poems

Dog

Mail order dog

from a faraway land.

That’s me!

 

I like it here.

I like you and

 

I like your body.

You live alone -

sad, I suppose.

But

 

I like it here.

You have not

fed me

 

in days.

 

Okay - is that an 

american thing?

 

You,

you are savory.

 

A little cold though.

 

I love you.

 

I like it here.

"Rain or Shine"

Beers on a tray clink and rattle.

We all miss the usual sound of that godly creature.

This awful waste of a bar is more

reminiscent of a rainy and silent sunday.

 

Oh, “black cloud”.

 

It’s truly amazing they still serve the frying

and sizzling flesh of an animal

here.

 

Your voice, your voice is truly superb, but

your acting is far from. 

 

The pitter-patter of the rain on the window

is much more

enticing.

 

Oh, “black cloud”.

 

Well, Sheila, take a bow 

anyway. 

Bonne Nuit, Cherie

I want all Françoise Hardy records.

I want to forget

about sustenance, 

as I will be unable to take my petty, human ears 

off the sounds of a goddess.

 

I want to drown in the familiar tune

of a hot air balloon wearily floating

through the sky.

 

I want to spontaneously combust

on a ferris wheel that plays the sound of a long-forgotten

siren

again and again.

 

I want the “singing sorceress”

(as they say)

to wake me up with the

airiest enunciation of

“good morning”.

 

I want the “singing sorceress”

to whisper the 

airiest enunciation

of “goodnight”

in my ear

as we bury ourselves in bed. 

 

I want the wide smile of 

a once young

and gorgeous 

yeh yeh girl to beam down

upon me

and only me. 

 

and all this, 

all this

will be done with your hand in mine. 

Faults and All

Blindly running down a sloping road is not exactly my strong suit.

The dirt road is uneven and my shoes are not fit for this. 

I glance at a watch that hasn’t ran in months. 

To part ways with it would be uncomfortable, as its leather straps feel at home around my wrist.

Its hands point towards the wrong numbers.

“I love you faults and all”

A sweeping anxiousness winds its way through every crevice and vesicle of my body. 

The rhythmic crunch of the ground beneath my feet possesses the lifeless and metallic body. 

pat pat pat

like the ticking of a grandfather clock that reminds you of your childhood home

pat pat pat

tick tick tick

pat pat pat

tick tick tick

“Can’t you see that I love you faults and all?”,

sings the song, anyway.

Geographic Isolation

Everything unpleasant wrapped inside a bow-donning bundle of rags. 

A knife stabbed into the back of a loved one and twisted. 

Noticing an insect writhing in your food after you have taken a few bites.

A thousand tears soaking your favorite sweater - which is no longer comfortable

Dying, slowly and painfully. Being resurrected and dying, slowly and painfully, again and again and again and again and again.  

A painful diagnosis spoken through a hushed voice of your favorite doctor. 

Another knife, stabbed in the place of the last, but this time deeper. 

The painful sensation of being completely caught on fire, and then, with damaged nerves, a feeling of absolute nothingness. 

Hate. 

Longing. 

Hope(?). 

Angst that even Harry Potter couldn't manage to create. 

A gray sky, that you used to enjoy, is mocking you.

Humid air, that you used to enjoy, suffocates you. 

18,000 people crowded in one hall are all laughing at you. 

A flavorful beverage of berries has poisoned you.

Bloodstained cobble stone streets. 

Nothing resides in your stomach, but you don't feel it. It's as if you have the flu. 

Discovering a pair of old boots that you used to enjoy. You place one foot inside and invade a spider's home.

Nothing, just nothing.

A night spent crying at the stars, the same stars the other may be looking at.  

The stars are surrounded by emptiness, which eerily mimics the feeling in your chest. 

A sip of coffee that has been cold for quite a while now.  

Being the person in the urban legend who discovers the dead body underneath their hotel mattress. 

Poverty. 

Staring at the sea, just like last summer, but wishing you were thousands of miles beneath the surface. 

You would be of use to the creatures who call the sea their home.  

You are rather nutrient rich.  

An empty spot on your cheek.

An empty spot on your shoulder. 

An empty spot on your waist. 

Muggle photographs don't move. 

You envy the joyous look on your face and their's in that photograph. 

The same 18,000 people in an auditorium watching a performer who might feel similar to you right now.

You are in the back, in a seat. The darkness of the stadium is tinted blue from the stage lights. The air is cool. You don't feel it.  

After this, there may only be one more empty month on the other side of the planet. 

A home belonging to you both is warm and happy and perfect.  

It awaits you. You will be home soon.  

A filled spot on your cheek. 

A filled spot on your shoulder. 

A filled spot on your waist. 

Completeness. Perfection.