Do you know what Taylor? I get it. I need to know if it’s chill That she’s in my head. Because I’ve been to this well before And the water I pulled up Was not nearly clean.
And in pouring it down the other one’s throat I drowned them in could have been.
II.
I wonder if I should stop this — Writing about us. How many autopsies Can you carry out On a three month old Killed by your own neglect Before trying to resuscitate it.
As if, were it alive, You would escape the inferno of your guilt.
III.
Muggy, nearly suffocating September evenings. Two dead birds decomposing on the concrete. “This has come before, it will come again. And then, surely it will end.”
if we spoke we lied the truth was false too i needed to see my reflection in your eyes if we saw delphie s oracle she would tell us what is not and it would become tell me i will become i will i promise
II.
It came upon me like the heart of an oncoming storm Or a vision of a fate like death That if you saw the woman in my mirror You would not know who she was. If you saw the woman that I am In the privacy of my own mind You would understand her no more than you understood The slim facets of her you glimpsed that summer.
III.
There is no heaven here, nor salvation. In the cold tomb of the Capulets. There was none neither in your arms Only dead birds, limp feathers.
The flesh beneath the scab is only ever half healed. You never let it scar. You don’t want to find another heart to fidget with, And find yourself at the end of the summer with twice as many scared arms.
An old woman will pick up a ruined doll from a playground at dusk, She will cradle the young thing’s face. Wipe away the bootprint stains And give it back some grace.
The walls encased, close, digging into one another With the painful persistence of something man- made to stand but which wishes it could crumble.
They are naked at places, scraps where the skin-coloured wall- paper detaches from where nails have dug into it. There is more paper underneath.
Even the floor is papered, dirtied, rolls of it bouncing out of position Like flowers rooted in the soil of a scabbing forest.
A table, in one corner. A skinning knife, blade sitting Innocent on an edge.
There must be a door somewhere.
I pick up the knife. Yes, surely there must be one. I walk to the first wall, raise the pained blade, Pressing the flat of my thumb against its side As an executioner would guide a death-sentenced to the noose And together they slide under the piece of loose dangling skin- coloured paper And pull upwards.
It tears, scarlet sap pearls from underneath and slides as a solid tear at my feet. I ignore it. I was taught about the inconsistency of pain and the irrelevance of echoes.
There is no door under that part. I raise my hand again.
Soon my feet stick to the petals on the floor and in walking around Wall to wall Tearing Skinning I pull them off and along. The glue covers my fingers, stuck the knife to my hand But the door is still hidden, Though it must be there. It must be.
I cannot think of anything except the word ‘escape’.
And then the room is covered in pieces of paper and drenched, Seeping Weeping In wallpaper- blood, Glue that sticks to my eyes as I scour every corner In search of a frame.
I lay down the skinning-knife.
I have torn every possible layer, And the last pieces hung high, And I did not bother to wonder If they would hold on much longer, Or when they would fall.
There was no door. Skinning the walls of my room had only made them bleed.
There is a house beside the sea, Overlooking the shore. The waves come crashing on the sand, Replacing each grain, One by one.
Each day, the waves climb the hill a little higher. Soon enough, they will lick the walls of the house, And finally, its wooden boards will soak up and rot, Until the water comes pouring inside.
The foundations of the house will collapse on themselves, And the roof will come crashing down on our heads. Yet, we will not move. Yet, we look the other way.
Because the other way, away from the waves, The sun dances over the hills, Promising treasures beyond our wildest dreams.
So when the waves come, We will not see them. We will only sink with our house, Helpless and confused.
The Voice of Asphalt
The sky closes as dark-grey clouds eat the blue of Heaven. Thunder roars, and, as you look up, a raindrop lands in your eye. You blink; it’s raining.
Falling in torrents, the water soaks you, and the asphalt too. The warm fumes of the wet streets caress your nostrils, the perfume of pollution intoxicating you.
A man runs to shelter in his house. A stray dog walks under a wooden plank. The homeless just let the rain run on their skins. The asphalt doesn’t mind either.
Every droplet, the tears of a cold, drunk universe, wash the dreams away to leave you naked in the echoes of hope that inexplicably linger in the cracks in the streets. You blink; it’s still raining.
The wind roars between the tall buildings, whispering stories to the forgotten. The city speaks. You must listen.
