Tag Archives: #anger
There are no rehearsals left, only curtain fall
As it grows dark
As the corners of today’s page furl
Empty rooms, homes without windows, drugs without users, a body untouchable, growing cold
As if alight sparing flame
Never to relive
Nor consume nor nourish
This terrible emptiness
As she feels the pain that comes afterward
Inevitable. Old. Crushing. Familiar.
She wants to run to you
But you’re long gone, if ever present
Diminished and relinquished
Pouring medicine down the drain, till needful of no refreshment
Even beauty turns to stone
Even love robs itself destitute
As lovers hate the very thing that made them burn
The taste in her mouth of ashes
Written across her brow in heavy stroke
The cross, the lentern, the falsehood
This room loses light as she gradually declines
On her knees, so many years without touch; lies in place of comfort
Words growing smaller and smaller
A shadow book within a grace freshly dug, till she can see no more but the internal crush of loss
She was an addictive personality who couldn’t get out of her mould, it stuck like gelo, that tendency toward
Melancholy and suicide
If you find her dead you can bet one of her vices is responsible
When she meets people who have not soaked their souls in cigarettes and vodka
Feeling more in the daytime bar than ever something clean and starched
Broken girl parts
Snapped in half before they knew how to stand up
Hers is a sickness, dances in pearls around her neck till pulled tight
Wanting the abyss of psychedelic music and dream of hashish
Intoxicate the pain, numb further urge to destroy what’s left
And push yourself inside me, join the sorrow dot by dot till we both burst
Such is the loveliness of sex in the fulment of grief
Replacing one pain with another small death
The telephone doesn’t ring
She doesn’t call or receive these days
The silence as palpable as the knife she carves her arms into ribbons with
They’ve danced this dance before
There are no rehearsals left, just curtain fall
Think of how it felt, long ago
Before the end, in the middle, lost now
The heaviness of her wanting is blunted by knowing
These people have only their irrevocable actions
Sparring with one another, the blood of first strike hitting white snow in masterpiece
Crimson against a hundred promises, a new form of murder
Sitting, watching herself go through the motions
Good girl who kisses her loved one, tucks in the bed sheets tight
Dreaming of broken glass down her throat, three grey birds and a fingerful of coke
The rage of impotence across flayed landscapes
That flesh and sinew long hung to cure, speaks nothing
Doesn’t forget the rebuke, even as forgiveness is yoked, chain on soft skin
To every ending
Time ticks down without mercy, and if she lives to your age
Just like you, setting the tableaux of your life, there’ll be nothing to say
But the horror of silence before deafening rain
Then she picks up her existing and leaves
Soon it seems, she was never there, just a handful of misspoken words and rage
Drinking clouds, the truth, spares the speaker
She has a generation of distillers and eyes that carry pain as if it were their child
Tonight she won’t be meeting you, she’ll keep on driving
There’s a drop off somewhere, she knows, a fateful road where the turn is sharp
And unexpected
Even for the most familiar driver
It takes a kind of control
She never ever possessed.
Ransom
she’s ransomed for chunk change
by the betrayal of her inward gaze
pain and her varied pins
the reddened lips of an untruth
poised to strike
she stopped writing then as if
they etched her into stone and left her to moss
and rain
fall.
As a child she was told again and again
you will fail
she, being headstrong and determined
never did.
They said she wasn’t clever enough so she
left the first place prize on their desk with the words
don’t destroy futures
carved into the wood just like
her tomb.
As an adult she decided
there is no fate, you make of life what you will
by never giving up
and that worked well until the illness
turned her into a wraith and sucked the life force
out
leaving emptiness within.
No matter how hard she tried,
living
and its delights
did no longer appeal
she had a vested interest in
letting go.
God
did not speak to her
she tried calling but
the line was busy
all she could hear
voices under water murmuring
prayer, curses, little confessions
wrapped in violet leaves and cast
from sight.
Her blind faith
had improved
in the darkness she stumbled
alone because when you hit the bottom
there is rarely anyone there to pick you up
those people who pretend to giveashit really
don’t
they only suck the same air as you
noisily like cattle at trough
it is rare to find loyalty or even true depth
especially in people made of
empty promises.
So easy you see, to say, yes you mean the world to me
in fact if you did not exist, I would die surely
my life depends upon yours and I am unable
to imagine a day without you.
Such little words, running like little ink
spreading like little lies, falling like
little shoes thrown into lakes
before the drowning.
