prosetry

Wild Horses

​You mix my medication into a pot of strawberry yoghurt and instruct me on how to eat. Open. Come on. That’s it. No, don’t chew it, it’s yoghurt, just get it down ya. There’s a good girl.

My phone is ringing but I can’t locate the source of the noise. It hurts to move my eyeballs. You find my phone and see who is calling me: it’s the guy that you’re (quite rightly) suspicious about. You pretend you didn’t notice who called but I see your aura change colour and you exhale too sharply.

I start shouting about needing a cigarette. You find my cigs and lighter and slowly walk me to the balcony. You light me up and hold me back, away from the edge. I keep dropping my cigarette. I cry. I ask you where the moon is and you tell me that it’s up there somewhere but it’s hiding.

You carry me to bed and manage to remove the chandeliers that are threaded through my ear-lobes. I am suddenly aware that I ought to brush my teeth but I don’t have the strength and the idea leaves me as quickly as it arrived. I don’t know what day it is and I don’t care. I don’t know who I am. I don’t know who you are. I don’t know where I am. What is this? I just need everything to stop. What is this?! I don’t like it. I don’t like this one bit. You magically produce a syringe of morphine. I am so happy to see you. I tell you that I love you.

You arrange my body into the recovery position and tell me that I’m safe, that everything’s going to be fine, that when I’m better we’ll go to the seaside, that I don’t need to apologise, that you’re here to look after me. I ask you if we can adopt some sugar gliders instead of having kids. I don’t know what your reply was, if you even replied at all, but I’m sure you would’ve said yes, of course darling, because you love me too much.

I remember you smoothing my hair and whispersinging the lyrics to Wild Horses to me until I fell asleep. Wild horses couldn’t drag you away from me. But I fear that my sicknesses might cause you to walk away, voluntarily, gladly, thankfully. That, or I’ll drag you down with me. Either way, it’s not looking pretty, and I am disappointed when I wake up with a pulse 28 hours later.

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poetry, prosetry

Pablo

I saw a Picasso painting and it fucked me up
because it wasn’t oil on canvas, it was a mirror.

Her pain was contagious, her skin all sickly and diseased, all yellow and green, her hair in blue and purple streaks, matted, heavy, left unwashed for weeks.

She was stifling her screams and catching her tears in a tissue made of broken glass, muffling her sobs with icy crystal shards, alone, in pain, insane, confined within the edges of a 60 by 49 frame.

Those eyes held stories of the lives of every person she’d ever known yet betrayed no life of their own. Black holes filled to the brim with untold horrors, her eyelashes holding back the weight of a thousand lies, a pathetic barrier between the tsunami of torture within her and the face that she wears for the world;

but it will not hold, it will not hold, the wave breaks the boundary, spewing poison, rioting down her cheeks and into a handful of glass, the tears fall and fall;

and her lover only watches on, making her a spectacle, a beautiful and tragic sight to behold, not one to be reassured, not one to be consoled. He studied her pain because he wouldn’t face his own, just as you study mine because you will not face yours.

She and I, we are the same:
a sight to be seen,
a suffering machine,
a perfect exhibition
of devastation and depression.

I immediately recognised myself as the subject of the portrait
although I know that you’d say, “No, that’s not you, not at all,”
but I’m so certain that it is me, I am so certain.

How did Pablo know me so well so many years before I was born? It seems that the only people who ever truly knew me are two dead men who found beauty in the forlorn.

And so I’m left behind
with these tidal waves of grief
and a disintegrating heart,
wandering around empty galleries,
and wiping away my tears
with shards of broken glass.

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prosetry

Further Chronicles of Us

Read: The Chronicles

Read: More Chronicles

SEVEN.
You carelessly devoured me with no regard for consequence, rushing to have all of me before I got cold. Now I am the fishbone stuck in your throat. A niggling irritation, an itch you cannot scratch. I’ll stay there, stubborn, a daily annoyance, but one that you become used to over time. “It’ll go away eventually.” You’re right. I will go eventually. But I will stay until I can be sure that, when I leave you, you will notice that I’ve gone but you will not miss me.

EIGHT.
A Star Wars-esque opening crawl scrolled in my eyes, on repeat, in yellow, in white. It crawled for a long time. The instructions were clear: Remove sleeve. Pierce several times. And so it scrolled on and on and on. And so I did. I removed my sleeve and pierced my skin several times, with a knife. Stab stab stab stab. The blade went through to the other side. Stab stab stab. How many times is “several” anyway? Wait, was I supposed to stir halfway through? I didn’t stir, I just sat and let myself marinate in a bloodbath, in my party dress, with sawdust in my hair, and the spider on the wall, and watched the Star Wars crawl gradually fade into the darkness. You found me eventually.

“What the bloody hell are you doing in the attic?”
“I… I don’t know…”
“JESUS CHRIST, WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?”
“I don’t know, it said remove sleeve and pierce several times so I did.”
“NOT ON YOUR ARM YOU SILLY COW, YOU ARE NOT A FUCKING MICROWAVEABLE MEAL!”
“But I was just following the instruc–,”
“YOU ARE NOT A FUCKING LASAGNA!”