I AM THE CITY. MY HEART IS A FURNACE. MY MOUTH A GUTTER. YOU ARE INSIDE ME. YOU RUN LIKE RATS INSIDE MY VEINS, MY VEINS OF STREET LIGHTS AND POLLUTION. I FEED YOU, YOU LEECH OFF OF ME. I EAT YOU. I SPIT YOU. YET, I STILL LOVE YOU. BECAUSE I LIVE INSIDE YOU TOO. I LIVE IN EVERY PARCEL OF YOUR BODY. YOU BREATHE ME, YOU EAT ME, YOU SPIT ME. YET YOU STILL LOVE ME. WHEN YOU BECOME RUINS, I BECOME RUIN. I NURTURE YOU UNTIL DEATH PLUCKS YOU. AND WHEN, JUST AS THE RAIN IS FALLING UPON YOU, THE FIRES OF THE ATOM WILL FALL UPON ME, THEN, WE WILL BE TOGETHER.
Those hidden between the cracks in the pavement can hear the soul of the city. But now, it is quiet. Just the rain.
The cars hum and screech. The gunshots sing. The sky does not care. The city takes the wounds without a word. Only those hidden can decipher its silence.
You hear the thunder. You feel the cold wind caress you. A few drops of water hang on your chin. You blink; the rain has stopped.
Boredom as Religion
the light on my face is like a spooky story but there’s nobody to listen or look
it’s the only light in the room it hurts my eyes it isn’t the sun yet it is
endless threads ariadne would get lost i get lost too but I feel in control
images of double-speak snakes they have the loudest voice they have the whole world they want to kill they want to fuck
I want to kill
I want to fuck
i feel miserable.
a coward can’t kill he just orders it we obey
i obey
the light on my face it lights up an invisible world a parasitic world i close my eyes time to sleep
death of the voice of asphalt
life was just a mushroom cloud away. divine wind dusts the City.
there is nothing left. no memories. no life.
ashes dance in the air, rest upon the old houses.
the ones that remain. the ones that break down, still.
no need for a graveyard when the whole world is an urn.
the final ascension of the human spirit :: the face of god
Rust settles in. I should be in pain. I should feel old.
I am old. Older than death. Older than god.
Eternal life is ours. We should feel like gods. We should feel.
A brain of wires, a mind of data, a heart of metal.
We wear the face of god. We war the way of nature. We have become all.
We have become nothing. A stream of data, in a server slowly losing power.
Our achievements have scarred the earth. And now, living as ghosts, we have finally found our master.
The face of god is a cum-stained plastic mask. The face of god is a chrome-steel plate. The face of god is as lively as a graveyard.
the earth weeps
The world has grown quiet Miles away the earth weeps Looking at the corpses of skyscrapers
The Voice of Asphalt is silent Her monument is an urban tombstone Brother sky is blue again The sun is smiling But there is no life to light again
So the earth weeps The ruins like fungi On her body the mark Of an abuser A lover A tenant A friend A nobody A child long gone.
The Road to Healing :: An Epilogue
When the godhead stops dreaming, you will look at the world and ask yourself: why can’t I be happy?
The road ahead is tumultuous. A broken path on a broken land, infected by disease, slowly dying, yet, still here.
Do you wonder what is the place for you? Where you belong? You are here. Already here. This is somewhere to be. Under the rain, the silence and the fumes, in the mists of your mind. A face, in a crowd. You’re still here. You’re still alive.
You will heal. You will love. You will live.
This world, this life, was never for us, but it doesn’t mean it can’t be. One day, I will be back at your side.
While the long, slow apocalypse is upon us, we can still greet it with a smile, laugh at the face of trauma, embrace one another while we all dance into Armageddon.
As Adichie says: “your hands through each other’s hair, his soft and yellow like the swinging tassels of growing corn.”
… and there are the hidden ladybirds on your arm, the bumblebee, lost in wild flowers, the quiet joy in your laugh.
The softness of the yarn on your shoulders, and those ones over me, moving like tidal waves, before I see the impact of water crashing in your eyes.
There is light, and there is Spring, I hear the horses at the station for the first time, it makes me grin, a fragment of you in my life, that cannot be withdrawn.
I smile, I kiss you goodbye, as it is stolen, too few, but there, I smile, still full of that shock darkening your eyes, at that very moment the surge broke on the rocks, and I’m wishing you good night.
…but my hand in your hair says Stay, let us navigate the rising tide again.
