2016 – 2018

 

BUT WE ARE ROMANTICS, YOU AND I

and to grasp that in its depth is not a mere semantic. let them speak of chaos all they want, those pious ones, pitied, pale in place and parlour. they will never know its meaning until cursed with hearts that do not grasp the world as it appears. space is not mere absence of material. not for poets nor the men of books. and until you understand that, you will never know of anything at all.

SUNDAY

and promise me this: don’t make his mistakes. then one day, perhaps, you’ll know the type of living that means deliverance from whatever past you call your self. and you’ll learn the breathing that comes from calling someone a home that isn’t tainted by despair.

AND IF HE WANTS TO LEAVE, THEN LET HIM LEAVE

but your eyes are open, no? they may be broken but they are open. heartbeats irregular but at least they are working. you can still love. you can still feel love. wish it on the world and watch it float beneath the sky. your crooked men have sticky faces, soft white hands and loose black tees. fickle minds in winter rain and worthless words on bloodstained sheets. perhaps that was the point all along. sacrificing yourself despite knowing it was fleeting. fleeing. irrational and irresponsible and subject to abandonment at any given day.

remember the banker with whom you spoke of poetry? your greatest friend a sea away. your childhood love you only meet with once a year. the recent one who shunned you.

BUT IF HE WANTS TO LEAVE, THEN LET HIM LEAVE

thank you. for existing on this earth at the same time as me. for all it’s worth.

STOCKHOLM

but tripping lights don’t cure your angst. dampened inhibitions and nights suppressed because you thought you had to prove your worth in waste. and now you’re done. you lock the door. seal your heart and forge your walls in concrete. you find a lover who looks at you like maybe you are magic. you make her call before she visits. hide your skin in black while hers lay bare. heaving ribs. clenched white hands and broken nails. heart bleeding something so strong they can smell it in the streets, taste it in the air, watch it flow in rivers and stench your bedroom walls.

wash it off. lick your lips and air it out. your veins may be drained but your heart still full, it hasn’t changed. it never will. so straighten up. clean your face and rinse your eyes, open wide and listen up. you hear that? your walls are false and hollowed but forceful wrecking not the way to go. patience.

(thank you. for everything. always.)

TOKYO

bloodshot, steam–red, punk love. a minute's held clenched breath and hidden secrets under bare white skin. you're young until you're not and you breathe until you don't and you love until you can’t. but you knew this. you always did, you just needed a reminder. so thank you. for that, and everything else. I hope you never think of anything as much as I think of you.

UNDER BRON

the universe is music. or is it the other way around? cinematic heaving beats and echoed strikes to beating heart. it doesn't matter. it never did. petty disputes fade like bruised blue skin because the world is grander than that, the city larger and the person more complex. so you forgive. and then the curtain falls and the sun goes down and the rain fall blue beneath the clouds below you. same old beats conjure scenes in your mind and you return to where it all left off. ”listen to your dreams and they will tell you your desires” – who said that? I don't remember. I breathe because I write but words are too concise and this is not. patience. 

remember what he taught you? lightly, child, lightly. think lightly, act lightly, feel lightly. yes, feel lightly, even though time has got you warped and strangled and it's weighing on your sunken chest. patience. it's winter soon and then it's over. 

lightly, lightly, lightly.