fragments: old poems

~ Unknowingly ~

I say it with caution
but
I know you.
I know the face,
both within and without
and every mask that
slides, smoothly or painfully
over another.

I know the nakedness,
when smooth skin
and jagged mind are laid
bare:
You look away from ugliness,
when all I see is that
which is as distant from
beauty as you are from
me
(lost, entangled).

I know the puzzles,
and the answers
that puzzle me more,
I know the dreams,
know especially well
the ones
you fear to dream.

I know of the painful steps,
the minutes you want
to give up;
I know you are me
and I am you
just as much as we are
not each other:
I know the yous.

Now to un-know you.

Written 02/03/11

—-

~ rot ~

What once was
fluid and charming,
lived and grew,
ever-changing, ever-moving,
breathing silently
through you and
me
is now this–
a loud stench in the room,
a black, bloated
carcass
beloved only to
maggots
who celebrate our death.

Perhaps some day
the smooth ivory bones,
dry as ashes
and dust
will bare themselves to
beauty and
adorn my hair
or neck.

Written on 22/07/11

—

~moon-dream~

I dreamt of you
last  night, in black,
white and enchanting
greys:
Perhaps it was because I’d fallen asleep
on a little patch of moonlight
who was resting
upon my bed,
exhausted,
and dreamt upon the
silver strands of his chest;
and as he stroked my eyes
I found your lips,
inside his monochrome kiss.

Written on 07/02/2012

face

The blade has been drawn
across your skin,
the poison mixed in your
red tea.
I have placed the barrell
to your temple, and
am but a
hair-trigger away.

*

I have walked
naked under the stars,
a ghost in this
blinding moonlight;
I have danced
naked, as the open sky
watches, disinterested.
I have channeled the creeping
fingers of the fog,
wrapped it
around my nakedness
and jumped
and laughed
and let it in
to warm me;
I have bored into
my forehead
the frost
that was gifted.

*

Dead through the winter,
I wake now
with not a trace
of dream or
faded memory;
I look around
me,
at the world that is
scattered
with scarves, tissue,
half-burned cigarettes
and half-torn-and-tossed sheets
of scribbled fantasy.

I look up to the ceiling
(the world drones on
in the background)
and wish sleep back into
dead eyes,
swollen eyelids.

*

The mirror stands, tall
and dull.
It stares back.
No bullet penetrates.
No knife scratches the
unflinching surface.
No fog nor sky
dare penetrate.
The mirror stands
oblivious to dream
memory
and will.
The mirror stares,
unflinching
impenetrable
unchanging.