Our first kiss happened in the dark, In a twin-size bed in early October. Love hits at first sight – lightning strikes a spark. That Wednesday night, had we been sober, You wouldn’t be longing for white tulip and barley now, And I wouldn’t be lying in bed naked, Practicing my vows.
…
Rain drops from the night and tears from your cheeks. We drag our hearts through Vienna streets, Through your childhood home. The floor creaks. Two things rise and morning creeps under the sheets. And even when the moon turned green, You kissed my angered wound; you kissed it clean.
I know the secrets clasped between your blooms, Twinkling eyes and tipsy, so we kiss in bathrooms. Closed eyes and consuming, so we kiss again. We make out and follow wandering hands… And I make out every hushed and hurried love note. We make out and I can feel my heart in my throat.
Our last kiss happened under runway lights, In an airport terminal in early October.
Students in Kirsten Stirling’s MA seminar “Poetry and Public Life in Scotland” were discussing the Scottish national poet Kathleen Jamie’s outreach projects of crowd-sourced poetry. Jamie asked the people of Scotland to submit one line on a particular theme (the first theme was the environment) and then she “curated” the lines into poems. In the last 20 minutes of the seminar we experimented with crowd-sourced poetry on a smaller scale. Everyone in the class wrote one line (or in some cases two…). The theme was what we could see from the window in the classroom. Then the class split into two groups to “curate” the same lines, and the result was the two poems (two versions of one poem?) below.
3174
1. Ten glasses full of hopeful colours; Squared, bright, one eye can settle on the night. Morbid branches and dancing green Like octopuses and jellyfish waltzing in a grey, grey ocean.
The parking lot, buried in trees, covered in leaves Shade the cars with their new summer gowns. A trickle of shattered harmonies Gentle movements, arise The silent song of these sweet green fans The windows filter out the sound.
Smells like rain, the prettiest green, fades to grey I long for coffee, let me join that tall tree Where are the birds, I said. Gone on a trip, they said. Two windows for them to see.
2. Ten glasses full of hopeful colours; Squared, bright, one eye can settle on the night A trickle of shattered harmonies Gentle movements, arise Two windows for them to see The silent song of these sweet green fans.
Morbid branches and dancing green Like octopuses and jellyfish waltzing in a grey, grey ocean.
The parking lot, buried in trees, covered in leaves Shade the cars with their new summer gowns. Where are the birds, I said. Gone on a trip, they said. The windows filter out the sound Smells like rain, the prettiest green, fades to grey I long for coffee, let me join that tall tree
What about a match burns? What about a match catches?
Keepsakes in backpack pockets left there to Crack spines and crumble skulls, levigated reds cling to surrounding cottons. Open hands damaged by powdered glass; Omitted is their visible scarring. Chemicals never to Oxidize; never to fulfil. Render me purposeless.
At night When you listen to the moon breathe When your life is worth throwing into the fire And your veins are worth being sliced open to see the light of stars Honour them
Honour those who walk dead, still fighting to live Those with gold in their eyes Those who died and were absorbed by the soil Those who live inside your mind Those you killed to become who you are
Honour those whose tears never reached the ground Honour those who fell Into crying arms of a never opened heart
For everything that is and all that will be Honour them
Take it all in the tears, the absurdity the loyals, the sad ones the lost enemies the friends the brothers the Love the eternal
Feel it all in every bone and breath. It takes more than life to kill you
The bee’s thorn stings me Like the Rose’s on the Nightingale’s bosom And my song, once melodious, Has spiraled into a dreadful scream As my shrinking throat Feels as though it were scraped By a razor blade.
The fireworks gracefully fall in the shape Of golden weeping willow trees. Funny, I thought For I have a willow weeping in my heart Like the young girl in the myth my grandmother once told me long ago.
In twelve weeks, please take a piece of me in your pocket And carry me around wherever you go. I want to be a part of every new experience and sensation. I want to see all the new places you will see I want to meet all the new people you will meet I want to smell all the new smells you will encounter. Take a piece of me with you before you go, And let the rest remaining behind perish for a year A whole year, before you come back and revive it. Let that piece breathe the air you will breathe And let it hear every sound and silence you will stumble upon. Oh please, I beg of you, take a piece of me with you. Take it and keep it close to your heart. To keep you company if you ever get lonely. Take a piece of me to make you feel safe whenever you are anxious. Take a piece of me, to melt in your chest and always keep you warm. Take a piece of me to remind you of how much I love you, and therefore, How much of a wonderful human being you are. Take a piece of me, to feel every laughter of yours explode inside my chest back home. Take a piece of me to feel every tear run down your cheek, For me to know when to contact you to check if you’re okay. Take a piece of me, and hold it tight in your hand As if you were afraid to let it go. Take a piece of me, and when you come back in a year, Give it back to me And enrich me with all your new and mesmerizing memories. Take a piece of me And fill it up with all the love and care you can every time you think of me And give it back to me Give it back To restore Happiness and peace Within me.
