remember all this

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She’s throwing faeces at the wall. She’s lost her mind. You want to lock her away, give her to someone else. 

She’s throwing faeces at you. She wants you to remember the same way as she does. Can you? 

Hurt, humiliation, torture, agony, numbness & madness. Can you remember all this, Papa? 

Can you imagine the pain you gave her?

Somewhere in her mind, you stand with her in a closed room. She screams as she hurls faeces in your direction. 

Powerlessly, she tries to hurt you too. 

 

 

image credit : tumblr

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If you’ve come back

Boston Post, Massachusetts, October 7, 1920

 

You look like you’re going to leave me again.

You kiss fervently, deeply – you’re not here to stay.

You smile more, caress my arms, hold on to my waist, stare at me longer.

If you’ve come back to hurt me, look right at me, 

do it quick, don’t give me time to look away.

 

Picture Credit – Boston Post, Massachusetts, October 7, 1920

remote

Sandal Soles - Medieval Art @ MET

she knows a person she’s never touched yet

physically

just a soul she’s encountered from afar

someone with moods and likes and jokes and heart ache

same station, opposite platform,

a breathing figure

not reaching out for anything,

just waiting for something good to come by,

just like she is.

so they’re both just sitting here (and there)

with vague ideas about things etc.

one stands up to get a snack from the vending machine,

the other thinks that maybe she’ll do the same.

melancholic, yet nothing close to it.

she knows what it’s like to be alone in a small place,

yet certainly not lonely everywhere.

there’s someone else, quite like her, quite like.

both just wonder what the other would do

if the platforms were to merge into a great hall,

but feed that thought no further.

why-cause the separation is the wait

for a carriage to take each one

where they’re meant to go.

the divide assumes no company is needed

for any distance, for any while.

so the passengers sit where they are,

waiting to board a train,

both turn their heads to the sound

of a fog horn.

right there on those rail tracks that isolate the platforms,

is an anchoring ship.

who dies in july

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i’m a mess these days

and these days are melting away

like candles on the back porch

in the heat of july

 

it’s only june

i’ve leaped ahead of myself

i’ve made notes and revised

and welcomed the crippling fear a few weeks early

 

it comes with perks, the subconscious montage,

it comes with the tune for a morbid little lullaby :

 

who will die, who will die in july

father, step father, friend, feline?

who will die, die and die,

in stationary,

somber, arid july?

 

 

 

reaching for time

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hey if the stars were aligned

in ascending order of righteousness,

and if my birth chart wasn’t a nightmare,

do you think we could hold hands

and gaze up at them?

maybe kiss a little?

and hey

if i were squeezed out through the vagina again

and plonked into the hands of fortune,

do you think maybe we could plan things together?

maybe even dream of it?

Rumi said that there is a meadow

where a meeting is destined,

i wonder if that place is meant for us.

oh but wait,

excuse me sir,

in this meadow,

is the grass mowed evenly?

is there a clean place to sit?

will there be time for us at all?

edging closer

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It’s so strange that the people I’m most comfortable with also make me feel like they’re going to go away from me at any given moment. They make time feel like a vortex that they like to edge closer and closer to just to keep me on my toes, no, to keep my heart pounding in my mouth. It’s an existential game. “How Long Will It Be Until She Stops Dreading?”