See here? Your smile and the benificence of
your factor? I could measure
the extent of your professed heart ache
in jelly beans and find
sugar is too sweet
truth has a bitter taste
especially when it lies
dormant and wilted beneath your tongue
a key without opening.
your falsehood, like an actress pealing her stockings down
slow and smooth
I think of the times I wanted to believe badly enough
I swallowed the whole cocktail
syrup and all
just to feel for one moment
something was real
and we all descend
like discarded play things
compelled to stay beneath the surface
lower in gravity we sink
until air is a daydream
until breath a distant memory.
Your loyalty had a hole in it
the size of your folded lies
and in darkness we find all things
reveal themselves
including the tarnish sitting just beneath
glittering promise.
So then, what of the day above? And its
mercy
radiating like hands
pulling us up through weeds
long have we been submerged
in the weight of betrayal
there in, our sickness no end
just the owl leaving treeline for his prey
sharp eyes scouring landscape
just the lost embrace before you
punched your ticket and entered
the void.
Here I am swaddled in
soyousaids
and words do not hold much
resonance with me anymore
I am a creature of pain and unsettling
rinsed in regret, I find no place
to feel certain
only that time will continue to count down
toward something eventual and quiet
like the sound of a clock that persists
after the end of the world
has bid her leave
to tick.
Holding Water
What I wouldn’t say out loud;
At a dinner party, when the conversation turns to
matters of personal identity and the such.
That I live in a country where
self-confidence is in the very water alongside Chlorine
And possibly many pissed out Pharmacuticals
I don’t know how they import it or how they bottled it
in the first place
but everyone takes a long swig
and grows up self-important and rarely doubting
their worth
A la the internalized cheerleader
I must therefore hail
from an island of thorns
because I didn’t get inoculated against
the sumptuous barbs
my skin punctures at the slightest retort
I bled easily even after I cauterized the wound.
Necessarily, this has caused some
discomfort
people don’t get how
someone can hate themselves
be a painted sin eater
for all insult
until that gobstopper of internalized anguish
turns on them and it feels like
it’s always been about hating the self
Such a natural elegant process of self harm
looking back in the mirror
wishing she could erase
the very DNA, the very face of her.
Now I have a second sight
for bullshit and fakes
and often I’m told; Give me a chance you never know!
But O I do
and I stay away from the saturating crowd
as they live their camera-ready lives
to the fizz and hiss of the insta-bulb
wondering if I will ever
feel differently or if this
deep phlegmy cough
will inhabit my very soul and become
a new lingua of self loathing.
Sometimes I see girls who
could have been me, but grew up
in a different world where
presumably they were inoculated against
self-hate at an early age and given a healthy dose
of worth and manifest ego
they seem like an identical twin who
was raised on grass instead of hay
in the sun instead of snow
and even though they still possess
the abhorant figure of myself
with her squinting mash of ancestral sabotage
I find I like aspects of them
as they flourish weed-like
unawares
there is a shadow
watching them
wondering
if I had grown up just like them
and taken my Happy Pills along with my self deception
what would I have gained?
What would I have lost?
I might resemble them but
I suspect, I would be nothing like them
except in the cracked glass of us
broken and repaired many times
until they can stand no more
to hold
water
Spilt milk
I don’t have your poise
or formidable intelligence
I haven’t inherited your coloring
or the savagery with which
you tear people out of your life
I used to believe I was weak
because I felt so much and could not
turn away in anger
a trait much prized and perfected
no, I was
clumsy enough to be feeling
and try as I may, the ice
did not stay in my veins
just as resentment doesn’t hang on me
an internal coat
nor grudges devour
my peace.
While i am not always happy
I do not fashion that unhappiness
to break and grind, the bones of others
I was told so many times
I was nothing more than a dumb beast
trying in vain
but those people were proven wrong
for this dumb beast
accomplished everything she attempted
perhaps just to prove them wrong.
It is my road
the one alone
and I ache for you when it rains
like the six year old
listening for the sound of your key in the door.
I cannot expunge the pain, I carry it, inherited, a scar of many faces
you were a pattern I mimicked, knowing nothing else
maybe now you are released from your bonds and I from mine
we will be free to make our own new lines
though if I could choose, I would return
to the feeling of loving you, within your murmur
for yours were the first words I heard
curled in a c within your body.
