Cleaning up corpses on the freeway,
Bloody spatter for miss November.
Moving on from Hollywood.
We’ve missed November, I’ll start when it’s over
And over it’s been in my mind again.
So it goes, lost in the wind.
Circling back, dropping the pin,
In a room too full to notice it’s ran out of gin.
Startled into recompense;
Turning it over til it all makes sense.
November was missed and I’ll start again,
Buckling under the rain.
So it goes, running thin.
You’ve grown too fat, you’ve gotten too short, the mind scolds the broken heart.
She’s working around it but nobody notices the note left out in the bin.
So it goes,
She found it hard to remember,
Her way back into life again.
So it goes.
Don’t stop me.
This one was kind of a mish-mash of ideas on my drive home late at night, hence the sort of jarringly different stanzas as the tone of it changed once I got home to work on it.
I tried adding little transitions between stanzas as a way to make it flow a little better. Not sure how well it worked but I liked it enough to publish it, so.
Thank you for reading!
I’ve felt skin hot as steering wheels
Bursting through a sickening cityscape
I see you leaving—don’t forget your tears
There is dust on the dust of your slight renown.
I want you to know that I’m trying to hate you.
To put every little thing you’ve done into a box and throw it into the river that made you realize you still loved me.
Let it sink to the bottom along with your near-death and dissolve into spent memories settling into the sediment.
Sway and move with the current.
William and Margaret,
A watery marriage bed,
Left to drown under the force of a Mother’s love.
But I pulled you and I called you here,
And now instead of saying goodnight, I’ve finally found the breath to say goodbye.
Here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud;
You left me and I’ve nowhere to go.
You carried my heart with you,
You carried it in your heart.
When the door closed and the sun set
You took my heart with you,
You carried it in your heart.
You told me I was whatever a moon has always meant,
And whatever a sun will always sing is you.
You carry my heart with you,
You carry it in your heart.
And I wish you would bring it back.
In memory you are lost
As I second guess the cost
Of sickness spreading faster
Dwelling on those winter days
Brand new love a dizzy haze
Walking far into the night
Knowing we were quite the sight
In the timepiece of my heart
Hoping something new will start
Waiting til the stars align
For you again to be mine
Sometimes I convince myself that my teeth could bite through metal
That the razor edges would do nothing to the soft parts of my mouth
That I wouldn’t bleed
Sometimes I think that I could crush glass between my fingers
That the glazed sand would find no purchase on my soft tissue
That I wouldn’t tear
Sometimes I imagine that if you were here I would be able to stand it
That the sound of your voice would be nothing but a residual melody in my mind. Your face an inkblot.
That I wouldn’t crumble.
But I know, I know, I know.
The moments tick by and I know.
I bleed, I tear, I crumble.
I am no match for the dreams that play in my head
Sifting through pain in search of growth
Pyrite in all its glitter
Could never amount to gold
Push and pull
Out of control
Well let’s go since you seem to know
Between the click of the light and the start of the dream
When it ends,
Before it ends,
Will you keep me here in your mind
(Hidden away in the pocket of a daydream)
How much is too much to ask of you
I was hoping we could talk it through
Before you’re gone with the morning
Not sure I need to mention it but just to be safe: line five is from the Arcade Fire song No Cars Go, which is sort of what propelled this poem.
I used to cry over the lines
At my ability to draw outside them.
Whether it was pen,
My concentration would slip
And imperfection would strike again.
So why, after all that,
Do I find myself stuck
Wanting nothing more than to escape
Those lines I tried so hard not to break
What if in the end
They cut us down,
And all that’s found is the rings.
The circles presenting our being
Our our repetition.
The only thing left of our potential
Rotting there in the ground.