Last of May

Come what may,
I've wrote.
I've waxed wroth.
I've spoken of the self,
and the things that I've lifted
and gifted
and put up on the shelf.
I've spoken of the womb,
and of the tomb.
I spoke of the souls around me.
I spoke of my power,
my weakness,
my life and my love.
I spoke of what you did to me.
Of what you gave,
and what you took.
What you kept,
what you forsook.

I've strung together rhymes.
I've thrown them aside.
Blood has split -
my own, others.
I've spoken of hungers that shouldn't be named.
I've poured forth tears and sweat and spite.
I've been a king,
a pauper.
A lover, a fighter,
a weakling who mewled and whimpered.
A giant bestride the globe.

I've spoken of things I don't understand,
and things that I understand all too well.
I've spoken of God,
the Devil,
Heaven and Hell.
I've brandished goods I have no right to sell.
Coin to spend that isn't mine.
I've spoken of time.
I have so very much of it.

Thirty-one days.
I spoke of it all.
Thirty-one days.
Thirty-one ways.
Thirty-one prayers and blasphemies.
Thirty-one wine-soaked, medicated, smoked-out evenings.
Thirty-one bright, gloomy, torrential, oppressive and liberating afternoons.
Thirty-one mornings largely slumbered away.
Thirty-one days spent speaking.

I spoke of it all, and I was mute.

And there are so many days to come.

Come what may.

Brother

Steel.
Malleable once.
Now something more.
I'm not sure.
Are you?
Or are you worthy of spite,
and scorn,
and pity.
Lost and forlorn.
You weathered the storm.
There was something more.
Lost? I'm not sure.
But you'll yearn.
You were always one to yearn.
Some things are constant.
Steel.
Malleable once.
But not anymore.
I'm not sure.
If I like what you've become.

I have high hopes,
but nothing more.

Birthday

It's nearly four in the morning and my birthday is well and truly over at this point.
I'm 20 years old.
I have nothing further to say on the matter. Like my last Christmas post, I'm finding it very hard to tap into the emotional residue surrounding these events.
I've aged.
I'm older, shorter of breath, and one step closer to death, in the words of some old band.
Christ, it's only 20. Best years ahead and all that. There's a thought.
But now that we've got through that one day of the year where I'm expected to be happy, I might actually manage to be happy.
There's a light at the end of the tunnel and I doubt that it is a flamethrower.
Fingers crossed.

Oh, and I'm surrounded by beauty, so thank you for that. It's helping with the whole dredging myself up out of the pit I've fallen in business. Feel free to be a little smug. You deserve it.

Goodnight.

Fog in a Bucket

Yesterday's post.

Break the egg.
Break open heaven's house
and steal forth the life of this building.
Yearn for the ground
as it rushes up to meet you.
Break the egg.
If you can't find the ground,
you can't reach for the sky.
There's an impact coming now.
If you survive,
you can reach for the stars.
But this isn't good enough,
is it?
You've let it steal forth.
Slashes open up 
and smoke billows forth
in an uninterrupted stream.
Curling forth and dissipating.
You dissipate.
Don't let too much escape.
One with sky, one with sea.
The egg has broken.
Stomp the ground.
Seize the sharp shards.


And we're all just fog in a bucket. 

How?

How do I get home?

This isn't what I intended.

It's hard to move how I should.

I haven't done as well

as I could.

And god, they're so ugly.

No romance,

no thrill.

No fascinating flirtation

with the red-run water.

They're just ugly.

How do I get home?

Nothing lasts forever.

Sunday Clothes

Hello, Dolly.

We won't come home until we've kissed a girl.

There's an adventure on the evening air.

And we feel bright-right,

from the crown to the soul

of our shoes.

It's time to pay your dues.

Put on your Sunday finest,

there's a tale to tell!

We're out of business

and we're feeling well!

A cheap cigar,

that can take us far,

In a shiny car,

And I'll tell

you 

to put on your finest clothes!

There's a place out there that's plain to see.

There's a place out there that's made for you and me!
And we feel alright,

so let's quit your sight,

and stay out all night,

coz we're free!

We're happy, it's plain to see!

We won't come home until we've kissed a guy.

No room for sorrow and no time to cry!
We feel heart-smart,

from the time we meet,

till we part.

It's time to pay the piper.

Put on your Monday clothes.

There's a job to be done.

We're back in business,

and we're feeling grand!

A job or two,

that'll see us through,

Just for me and you!

And we'll sell

off our weekdays,

for Sunday clothes!

Andrew

I waited until it was raining to write about you.
This is one of the most difficult things to articulate.
And if the sky didn't weep,
how could I?
Why should I?
I never did, you know.
You caused enough tears for me.

I stood up at your funeral and mocked you.
In front of everybody you ever knew.
I wrapped it in simile, metaphor -
disguised my emotions.
My hatred.
So only those who knew you knew.
Your family approached me afterwards,
and told me my words were beautiful -
and they were!
Beautiful deceptions.

No more lies.
I find it hard to turn my mind to speak of you.
If I'm candid, it becomes easier -
so let's be candid.
You beat me.

I feel that bears repetition.
You beat me.
Don't be confused, dear reader -
I don't mean in a fair contest,
in a battle of wits, or a game.
(For if it was a game, I won)
But with fists.

Those cruel hands of yours.
According to the doctors you didn't know what it was you did.
Control was all that mattered, and control you had to have.
You held a child up against the wall by his throat.
You threw him down stairs.
You tore the flesh on his back,
and you called him every name under the sun.

I suppose I should thank you.
You were the first person to call me faggot.
And it was laughable.
Still is.

So yes, I cried.
I cowered and cried and fled.
I stood up to you only to be struck down.
Again, and again, and again.
You beat me.
For years.
Monster.

And then you lost control and attempted to kill yourself, didn't you?
Couldn't even get that right.
But you were weakened,
and I had a chance.

You couldn't push me around anymore, and so we pushed you out.
Beaten wife syndrome couldn't last in the face of your madness.
And we banded together, the beaten woman and the tortured child,
and you had to go.

And then you spent all of our money on whores,
drugs, a fancy hotel room.
And then you woke up and you hung yourself with your belt.
I try not to be vindictive -
but I often savour that image.

Several years later I tattooed my flesh.
An acknowledgement of what you did to me,
and what I had yet to do.
Trial by fire, I called it.
I hope that there's a fire for you, even now.

You deserve my pity, but you'll never get it.
I'm glad you're burning.

That child was stronger than you ever were.