You can cut me out and there I gasp
but I am tied to you, as the sun will
pay her travail and always love
the moon
climbing out of what we always knew
to lay wreaths of crimson in homage
to spilt milk
Magic trick
There is something wrong with the post man
he forgets my house
drives away in that flimsy cart
humming to himself, oblivious of
my need, he be wrong
return and fill
the emptiness with
some approximation.
There is something wrong with the phone
it lays silent and sleeping
unlit and needful of
nothing rung or called
I shake it and stare
in the absurd notion
by doing so will cause
something done, to be undo
a knot we can pick
with stiff fingers and
urging pretend
all is well when
it is broken and lost
to the gravity of
changing seasons
flickering, mirrored, illusionist light
turning fear into something golden and bright
then just as fast, back again
taking away certainty
with deft slight of hand.
Unaided by light
I was not born for loving
doctor said; It’s a girl
nurse thought; What a shame, life is harder on them
psychiatrist thought; She doesn’t want to be a mother, but let’s not tell her
grandfather thought; Another generation to abuse, watch her grow, but not too much
grandmother thought; Turn your face away. Do not witness, then it never happens
mother thought; I never wanted you.
…
when I carried you
you reminded me of a rock
I wanted us both to drown
except I would lie and float above
whilst you gulped salty brine
and free of your clutch, hail a boat
take myself somewhere, far from children
I never wanted
trapped by circumstances
anything to escape the confines of my day
but how?
…
I told this story many years later
by then I was
much older than my mother had been
when she gave birth
and in that jaundice saw
her lot
and shook it off
as any woman escaping shackle would
…
I do not blame her a bit
nor for her inability to love
me
though others she loves quite well
like folding napkins can be
an art
I do not feel anger toward her
even when she turned her voice from
human to machine
told me to go hang myself when I was ill
“you are too dramatic and I am not
going to take any of your soap opera anymore”
I should have tattooed those words and others
that cut deep and left a permanance
all over my body
because I hear them in my sleep
but the needle was blunt and my favorite song
played in someone else’s room
and the breeze was fresh and I wanted to
like my mother
run away from pain
so I did not hate her because
she is as much survivor as I
just doing what she has to
to maintain some semblance of
denial
…
it is not the fault of the broken
they cannot perform on cue or
find ways to put back together
shattered trust
though why she picked me of all the people in the world
to loathe
that I shall never understand
I can imagine she would respond, given the chance
oh but darling it’s because you are not worth loving
you are a disappointment and a liar and all things foul
she thinks I don’t know
she is wrong for once or twice or always
such is the calamity of overestimating intelligence
I did no such thing; keeping my mistakes out like a flag
when she left me to drown I only partly did
then and now
just as others have also taken their leave
it is a bloodied procession of grief
…
she would say it is evidence of
my UN-likability and a pattern is a sign
I’m the issue, I’m the cause, common denominator
does she think I don’t hear those thoughts?
especially from myself
though in truth and without the need
for shrinks to proclaim
I know it’s neither
but some kind of family recipe
repeating itself in clumsy tragedy
I tried to stop it
but some things were in place before I got there
…
lucky really for bad luck
I wanted a baby of my own
she lays now in formaldehyde
along with my womb
the scar shines in the sun when I
walk to the kitchen in my turquoise panties
I think then of you my darling
the contrast of death and life
your flawless skin against mine
mottled with shorter time and longer
suffering
we were like two cats
let out to search for cream
except I fell in love
even as the rule book dictated
haven’t you learned anything?
I was not born for loving
though love was all I sought
…
it is the whimsy of the neglected and unwanted
such a cliché, such a burning shame
to follow a trajectory set before you knew
this is the path for idiots, follow carefully until
you too, fulfill the prophecy of fools
…
I think too often still
of the past, though it will never
save me and only devour
any compunction for peace
I dream of her telling me, she hates me
it feels like petals upon my rotten cheeks
I see her dark eyes retreat and in sleep
reach for her, like somehow
all the scars can be healed, though
nothing I say will ever make her believe
the truth she insists, is a lie
…
in fact she says;
I am one giant lie
from my name to my ethnicity and birthright
and maybe she is telling the truth
for I have lost myself in make-believe
and catching butterflies
since very young retreating to
what I could pretend and not what was
real and crawling toward me
with the unwavering tenacity of
cruelty
…
if I could I’d rewrite the future
as I know what it portends
one or other of us shall die
the rest will grieve eternal in fractured silence
such as its always been
generation after generation
losing before truly lost
nothing repairs a pattern sewn
before you were born
…
and I, as I’ve told you
was not born for loving
though it consumes me still
especially when I am weak
which is often as
the sunlight will predispose me
to fantasy
thinking I see you reaching for me
taking all the pain back
returning your heart to where
as a child I placed it
high and gleaming
the greatest illusion of all
warding off my fear that
reality was
real
so
whitewash the sky my love
paint the steps
polish the lamps
this evening we will watch
the night flowers perfume
and bloom
unaided by
light
Pure & broken
Lie in bed
Child
Lest what stands beyond threshold
Threatens calm
Waking to the sound of winter silence
Clutching at inanimate objects
The seen friends who do not reply
Delve deeper into the mind
Where disturbance is held away
By merciful imagination
How long can a child
Pretend
And make-believe?
