crouches on the sofa, sniffling all night while you slept, convinced it would all be fine the next morn.

She chose to leave you in the hands of a reckless Summer, just – “and hear me out”, you plead – because this one time, you mumbled something somewhere about warmth and the Sun, and were caught grumbling about her cold and the many layers. She thought it was only befitting to leave you in the confines of someone you remembered only fondly. Here you are again, in the grip of this familiar comfort of – who as it happens to be right now – is smiling and shining and thawing your stone heart. But soon – soon enough – this comfort will begin to scorch the soles of your feet as you scamper around to find the whereabouts of the former.

The barren, arid crust of your heart cannot quench its soul with the rising ocean at bay. Perhaps, she was insecure. Perchance, she thought she possessed not the many charms of the Spring or the faint colours of Autumn, or suspected you were crushing on the Rains. She no longer thinks of you, did not even leave a note, let alone return your calls, but you keep trying. When you finally get a hold of her, she whimpers through the static on her end. You reason. You argue. You try to negotiate.

“But you don’t even like me!?” she sobs quietly.

“It’s – it’s not that,” you sigh, “just – just not the way you are, alright?”

The line drops dead before you can relent. Perhaps, she’s finally learnt of your devious record as a lover – that you are no better, just bitter kettle calling the pot black. That you’re just seething to stay afloat in a sea of her tears.

I wanna live an analog life
Stand in snake lines
While the cashier taps math,
Air Supply sounding from Jensen loudspeakers,
Make it seem like we have a long time
Before the lights go out.

Waking up from my slumber,
The beauty. The queen.
The world has changed immensely.
I step out to be seen.

There was a breakup.
Time for a shakeup.
Let a beat
defibrillate my heart.

Jiggle put my cakes up.
Apply all my make-up.
The siren calls
for my brand-new start.

Let the light from the disco
Rejuvenate my skin and fill the room with my glitter.
Watch it shine. Spiral to sin.

There’s going to be silver.
There’s going to be gold.
A pretty hot pink
Will illuminate the soul.

Take my throne
Time to crown it.
Take my frown
upside down it.
Take the rule of this story
of being alone.

Because the sun will rise
Over everlasting night.
Under cotton candy skies,
This bluebird will take its flight.

Dance break now

Get the fuck
out my way
I’m dancing with myself.

Do not kill my vibe
Feeling fierce as hell.

Get the fuck
out my way
I’m dancing with myself.

Do not kill my vibe
Tonight I’m doing well.

I’m stronger, stronger
Feeling fierce as hell.

Stronger, stronger,
Yes I’m doing well.

Movie Pitch: ‘Stronger’ is a poignant journey of self-discovery and resilience following a devastating breakup. Set against the vibrant backdrop of New York City’s nightlife, our protagonist, a gay man navigating heartache and personal reinvention, finds solace in the transformative power of dance, drag culture, and community. As he rebuilds his identity and embraces his strength, ‘Stronger’ explores universal themes of love, loss, and the pursuit of authenticity. This empowering narrative, filled with vivid imagery and emotional depth, unfolds into a cinematic exploration of healing and the courage to thrive against adversity.

I swallowed static,
Sour static that fueled the drunk bacanal,
I drank in gulps examining a portrait of Emily Dickinson.
On Emily Dickison’s grave it reads, “Called back.”
Where did she go in death?
To a life where she loved herself more than another?
To a time, where she understood her own soul?
But, my larger question was why her picture sat in this bar?

In a clogged city, we found solace,
Walked and talked riper than before,
We sat praising past loves,
I asked of your latest heartbreak,
You spelled her name, nervous you might not know it,
She must gleam, parts of her core flickering
Maybe that is why she cut it open,
Trying to find what made her sparkle,
I love her,
Though I am unknown to her, I’d comfort her,
As someone did for me in tears for you,
I often think of her bright future,
For if she ever needed some light,
All she must do is grab some that I left at her door.

The bar smelled of old loves, tiresome transactions,
Rotting ones that whispered the same stories,
Budding ones that stretched out before our eyes,
Our company must mistake us for love,
But the magician saw through the fraud,
Magic used to exist in our timelines,
Now all smudged and erased,
Graphite remnants remaining within us.
I hem and haw between your eyes,
Afraid to be really looking at you,
Fearing your admittance,
You cover my ears,
The way a mother would to their impressionable child,

But if silence takes me to the stars, then let them take me home.

The latin root of “couple,” is “copula,” meaning bond,
We once coupled in the sun,
Couples often couple when they are not a couple.
Do our bodies know when we break a bond?
Or do our limps wait for the touch to return?

When I finished my static,
You went to retrieve more,
Emily sat with me,
Upon your return you kissed me;
And I understood that I too was called back to my grave…

You’re speaking, but not truly talking
to me. Side-lit by fibrous edge
sketching of your electric presence,
you look freshly branded
as if you are just a trick
I use to fool myself.

