Sunday, April 28, 2019

THE DAYS ALL END WITH THE IDEA OF SUICIDE




I don’t think the link takes you directly to the poems, so I’ve included them below, since I’m a helluva human being. 





https://poetrymagazinefromindia.blogspot.com/











an image, traced


too young to obsess over
rothko's suicide
and so i consider cobain's

i tell you i love you but
it doesn't feel like an answer

it doesn't taste like religion

and it's not the fear of
being forgotten
but the emptiness of entropy

i am tired of being needed

of knowing names
and I have forgotten my
father's face but not the reasons
he had for hating me

i have learned to
see myself through his eyes

have stopped
talking about my past

it was never what i'd
hoped it would be





all,  and then nothing


stand there shaking like
dali’s hands with the muzzle of the gun
placed firmly against the
base of your skull

tell yourself
we are not Gods

look at the sky
then close your eyes

keep everything you’ve ever
seen held close to your heart





beg, and i will be your enemy

or the minotaur in his old age
or god in ruins

no one believes the story will end

no one wants to dig where
the bodies have been left

43 corpses, butchered, mutilated,
parts shoved into plastic bags, the bags
buried in the soft soil by the river and
everything done in the name of
power and everything done in the
name of money and everything
done in the name of freedom

look

what matters is that I love you in
this age of collapsing buildings

what matters is that we hold each
other in frozen, sunlit rooms

that the never ending
space between us disappears






pablo


no house in the country,
no country,
no hope without
the possibility of despair

it’s just history, you see

just the slaughter of the
innocent and the executions of
the guilty

famous women falling from the
clouds only to hit the
pavement with mortal force,
and then famous women painting
these brutal deaths

1939 maybe
and then 1993, the
baby born to junkie sweethearts,
my girlfriend still not answering
my calls two weeks after
the …….

cold sunlight on empty trees

pale blue skies,
pink clouds, brown hills

nothing beautiful, but
beauty was never promised

the future was
never guaranteed

just came screaming up over the
horizon like the fist of god
hoping to cause as much
pain as possible







wide awake now


these kids out in the back yard, playing
in some burnt-out truck cab,
these bent and blackened spoons littering the sidewalk

diabetic cab driver just laughs when you tell him
about the woman you love,
but this is the last cold year before the doctors start
taking off toes, before the foot is removed, before he finally
dies like a dog giving birth

and the girl on the front porch just smiles when she
gets the news, and the spaces between her teeth

says it’s never quite spring,
says she’s never quite warm and the cars on the
interstate all seem like an answer

the days all end with the idea
of suicide, but then they start again

motel just off of exit 58 is torn down, pool is filled in,
but you can still buy the postcards on ebay

you can listen to van morrison
while you drive to a cleaner town

you can sing about the dead kids and
you can dream about sleeping underground

it’s the fine art of nothing ever chaining
even while everything
you’ve ever known dissolves to ashes and rust


Related image







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