The sounds of fighting through the walls
Even the deaf hear
The crack in plaster grows wider
Each day carpet higher
Till jungle swallows child
Alone
Her own words ingrowing
Dance when no one is looking
For nobody did
Turned faces absentees
Hunger for attention
At first an annoying shame-faced thing
Then the end of longing
Acceptance
You placed me in a room of my own and said
Thrive
I did not
Instead
Half of me turned into plaster and chipboard and carpet fibers
And half climbed out windows and got lost
Letting her feathers be plucked early
By stranger fondling hands and false words
Prophet’s without prophecy
Girls born without reason
Growing in one ache
The silence their lover and their torment
Sliced in half
One, a creature straining to survive herself
One the albatross of finely dressed humans
Absenting themselves from responsibility
She says
You damned me
You shut me up
You expected me to thrive and grow in darkness and coal
As you closed the door and said entertain yourself
She switched the camera on and let them come one by one
Watch her fall beneath the lights
Mayhap dancer, mayhap pornographer
No words escape her
She moves her pain
Above you like light streaming down
Pure and broken into prisms
Fight Night
After too much truth serum,
I was after a fight.
“It will all come out in the wash,”
the wise man used to say,
but those words of mine won’t,
the ones I spat all over you last night,
vodka- and saliva-laced
blood on your white shirt,
and your handsome face,
pale, bewildered and afraid.
Claret on cotton and hearts on sleeves;
words that hurt and eyes that bleed.
You weren’t expecting that venomous spray
and you should’ve washed up straight away
but those stains are stuck now, ingrained,
tainted fibre, they’ll barely fade,
merely to a lighter shade of pain
but it’s still pain, pain all the same.
Claret on cotton and hearts on sleeves;
words that hurt and eyes that bleed.
Blind rage, I disengaged
and, the next day, I don’t
remember the details
of my cruel tirade,
but can tell that it was harsh
by the look on your face,
your face that says,
“I know you’re sick, you didn’t mean it,”
your face that won’t admit
that I say what I mean and mean what I say,
your face that says,
“I will always forgive but I can never forget.”
Can’t you see that I’m trying to make you love me less?
That I want you to come out best?
I’m trying to make you leave me
before you get left.
Claret on cotton and hearts on sleeves;
words that hurt and eyes that bleed.
And you can just buy a new shirt anyway,
one that’s pretty and pure
and free of pain and free of stains,
easy to iron out the kinks,
easy to maintain,
better quality than me,
longer lasting than us.
She’ll fit you just right.
And, in time, you will forget
the unwarranted malice, cruelty, spite
in the words that I spat all over you
during a nasty drunken fight
we had, late one October night.
Live again
The day I stopped feeling
It wasn’t a tap turned all the way to halt any drip
or wet socks left on radiator until cardboard stiff
through muslin sheet I felt a wistfulness
like poignant ending of a film
or sad story of someone else’s life
but you did not feel part of me anymore
when I touched your hand, it was flesh and blood
not a girl I was connected to
neither stranger, but some
distance stood solid like forging tree limbs
seeking electric charge from rain after storm has passed
I had moved beyond you without
marking the spot, I put down my heartache
this is surely the most human thing about us
our ability to keep going, not fall down and wither
knowing we are finite and fallen
watch a child lose a friend on Friday
gain another come Monday
grief is a litmus test
a sorrow we shrug on and eventually off
I convinced myself of devastation
when Tuesday brings change even as we don’t seek
it comes drawing out like elongated stretch
I never thought
I’d feel nothing
looking into your eyes
but you closed yourself off
In time, I began to look away
Into the distance
where the unknown glistened
like a mirage
of things bidden
by places within us
that say
O please
live again