for months that winter I went with her to get peaches in the night.
to find out if I had vanished we needed to see our eyes devour
fruit and when the supermarket gleamed in ecstasy
I gleamed back – listening for another year, another door –
give up or go mad she would say – affectionately.
a beloved saint. I can’t taste peaches now –
am I growing or repeating. giving up
or going mad.
sharp pins lodged in the skin
rising shivers of energy
rising skin rising energy rising rising I am
irritated. I know this doesn’t matter
I know this is stupid insignificant blah blah
I am irritated and I don’t take stupid feelings lightly –
I lean. I give them weight and depth and little lives
and little jobs – these irritations
are a part of me. will stay with me
long past the settling skin.
I can’t let this go.
I’m feeling something.
shadows can climb but they never settle.
a hand shudders and all day I wonder
if it’s mine. I’m not who you think I am.
I don’t exist all the time.
ever unknowable –
the answer is
moss. the heart is
the brain. the
touch is death
and if you think I could exist
in this, fill up my ears
and blind me because I fear
nothing more than the promise
of again. and again. and again and
questions are heavy
so I let them all rest
in the home of my tongue –
they have a place here
and so do I
What is my USP? I will tell you. I will write it. For you. My USP USP USP, my USP is my USP. You are my USP. No. I am my USP. No. Anxiety, depression, OCD. No. Do not capitalise on illnesses. Do not contribute to other illnesses. Countless lawsuits. Moral reasoning. Female? No, more exist. I think. Jewish? I never write about it though… Bisexual? Maybe, but am I? Lets reframe the question: why am I writing?
the house is empty
and the lights are off.
it’s one of those days.
I was going to write some poetic bullshit about liking the radio on low to soothe me on those cold lonely winter nights. but the truth is I can’t stand the radio – shocking I know – but I’ve never had the concentration for it. or for anything. sometimes I think the only reason I write poetry is because it’s short and subjective and that means if you think it’s shit I can think it’s the most magical fucking thing in the world. and how this relates to the radio – as everything does really – is because I’m tired of these watered down depressions of a soft winter sadness. people can be sad sure I’m not depriving them of that pleasure. but depression is this broken hole you feel in your gut. on a good day. on the rest then it’s just a broken hole that nothing can begin to pierce and you begin to wonder if you’re human if this is real if this is life – death – if it matters when it builds and unbuilds and tightens every bone every thought you can’t think so instead you just go fuck it. maybe I should just listen to the radio.
I am worried I have numbed my brain into oblivion
and that I cannot handle challenge or acceptance or
even this conversation –
I am a shadow hole
I am covered in ash
the only noise I make vanishes into poetry –
I could be harsher
I could be warmer
I could be
and even though I openly wonder for more –
for defying concentration and moons that leap
into lit volcanoes – secretly
I am happy
with my own breath of being.
when my eyes blur I write and write
nearer breath and further harsher –
clarity comes with age
charity comes after naked fire.
have you ever noticed that
our skins are holes vanished into sight,
battered into impulse shadows?
I cannot leave midnight
at midnight. screaming mad
my breath will escape in solid blurs,
straight into the ranting light.