[Content Warning: Substance use, brutality, vulgarity, and sexual violence]
i snorted a skyscraper today. i let its inhabitants flow in my civilised-white-ash nostrils and i felt the rush of productivity, the euphoria of paid slavery, the lights of steel cogs and fire.
i remembered the first minutes of this millennium, when the savages attacked other savages, (which is which?) and all their lands of god responded by violence.
astral bodies became our new gods, pushing their product to gather new herds all around the world. i remember when they wanted to crucify christ on live tv, thinking people would pay to see it. they would. of course they fucking would.
we raped our planet and blamed her because she just couldn’t shut her legs. i mean, mother nature is a whore. hunger? what for, hunger doesn’t exist.
i remembered when we handed our power to hatred, or cowardice, self-righteousness on all ends, venomous rats fighting over details, blindly fighting the other because they’re other, because they’re stupid, because they’re savages, because they’re black, white, believers, apostates, etc.
the announcers feeding on fear on one end, and on the other, the tin-foiled hats started to talk. governments are nothing. they mean nothing, in our western world, they have no power without corporations. government and corporation: the king and queen of our game of chess.
i remembered how we liked to push the weak around, just for the fuck of it. is idiocy malignancy? can they live without one another? who knows? maybe the little birds singing and screaming through the cage of light can explain it to us. when does stupidity become consciousness “i’ve never been more awake” said the dreamer to imaginary nightmares. truth is relative, baby. “i’m an ally, he said. just let me fuck you.”
i remembered the neons, on the district, where red meat finds the mouths of carnivorous rats. they wear suits and talk about family and cry for forgiveness when they’re not careful enough. their victims are called Aileen, they’re the fairer sex so you think they can’t kill you. but they don’t eat and they don’t sleep and they let trauma consume them.
americans love rorschach. the black and the white are all that they see, and all blackness is evil, and all whiteness is pure. they hate when their propaganda use rainbows to feast on the oppressed, because they’d rather be brainwashed all alone rather than sharing their lobotomy. kill the gays, they cried to god. kill the muslims, kill the pigs, kill them all.
we build the west on the back of the poor, and otherness is feared as much as familiarity. look at our shiny towers! look at our watches, our art, our language! so perfect. let us debate all these things in the most secluded place in the world, with complicated words and caviar and useless books nobody gives a fuck about, or let the artists who don’t know shit about what they’re talking about (like me) tell you you’re evil and you deserve to die.
like library rats, they yell about ethics and literature, fascinated by a useless field that grows something mostly tasteless, except when the rain falls on the right leaf, wherever this leaf came from. they think themselves as the new thinkers of our world when their destiny is either to rise amongst the elite and get infected by their greed, or die forgotten amongst the useless poor.
you all deserve to die in these gutters. because misanthropy is cool, look at me, i’m not like other boys. i breathe genocide and smell of supremacy, but i don’t even realise it. nietzsche has never been more popular amongst self-made men, even though we all know that, like the rest of us, they can’t understand jack shit of what that nietzsche has written.
who knows who we are. i mean, identity… right? we become another person every minute. so, [insert reference to the ship of Theseus]
And yet, while the noise blinds us, we’re still here. In the ruins of skyscrapers, We remain.
But in its ruins, we find our souls. When all breaks, we become one again.
Yet with all souls comes the impending doom, the element of fear that keeps us awake every single night.
Fear of losing everything, when we know we have already lost it. Fear of smiling, when there’s nothing to smile about anymore.
This fear guides us back to the light, back to the hope and the happiness we once had, it nurses us back to health, keeps us safe from despair, from the perspective of our nothingness.
Because, even in a broken world, there is beauty. Death is just the Hierophant of Life. And even if Life won’t have us, it will endure, it will prevail, without us.
yearning for the roots, growing out of the heads of children, grains of milk-sand drag the leaves across the night sky. reaching for the beyond, abandoning the oneness of all gods, searching through star-filled nightmares, i lead the lost to find the crescent moon they dream of.
