Cephalalgia

tangled thoughts thrash through,
through this thunderous thing
screeching senseless, scattered scenes
scratching, scheming, screwing, scaring
inextricably, incongruously, inherently.
insidious, insipid, infectious
thoughts throwing themselves
haphazardly higher, hatching, hunching
crashing crassly
towards thinning, treacherous terrain
releasing ready-made restlessness,
odourless, oblivious of
everything.

Suture

We peel off layers of our soul
like lovers removing clothes:
with increasing disregard for each piece.

We overthrow the night,
lead a vendetta against moonshine;
what have small hours ever done for us.

We eye each other’s vanishing smiles
like rivers forcing their way through rocks:
with reluctance for a world that must be.

We live in imperfect recollections,
forge imprints of a love without end;
what have happy endings ever done for us.

Ever Will Be

I took part of us with me that night
and lost the rest.
Snow crystals caught by the glimmer in your eyes
as you looked up and didn’t know whether to smile
yank me back in time to a street corner long gone.
There are a dozen email drafts but each one
breaks down at the beginning,
much like us.

Stead

Winter light reflections carry me through this city
with the clarity of a pin drop in a soundproof room.
I have been here before, with you,
in another place nothing alike but
you were home.
A blacksmith splinters prayers into statues
of a religion as foreign as everything else here
in another place nothing alike until
you became home.
Arcade memories carry me through these nights
with the clarity of masterful brush strokes.
I have been here before, with you,
in another place everything alike.
You are home.

Crisis in three acts

First –
How do you let go of anger?
Feel pure, unadulterated rage,
scream into a pillow that barely muffles the sound,
punch a wall until your knuckles bleed.
Do you?

Second –
How do you tap into sadness?
Dive into your soul,
cry into a bucket of Ben & Jerry’s finest,
weep at a fictional death on a Netflix show.
Do you?

Third –
How do you drop the world from your shoulders?
Rid yourself of gravity,
emigrate to a paper town in another land,
push it onto someone else.
Do you?

How do you, for it seems I cannot.

On fait comment

Some days, we are still meant to be
– I fear today is one,
as was yesterday and the day before.
Some days, your voice still echoes in my soul
– I fear today is one,
your song plays forever behind these walls.
Some days, I feel your arm brush against mine
– I fear today is one,
as sharp a memento as it has always been.

Some days, I wonder if your hair falls the same,
if your smile still breaks a hundred hearts,
if your dreams still ignite a thousand worlds.

– I fear today
you might swallow me whole.
On fait comment, you asked once,
pour pas y penser?
– I fear today I finally understand.

I fear today, most of all,
tomorrow.

Fin.

I am a traveller from a tomorrow
that never was.
Today wasn’t the destination
but is where I became stuck.
I have split vision of now,
yet two times nothing
is so much less than zero.

To fall in time is peculiar –
I knew this world long ago,
far away in glorious detail.

I am a traveller from a tomorrow
that won’t have been.
For better or worse,
no, definitely for worse,
this is me, us, now.

It seems falling is easy,
is circumstantial, is ruthless,
is rising in quicksand.

113

Look at us now: splinters on the ground,
we look the same but we’re parts broken
off two different wholes.
A crack in the mirror chips your face,
reminds me of your injured beauty thence:
a porcelain doll with a thousand stories to tell.
Look at us now: you spin me around,
jolt this tired heart, wake this wrecked soul,
and you in perpetuum…
it will always be you I regret.

Postcards From the Edge

Norwegian Church

A group of children run like an improv group unrehearsed
and guide your heart out with candour:
there is a sense of wonder in this dark rye sandwich
in a paper bag on a public square
as you eat it like the last supper, or the first,
while tourists around you breathe the light air,
an old couple walks across without a care.
Hints of anguish still meander
but today you shall not pander.