I cannot smell - for all aromas have ceased without your smoke and cinnamon scent. I cannot taste - for the food turns to ashes on my tongue in solidarity with what we had. I cannot hear - for when I listen to the wind I am deafened by the absence of your voice. I cannot see - for when I wake my sight blurs with tears and visions of your eyes. I cannot feel - for everything inside me is dead without your touch to bring it to life. Like an oracle stripped of prophecy - I am lost and senseless without you.
Tag: poem
Now That You’re Gone
Nine Lives of Pepper Boucher
Somber claws scratch the catwalk, carcass crawls forth from demise, eighth chance passed, on to the ninth. Crepuscule begins--impending blindness, onward journey continues--ambitious feline.
Meet Me in the Storm
There’s this natural phenomenon known as a dirty storm.
The ash in a volcano creates enough static electricity that it will shoot up into the clouds.
Absolutely dangerous, but incredibly beautiful.
I am bad with words, but good with intentions and
I know it’s a lot to ask, but please, walk outside.
Be my storm and I’ll be yours.
We can use the winds to lift up any of the feelings holding us down.
Our rain to wash away the intrusive thoughts and anxiety.
The lightning to blind all the darkness that seems to haunt us at night.
I know things will not be easy.
Together we are a lot like a dirty storm;
Filled to the brim with both passion and chaos.
But maybe, if we hold on, we can have a love
As peaceful as the night that always follows a storm.
Religion of the Player
Our temple
is the arena.
Our shrine
is the ice.
Our skates,
are the Holy texts.
Our equipment
is our prayer robes.
The moment
those doors open,
as the cold air
caresses the face,
mysterious magic
overwhelms the body.That first sound,
that smooth crackle,
of sharp skates
on still-wet ice,
are our church bells.
They mark the start of the service.It becomes loud
with praises of joy
and excitement.
The whistle blows.
The teams chant,
then break.There is silence.
But this silence
is not
silent.
Energy
and
anticipation
crackle and spark
through the air—
The atmosphere electric.The puck is dropped.
Our worship
has begun.The worship
of our game
Of our lives.
The worship
of those who
played before us
and for those who
will play after us.This is no ordinary game.
This is no ordinary religion.
This is our source of life.
This is our source of light.
This is
hockey.Beautiful
Look in the mirror and put on your face.Some waterproof mascara frames each eyebecause you must be prepared just in caseyour day turns from bad to worse and you cry.If a tear should fall, you will have to sootheyourself by feeling the bumps in your braid.Despite the dips and curves, your hair is smooth.Use this as fuel–be proud of what you’ve made.Take a deep breath, wipe the tears from your shirt.If not for you, do this for your lover,hide best as you can the fear and the hurt.Use your appearance, don’t blow your cover.Look, dress and act as a little cutie.Isn’t that the true meaning of beauty?Fall
It takes feet to landBut a person to fall.2 hands to hold on,None to let go.You want a person to catch youSo you don’t have to care,But in the endYou do.Because it’s alright to be scared.But if the person’s not thereYou hit the ground hard.And while mud runs with bloodYou think; how could I give up so much?You believe it wasn’t your faultBut you made the choiceTo jump without looking.And in the end,Someone always gets hurt.Grey Walls
Indiscernible grey wallsenvelop a faceless monolithsomewhere in Viman Nagar.Planes trace the clouds above,keeping the night from beatingthe sky intoblack.Outside,there are pups with broken hind legs,feeding on guttural excreteof the land that found god.Outside,there are children in tattered clothes,and their hair flutters languidlyin the land that found god.They all worship D-3 Viman Nagar—yes they do.And in returnall self-identity,and all self-determinationis robbed by D-3 Viman Nagar.I’m lost in the annalsof this cancerous growth.I’m lost in D-3 Viman Nagar,somewhere in the land that found god.
I Thought We Were Exes
Give to me
the softsharp press
the moons of your nails
at the dip of my spine,
please
give me a reason.I am hollow,
choked
on the uncertain breath
of waiting. I
could swearit was your voice
in the night
behind the moon.