Ring pull in self-destructive mode
mimics the cry of a missile.
Correct me if I’m wrong—
you retract your fingers from the can,
blaming me for not being a pacifist.

You stay humble like a silent film comedian
believing action speaks louder.
Silence rests tonight upon our ankles,
pulsating its reunion to us.

Re-recognizing the city,
foreign footprints turn dawn into night.
Neon beckoning, pier leasing attire,
wounded lovers needing no sign
in the speeding roulette.

I kinda wonder: do we matter,
As electrons in this shared conductor?

What is that which answers back,
When every lens one crafts is cracked?
When every tide is rolling back,
What is that which answers back?
When all my questions seem to stack amongst these gleaming golden racks of knowledge that
through time’s been sapped,
From me through all performing acts,
His thoughts are gorged with graves, grad school,
A hospital bed.
What is that which answers back?

Gaze

I stare-
hoping,
praying,
you feel the fire
that burns beneath my irises
for you.

Silent,
I must be.
For
it is forbidden.

So I resort to gazes that simmer.
I play pretend,
faking getting caught.
And then,
in moments of brevity.
I hold on
to that rope of tension.
And pull.
Pain erupts in my palms,
and I strip my hands of their skin,
but I rather be burned and raw than a liar.
I pour scarlet into my gaze and
I beg you to see me.
Standing there,
pouring blood and honest,
better than a liar by omission or by choice.

Love is a game we play.
It ought to come with a board, in an oblong box,
LOVE: A GAME FOR ALL AGES emblazoned across the cover
Amid bright red hearts
And pudgy cherubs with wings.
Inside we’d find a pair of dice and playing pieces in bold colors.
I could be green or red and you could be blue, or purple.
And the rules would be clearly printed inside the cover.
We would sit across from one another,
The board between us, our tokens resting securely on the flat surface
Smooth and shiny and vibrant, designed to delight the senses.
We would take turns, casting the dice
Playing with a mixture of apprehension and joy
As each of us completes a move.
Weighing, calculating, the rules close by for a quick consultation,
We would play the game.
Would it be an intellectually stimulating game like CLUE,
With three secret cards in the black envelope in the middle of the board?
Would we slowly and strategically reveal the cards we hold
Until one of us solves the mystery?
Or would it hold the ruthless potential of MONOPOLY,
Each of us trying to outdo the another,
Acquiring more, demanding payment, until one of us is bankrupt and broken?
Maybe it would be more like TRIVIAL PURSUIT,
Each of us choosing categories that allow us to shine,
Avoiding those that revealed our weaknesses and limitations.
Maybe it’s more like CHESS, the game of kings,
Where one player must not only out think the other
But also demonstrate patience, willing to sacrifice something now
In order to win three moves later, anticipating each move,
As antagonists do, avoiding costly unforeseen mistakes.
Maybe LOVE is more like SORRY!
We each choose a card and advance,
Hoping to bring all the pieces safely home.
We may be sent back four spaces or returned to start before the game ends,
But sometimes we land on Slide, effortlessly moving closer to home.
In all, the result is the same: someone wins and someone loses.
And despite whatever the rules, the possibility exists
That one of us will refuse to play,
Will upset the board, scattering tiles and playing pieces,
Wiping out the game’s progress, declaring we are done,
Stalking away without explanation.

about Edgar Degas’ L’Absinthe (1876)

“This picture fetched a hundred-eighty pounds
last year; surprised it sold at all, really.
People hissed it in our sales room when it was
handed up for bidding. There was a to-do
a few months later as well, when it went on view
here at the gallery: A great many patrons
of the arts found it revolting, as you may
imagine from this copy I had made of it.

The setting’s an artists’ dive, clearly;
by the eyes, the woman’s drunk out of
her senses, probably has been for years.
Call that art? a woman drunk in public?
She’s said to be an ‘actress,’ but she’d only
fall off the stage in her condition.

Her male companion draws on his pipe,
ignores her, looks the other direction—
in search of trade, perhaps? His elbow
leaves her only a corner of the bare
marble for her glass; the water jug
she, or the waiter has set on the table next,
as if she’s with the fellow, but not really.

The absinthe is clouded, so she’s already
poured water in it, and drunk off half an inch.
The stuff’s four parts alcohol, you know,
stronger than whisky by half. The herbs in it
said to be poisonous, too. They are what
give it that clear green cast, I believe,
before mixing with water. Flavor of anise,
they say; you may as well take gripe water,
to my mind. Her limbs, you notice, are
splayed out, whether from footsoreness,
intoxication, or lewdness—all three perhaps.

Both figures are sottish, degraded. We know
such people exist—we have our own gin-
sodden tarts this side the Channel,
God knows—but to paint them? And who’d
display them at home for wife and daughter to see?
Count on the filthy French for vulgarity,
that’s my view. I much prefer his dancers,
the ballet pictures, all in all: A bit of décolletage
never goes amiss, so long as it’s respectable.
They fetch more, as well. Bloody Frogs!

Give me some raw truth,
For I am tired of dark lies.
Need a real love.