POETRY
“Poetry is language at its most distilled and most powerful.”
Part of being a good sad person
is always painting the shadows
in the right direction and knowing
what sorrow to art with.
You let the yellow glow
from eye sockets. The building up the street
is burning faster and faster.
I slumped in front of a massive desk, a passive patient corroded with failure and dread.
Try not to see your own predicament in every fucking thing.
I would always rather be happy than
dignified. Rather held than held
in awe.
Should have found a job by now; should have slept in the night;
should have boiled old coffee before noon.
Mostly he ate what was put on his plate
snuck coffee grounds or dirt for a snack
Once a zipper Unzipped
it’s touch-and-go with me and weddings
the strands of your hair on the bathroom tiles aren’t sketching defeat. that’s you spitting disease in the face with another day you’ve woken up to.
Empty vessels
make the most sound, I think,
as you rip the fairy lights off the handrail.
my love is a glass shard, a knife made of madness and moonlight,
and there are already way too many fragments in this house
The two of us toast to a man we both love, to whatever degree, clink our glasses and laugh…
and apples, mackintosh mostly, but any kind left in The Pub
at the Assisted Living Place