Every now and then you call me or message me to remind me that I am not a fucking lasagna. I am not a lasagna. I am not a lasagna. I am not your problem anymore. I am not a lasagna. I am not a lasagna. I am not yours. I am not a lasagna. I am not a fucking lasagna.

NINE.
We went shopping for funeral outfits. We bought the suit that you’ll wear at yours. You stole the dress that I’ll wear at mine. That dress is the most beautiful, perfect possession that I own. I take it out it’s plastic cover sometimes, just to touch it, to look at it. I am so excited to wear it. I wrote you a note and slipped it in the pocket of your suit jacket when you weren’t looking. Either you’ll be buried with it or you’ll find it when I’m gone. And I know you haven’t found it yet because, if you had, things would be so very different and I wouldn’t have to write this shit.

 

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prosetry

Unindifferent

“All lovers live on partial knowledge,” Cole says. I say symbiosis, our nameless and personal act, so-called for the world in you and the world in me, corresponding. Everything from simple two-arc birds, white against the starry sky above, to weird fishes down in the cold dark depths beneath, crescent moons for eyes like dreaming. I often think I am, because I don’t know what else to call it.

Is it imprudence we show with names, or do we simply spoil wonderment with everyday answers, and what would be the difference? I’ve longed to believe in one, waxing at times quotidian, and now my simple ardor is enamored with no longer longing to love because there’s you in my solutions, you more than anything, and that’s now, I call it, the always-been.

And now you’re here with me, sleeping beside. Astonished, gazing lunar, I feel as _____ must have when _____. Forgive my universalizing. I know how history pulls us apart, to speak of partiality. Such is the hook on the lure of its richness: the past becomes a domicile and then dwelling is easy.

Do you know how many times? I looked at that picture of you, smiling back at me from years ago, trying to feel precisely this without knowing, without reference, without time, without content, shy of what it added up to. How nice would that have been, I’d think, venturing to calculate my refuge in memories pulled present.

There’s such talent in your beauty, such easy virtuosity in your being. I lean and whisper two things I hadn’t read aloud the night before. “All measurements change for the person who becomes solitary;” “Life is always right.” Far from us, he is, that poet from Prague, but close, given the angle, which I suppose was his point. Symbiosis means never leaving, never having left, but always coming home and knowing. That’s mine, as are you, solitary, partial, perfect, and loved to entirety, my land, my sky, and my sea.

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prosetry

Gnossienne

Maxine Groffsky talks too much and I hear too little from any of you, but the kettle’s on. In my head one time we made a career of it like Jean-Paul & Simone everyone had weathervane opinions on the winds of influence but I still only knew either of us like I know her: through words, choice. She edited her own interview, for chrissake. The limits of imagination are four words that could title a book it’d take an eye blink to read, but most poetry would say a lifetime, and take it. Lifetime, you decide.

Take words out of your stories, you’d say, and stop trying to write yourself away. Stop trying to hide something and pretend it’s essence, stop trying to say what it’s all about. I’d know what you meant, having recently finished a little something by di Benedetto I felt I was supposed to appreciate but didn’t, partly because it was just too austere. Laferrière said “there’s nothing more false than real life” and it’s convenient for me to agree right now. Imagine how much freer we’d be in speech if we weren’t so compelled to riddle. I wonder if the pictures taken by strangers contain some message to me. What might they be trying to say?

I fill in the blanks, because I have a way of thinking I tend to say too little and a corresponding way of making up for it. On my own, ironically. When I was younger I called this “research” and spent time at prestigious institutions full of people I could keep away from, filling my head with others’ ideas of how to appropriately tangle with this great mad web of overfunctioning desires, dreaming of wholeness like it was a bill a real person might fit but everywhere seeing only pieces to emulate, and excelling at making lists, but having a hard time knowing what to redact.

Some things never change. Dreams, speech, others, and what of reality. Imagine the simple joy of dreaming without hope, in spite of what you know, finding meaning in letting meaning be, longing, but no longer longing to escape the in-betweens, no longer conflating satisfaction with complacency the way we often mix authenticity with originality. Borges called originality a modern superstition. Of course he would, and when I read that it felt like Satie’s No. 1, if you can imagine, easy and free, comfortable with distances. And I had nothing more to add, no answers, no replies, no noise. What would you say to that, anyone?

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prosetry

Man On The Moon

​On nights like this I often wonder where you are. I never had to wonder this before because I always knew where you were. But the fact that I don’t know where you are anymore means that I shouldn’t be wondering about you in the first place.

Tonight the air is still and the city is still and I still miss you. Love and hate share the same propinquity that our bodies once did. But I think that even if you were here next to me, you’d feel a million miles away. You always were my man on the moon.

But you are not here with me tonight and this truth serves as a painful reminder to me. Your absence should remind me not to waste my wondering, wandering, wonderful mind on futile thoughts of you.

I don’t want to wonder about you, about your new life without me, but it’s so hard – the memories that are the easiest to remember are the hardest to forget, they’re the hardest to erase. Why should I wonder about you? After all, you don’t wonder about me on nights like this. You probably do not wonder about me at all.

I no longer occupy your heart and yet you still occupy my late-night mind. That is the greatest injustice in my private universe. And yet still I wonder if, secretly, you still wonder about me on nights like this.

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