beautiful lives (ii)

Hand me down that bottle, you,
you rugged hugger,
bigger spoon.

We’ve carved you out of chalk,
turned you out into the dawn,
you couldn’t take a blow,
you couldn’t leave our thoughts

You’ve sculpted more than we could ever do.

beautiful lives

god, we’ve turned those eyes to ancient things
god, I hope you’re glad
tripping
on our own tongues
on what you thought you’d say
and what I didn’t hear
goodbye
again
for now

Every reason I have ceased to be.

For one reason, another, and a third, I have not written a single thing for half a month. I haven’t the faintest solid reason why, but I have my thoughts. I can bullet point them and maybe the world will have a little more reason in it than when this evening started.

• The past has ceased to be a foreign place to me, I cannot fathom what it is, but perhaps this is why I write poetry: for want of fathoming. In all respects, I am sure L.P. Hartley and his legacy will be significantly unaffected. I suppose the past doesn’t change except to the extent that I determine it to. Which, of course, means that it definitely does. And in order for there to be a past, I need to inhabit a present. I seems this is what I am failing most to do.
• Trees are beautiful. And the fact that I had to have it pointed out to me today confirms I have not been using my eyes, by extension my entirety, properly. Must try harder.
• I ran, and ran, and ran. Not to, not from, not with. That I seek justification for running, that I seek justification for anything, suggests I am not existing enough. If I were, I doubt I’d have time in myself to notice. See bullet ii.
• I am listening to Classic FM. The last time I did this was when I had to. If I have to have to do something before I do it, maybe I need to learn to want.
• I need to learn to need. See bullet iv.
• I can’t speak for the world in whole but I’m feeling like it surrounds me darker than it ever has. And on times colder. I’m uncertain if this is the planet’s intention, but I am equally uncertain that I will ever know. See bullet ii.
• If I need someone to point out beautiful lives, is that a bad thing? Is it worse to need someone to help, have them, and not know or to know and not have them? This point is not yet a point. Must try harder. See bullet iii.
• All of the above.
• See bullet viii.
• See bullet ix.

NaPoWriMo 2013 #18:

Big-Top

This clown cuts his out
rasps like a saw through a heart-string
half-strung out
smashing bottles with a grimace and over-sized shoe
and his head
aches
like he cannot sit down
for days
before
and after-the-effect
drinking eyeliner to stopper the cough in his throat

He cannot see his own face
his mirror had enough,
packed her bags
and wrapped herself in dust

There’s a fly on the windowsill
and he sings
but, his voice is so thin.

NaPoWriMo 2013 #17:

Thursday red

These clouds are turning to rain,
the pavements are wet
and the flowers are drinking

The sky’s fireball is sinking
the world is stained, red and black
there is a rattling in my ear,
left by telephone calls
and crows on rooftops,
singing for love.

I don’t want to see anything die,
but if I have to,
first, I will count the ways it is beautiful.

NaPoWriMo 2013 #16:

Something of you

You’re smile is the world.
I don’t think you know but
your smile is the world at bay
can you see it
beyond your teeth?
You’re smile is the world
you know.
Do not take this feeling for granted;

it is the most powerful.

NaPoWriMo 2013 #15:

Sonnetic

I couldn’t jog for jewels
hanging in front of my eyes
– a thousand faces, drinking rain,
grinned like fools
and I was love, again.

I began surprised,
forgetting I was in a dream;
as golden trout flew past in schools
and all the while changing size,
I languished in the stream.

I carried me, and heard the strains
of healing bones, and absent pain.