electronic chairs

We don’t set an empty seat

at the table

where you should be.

Instead we laugh:

at what?

There has always been an emptiness here,

like a devoured stocking; an unfulfilled

Christmas Wish.

Pulling crackers is like

pulling teeth or pushing daisies

out of the grave of your memory.

 

You are at your home,

which is not mine,

was never mine,

honouring your most ancient ritual.

Stubby fingers clasp a brown bottle,

labelled with the same shade as the scarlet letters

you left on my mothers face.

 

Your armchair retracts electronically.

I think you told me that once?

An electric machine for a prehistoric man.

You sit in it all day

(At least I imagine:

I never knew you)

and do not think of the trail of

shattered green glass,

empty words,

that hang on the trail of years

 

of your paternity.

 

I used to ask myself: did

you know it was Christmas?

 

Do you hear the tones of your

loyal quintet this year?

They lost their harmonies in the

snow, years ago.

You did not come.

Their vocal chords froze.

They thawed into a collection of red,

blue, and black.

Exalting voices made bleak and dull.

 

I look for a second for your space at the table.

I remember, the next, your electronic chair.

 

 

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Winter Song

frost has crusted the machinations of my mind

clawed its way into the amgydala

drowned the hippocampus solid.

set ablaze the occipital lobe.

 

i see in blues and greys now and feel

the crack of branch underfoot and the cold grit

in the knee of the boy that trips over

the not-so-permafrost on his drive way.

 

the rivers of a body run blue and white

and the caverns of skin freeze-thaw

until i am cracked open and

the cryogenics of winter preserve the carcass

 

cigarettes cannot power a steam combustion engine

and this fag is not a Snowpiercer

frost has crusted the machinations of my mind

if they defrost only liquid remains

 

 

the sunflower

The sunflower thrives when the riverbed flows,

And it does not lack nor want, but simply thrives.

The cicada sings when the rains pour down,

And it does not think of the dry season that comes.

The coral reef swells when the tide washes high,

And does not fear that it may ever be low.

This is how I loved you, at first, unaware that you were

my sea, my water, my rain and my sun.

The rush of life and the smile on my lips,

The red in my cheeks and the spring in my step.

And now that it is dry and the river does not rush,

I know even greater the space you possess,

And the life that you give to a daffodil that would otherwise wilt.

untitled

today i found
that cancer is
not reserved
for the old or dying
but instead makes
the young old
and the loved die.

today i heard
in the shaking voice
of a grandmother
that an aunt, a sister
a daughter and
a lover were now
so much less.

a statistic in a commercial
and a family history
of x, y, or z
a victim to a villain
without a face and
only a name that you
dare not say.

today i knew that
five months of
“hopeful treatment” was
not hope but desperation
and that maybe soon
Michelle would fade from
is to was.

a fond memory overshadowed by a dark, sudden decline.

untitled

The ticking of a clock and the Screaming of a
child, too young to know the evil of the world
it has been thrust into. Too young, unafraid,
to know the injustice, malpractice, corruptness of
the Earth it calls home. It does not yet know, or care,
of the rich, the poor, the well, the poor, the good, the bad,
or what it means to say the word cancer, or death.

30 second

It is strange to me now, to
feel such elation, a swell in my
chest, that my melancholy is so
quickly gone. I tell myself I must be
dreaming, but is in sleep that I am
now most sullen, where my eyes
cannot perceive your face and my ears
cannot rejoice in your melodious voice.

i cannot begin

i cannot begin to explain the moment that

comes before and after the chill that racks

my bones and skin and wraps my stomach

in knots around itself as i begin to wish my

life away and crave for the sharp sting of

metal on skin and wish nothing more than

to use pain to replace the loathing of self

that swells like a fungus in my body

untitled

You are the sound that penetrates the darkness,

And the warm silence that precedes and follows,

You are the ringing of a telephone that falls upon

The ears of an elderly man, whose only company is

His isolation. You are the light that blinds and also

Guides the weary traveller, the headstrong hero.

You are the streaks of moonlight that my curtains

Cannot quite catch, flickering beautifully on the ceiling,

Disrupting my sleep. You are the cold gust of wind

On the most humid of days, the ice in my drink.

You are the body in my bed, and the emptiness that

It leaves behind. You are the smile on my lips and

The spring in my step.

30 second poetry

i was not empty, but now i am full

before it was not dark, but now it is bright,

yesterday the world was not silent, but now i hear,

and i wonder, fearfully, if when you are gone,

you will take this melodious brightness and

leave me in an emptiness that i have never known.

a drunken ramble

stop for a second, think, did you fuck up,

then, in the infinitely small moment of that second,

between us, between the lines, in the grey-matter

that hung for days, weeks and months, when we

spoke of lunch, dinner, but never what we needed

to speak the most, those things that burnt holes

in our pockets, our minds. did you fuck up,

then, when you needed to say what you

dare not think, or was it i, in my silence,

who broke the fragile peace that we had

come to know as love?