But when the air cleared, clouds
passing,
you were gone.I have but one answer
for all this trembling air:I heard your voice in the night.
The uncertain breath
off your lips
moved
behind this curtain
of waiting.
Water
holds babes and
breaks quick swaddle it in the
bath wean it into a rip-
tide gurgle salt water
tend
that sore throat
boils
not when watched
burned?
hold it under the tap
tap
a leak in the house
drain the wreck it holds small
bones
cursed by cupidity
raised
by unknown custodyBrevity and Superfluous
I remember how the water crested.
And also the pupils that remained fixated
beneath the deluge of a dimming August sun
on iridescent Scotian lakes.
I remember how your hair floated;
swelling with the sonorous tremors of
the ephemeral cosmos tugging.
Love tints everything,
and hate eventually undercuts it.
When I escape the fatalist clutches of each,
and the memories merge with tangibility
it’ll dawn that maybe I was in love with a girl
that couldn’t love herself.
eggs
I brank a dottle
I mean I drank a bottle of wine tonight
and ate sausage and egg
wrapped in chewy pancake
a crepe?
I went from being hungry and tired
to just tired
and filled with a loneliness
not even an egg could cure
amazing egg
chalky gelatin vessel of nutrients
the body needs so much to function
I blame the wine
nothing good ever came from drinking alone
except the realization
that you’re better than twelve dollar grape juice
be an egg
I need you to survive
with a lazy eye and a crutch
called self-pity
I ate it up and savoured the vinegar taste
of eggs
amazing eggs
I want to be a pure globe
with sunshine in the middle
I guess in a way I savoured
the vinegar of my attitude with
gold winner California wine
sweet sweet wine for a bitter bitch
old hag
old hag at twenty-one
I wanted to be soft and chewy
but I became a bump
I’ll never be mad about it
because I ate eggs
amazing eggs
even better than what they grow up to be
chicken is an insult really
Grime
A soft bee’s window knock reminds
of its existence. How the bee made such
an error does confound, Bee must be blind
to filthy glory that sticks to touch.
If I were Bee, I’d wonder if there really
were a window in this whole abode,
this house that stings the eyes. It wears a dirty
cloak and mossy hat, but used to glow.
It sits in silence, anticipating
a time when caring hands and heart retreat
from absent aimless wandering
to lovingly sanitize its homely peat.
If I’m to live here, the clean I shall invoke
Before I’m swallowed by the dirty cloak.
Politics of a Breakup Between Friends
I brought a box of your junk
back and laid
old weapons on your doorstep
it’s an armistice
to begin this new chapter
full of treaties and thinly veiled hostilities.
We each sign sallow documents
with our own pens
so much for every touch
we used to share.
Negotiations begin over warm drinks
in a quiet cafe on Main Street
the same place where it ended
and we didn’t cry
as we looked back over the battlefield
we had walked through to the
other
side.
Allies
still. I hope.
Discussions about Friday nights
and mutual friends and
old past-times
it’s time to disentangle ourselves
but when you stand to leave
I still feel knotted up and
ill at ease.
Every street seems to be inscribed with your name
and a memory
and my name is only scattered
somewhere beneath the snow.
I remember when you kissed me last
fuck.
sometimes it’s so hard to be alone.
We can still laugh and I ask you about your mother
if I get the chance
how’s she doing and how’s your dad?
but it’s a much emptier question now that
you’ve emptied me from your life.
I find the streets look different now and
sometimes I can’t remember what it is
we used to talk about on those long walks
back from my apartment to your house
or how we used to fill the silence
of a summer afternoon.
I started seeing someone else
and it’s been a month since I met you
in the cafe and
it’s been 46 days since
I thought my heart would never be the same
but the guilt
it tingles in my bones
and the shell shock of a different
hand to hold
makes me wish I’d never
met you at all.
There are more things left between us still
to sign and divide
but this time
the mighty pen
lays on the table between us.
Quiet
i like to think that maybe at night when it is very quiet,
your mind also grows quiet,
and you are able to thank yourself for what you have done today.
and maybe your last fleeting thought
before sleep envelops you,
is a glimpse of me,
and how we are always breathing the same air.