sillage

 

while i have run out of faith
i somehow believe that
you were hiding
somewhere
in my childhood

because you taste like
friday mornings and
honey
i ate with a spoon

you feel like
my school stockings
and my velvet black skirt
you feel like every turtleneck
i hated
and now i miss

you remind me of the darkness
i welcomed
when the power went off
had to sit beside a lamp
and listen to stories
about ghosts
they sounded
so much like you

you smell like
all the trees i climbed
and each one i fell
from

we must have switched bodies
must have had the same hurt
anything to explain
why we are a coin

you look familiar
you look like
every single memory
i want to keep

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Who are we?

 

we’re swearers
comparers
suicidal
independence declarers

we are told
that we’re not real
by people unaware of
their own history
but still
we go to their country
and we drink from their brewery
we’ve wrapped their hands around our necks
we’ve marched them to victory
yet still
our flutes weep and
we sing of misery
our tongues click
and say their names
bitterly

oh we know
it’s all a fad
patriotism, partisanship, national pride
we know, we know
politics is a game
controlled by “them”
it’s all dirty lies
but when we have to
and when we want to
we still
take sides

we’re surrounded
by enemies
we speak their languages
and wear their jackets
we hate those enemies
yet we bury their hatchets
we’ve been told we had suffered
we’re aware of the story
and we’ve let our suffering
define us
we’re divided
and we’re delighted to
erase our identity
to believe in gods
born in deserts
we believe in a diviner
that has never seen our mountains
or tasted our fire
we are stitched together
forcefully
we’re oranges and apples
ready to fall apart
as soon as we’re out of our shackles

we praise dead artists
and complain about not having enough
yet we grab the living by the scruff
and silence them
we hate constitutes
and prostitutes
but that doesn’t stop us from using them
we criticize society and fascist leaders
but do nothing to change them
we glorify past revolutions
yet we muffle the sounds of any
emerging ones
we mock and call
our cousins brainwashed
we throw words around
words like: backwards
hateful
misogynistic
we nod at each other
and agree
all the while
forgetting to see
that so are we, so are we.

reflections

 

would you look at me
I am the distraught juggler
the chameleon
I am the keeper with my head
between the jaws of the lion

I’m the surgeon with
a butcher knife clutched to my neck
the cursed child
the crazy woman
I am the abandoned brother

I’m the prophet god lied to
the crucifix turned into a dagger
the impenitent thief
I am the last supper

I’m the wrong timing
the rain cancelling a festival
I am a ladder
I’m the lottery ticket lying in the gutter

I’m the pianist with Parkinson’s
the limping knight
the dancer bleeding on stage
I am the painter running out of color

I’m a missed shot
the alluring toxic couple
a collection of dismantled almosts
I am a series of unfortunate events

I’m the unanswered question
the underwhelming first kiss
the useless invention
I am a musical joke

go ahead and read
what the pretentious nihilist in
a pit of darkness
writes as she attempts
to tell you what she cannot tell herself

3 Gymnopédies

 

Do you ever forget that classical music exists? Then when you remember and start listening, you’re reminded of
rain,
and cars,
and a breath fogging up the glass
of some windows.

When I put it on Gymnopédie No. 1, I was reminded of tall, dark green trees
and grey skies;
of damp tree stumps,
and cold air stinging my eyes.
Laughter,
and tears right after I fall,
scraping my palms.
Smoke,
through an open window.
Mornings,
sunshine, drying up mud.
Coffee,
too sweet,
winter.

I miss winter.
I miss its mornings,
and its nights.
I miss my umbrella.

When Gymnopédie No. 2 began, I started thinking about the future.
I’ll have a cat
and not many things.
I’ll learn to dance,
better.
I’ll quit smoking,
for good.
I’ll stick with one hair color.
I’ll see the stars again,
somehow.
I’ll learn french,
and how to cook.
I’ll read a book,
every week.
I’ll watch a movie on Sundays,
I’ll stay up,
but I’ll go to work on time the next day.
I’ll have ten articles of clothing,
two shoes,
and seven socks.
I’ll learn to sing,
and play the piano.
I’ll write religiously,
before I sleep.
I’ll drink my coffee without milk.
No.
I won’t drink coffee.
I’ll drink tea,
without sugar.
I’ll have bottles of wine,
hidden everywhere.
I will let strangers into my house.
I will let strangers into my heart.
I’ll go camping,
in autumn.
I’ll climb a mountain,
and every summer I’ll go somewhere nice,
somewhere with water,
or breeze,
or booze.

Gymnopédie No. 3 is making me realize things I would usually avoid thinking about.
For instance,
I have never been in love.
The thought is comforting.

Thank you, Erik Satie.

anhedonia

 

I sit on a cloud of red
plummeting in the air
pulled by gravity
I need to carry my head

I downed one
three
five
elixirs
but I can still count
something must be wrong
why am I not numb

sounds bounce off the walls
of my eyes
I can still remember
everything I heard
the falls, the calls, the gongs

I wait for the fury
to come
I yearn for the wrath
but I am drowned
in a hail
of indifference
obscurely

the hollowness has grown so deep
every word that enters
has an echo
and no two words ever meet

ghosts are watching the lunatic
they know their time has come
the dead arise
onto my pages
the memories spill
from my ink

it’s you and you and you
all of this mistrust
all this disillusion
it’s because
you knew
but still
you threw
the truth
in a chute

I have seen enough to know
that every single one of you
wants a different version
of the same show

in the morning I
will pour out my insides
but not my thoughts
not my sentiments
until then I’ll
watch my legs liquify
and wish that
there would come a time
when we didn’t say goodbye

Promises, promises.

 

I have discovered the secret of life,
the purpose of existence.
I have cracked the big question,
I know why we’re here.

I will tell you, but first,

you have to tell me your deepest secret,
show me your favorite movie,
put on your favorite song.

I promise I’ll tell you,

but you have to take off your clothes first,
you must dance with me,
and you ought to have my babies.

I know it’s hard to believe at this point,
but I swear by everything I hold sacred,
I will tell you,

but first,

you have to go to war with me,
and you have to lose someone you love.
You must wake up at four in the morning,
with dry eyes and tear stained pillows.

One more request and I will tell you.

You have to give your belongings away,
maybe give an organ too,
then, lastly and most importantly,
you must perish and be no more.

static electricity

trees are waiting
their leaves refuse to fall
the sun burns nervously
pointlessly trying to stall
its inescapable death
rivers tiptoe
oceans sit still
the planet holds its breath

everything is on pause
the present
the future
the rights
the wrongs
the do’s
the don’ts

everyone holds
onto their seat tightly
anticipating the
inevitable crash
explosion
collateral damage
their own futile backlash

love awaits at the window
pain, at the door
and we’re stuck in limbo
we’re cowards
who want to explore
safely

there is no safety
there is no comfort in truth
there’s no arson without flames
there is no victory
without wounds
there is no dancing
with no sweat
there are no leaps
without dread
there are no earthquakes
without chaos
there are no riots
with rules

the clock is ticking
malicious, cunning, and killing
peaks are on the horizon
a mountain buries a mountain
don’t let the climax
frighten you
don’t let the jump
scare you off

find lightening
thunder
storms
in places
you aren’t supposed to
let yourself drown in something
much more corrupt than you
risk everything
gamble, make your bid
or you’ll spend the rest of your life
wishing that you did