Monday, 26 July 2010

weird crap about an astronaut post-apocalypse

All that remains is you
    caught between June and July,
    sweat upon your brow at Durdle Dor
    that time we decided
    to be friends again. We made
      ironic sand castles,
      and swam in an ironic sea
      I was happy that day

    - nothing much else lingers
      in this blue empty.

Yet in spite of all hazards
    accidents explosions yet
    despite this huge gloom the
    six billion now dead (including
    you) our Earth atrophied,

        there you are again,
        holding my hand,
        gliding through the cosmos, and

        I am stuck in the red mouth
        of grief where no alibi,
        change of heart, promise could
        sweep away what happened,
        for it has happened - it is done,

        and I mourn for the first lines
        of all the books I won't finish now.

In this blue room who is all colour
    and in its oblivion,

        you glitter: porcelain wolf;
          your very DNA magical brave, potent.

So here Spacecraft R9T I am,
    peering out the second porthole,
    in my angel suit alone, survivor,
    I watch

        as you (graduation, '07) waltz
        tumble and flirt through time
        and space transcend all barriers
        as you always had done,
        all centuries stitched into you
        all moments ever are dust
        beneath your fingernails -

        yes you Jerome, whom I haven't seen
        in as long as the stars do shine,
        witness me post-Earth
        to supervise my End of Days,
        you step forwards across space
        and the blue room allows it.
        A golden smirk, I smile, because

        God left: and there was you.

Thursday, 22 July 2010

04:48, less frantic, late.

God in a bucket, ignored,
And a boy in a jar -
There are wide blue skies,
And you, dancing.

Ever more, I don't
Want to lose this day.
I don't want
To lose faith, to forget -

the 2007, the 2009,
the endless empathy
of your crossed legs
at my kitchen table.

Oceans and solar systems:
I am in orbit
Around your tender humanity,
Your misplaced kindness,

Your arms, pale pineapple,
Which you reached out with
And I, anonymous, trembled,
Wedged upon a broken sofa:

and it's not sexual.
My hunger stumbles,
confused - what I want
is only to hold you.

Yes. It becomes hard
To focus on the mathematics
Of further youth,
The geometry of angst.

Because all I ache for
Throbs within the tender
Timbre of your voice,
You - God, in demin,

icon, stepping through
the night, towards me,
a friend for whom
I cherish a private wish:

Yes, I wish you joy, for
All aches to be justified,
All bruises to be healed,
Each night to pass softly.

At your side, I could
Perhaps accomplish glory,
Find a diamond where I thought
Only the monsters lay,

though you, wretched prince,
could never understand
how blackened I became,
beneath streelights, neon,

where my legs moved unknown,
dancing through new cities,
chasing a future which your
beauty would not fit into.

03:18 22/07/2010, frantic

and nineteen years old suddenly,
but i won't ever let it show,
until i turn twenty, brave:
enough love to fill a canyon,
but i can't divulge details -
enough love. enough anguish.
too much to fall apart,
too young to fall in love -
instead, obsession, the
wide gates opening always,
since ten years old and
perpetually collapsing,
gasping, and, well soldier,
if the heavens ever do receive me
i will turn to the Lord and
i will say,
"darling, what's the use?"
i will turn to the Lord and
i will say,
"who walks on water,
if i build you a motorboat?"
i will turn to the Lord and
i will say,
"never cry, because
the world sings for us -
the freaks, faggots, vandals,
this is ours - this patch of time -
this song in the depths of a night -
these are our hours,
these are our ghosts,
this is the omen
and here are my hands,
shrieking to you, O Lord,
to give us acceptance -"

and gasping, restless,
we toss and turn,
bizarre creatures,
fragile, courageous,
and hungry for a future.

Wednesday, 21 July 2010

so i read a lot of ginsberg yesterday

As our grinning nights
do crumble down to
pixels so shall the cities
the literature the factories
all fall down.
This blue room where I
first read Ginsberg
will eat itself too,
the whole earth must plummet,
for History
is an amnesiac, the papers
thrown to the wind -

Then in a thousand years

that first kiss of ours,
October '07, Indian summer,
will perish and cease
to have ever existed.
But in 2591 the sci-fi aliens
might fuel their cars
on cathedrals London sirens
Moby Dick hospitals, on
love petrol, our dead October
every dead romance

now dust, all dust, at rest.

Tuesday, 6 July 2010

Here is what happens that nobody speaks about:

1.) Boy slips down concrete set of stairs, knees buckle, jeans rip, blood spills, drunk and gasping. They have ran off shouting and laughing. Could call the police but won't, doesn't, he isn't hurt enough, they didn't do enough visible damage. Phone dead, face red. Injuries are already turning into grazes and bruises - mementos; the pain mutes into a throb. "Faggot!" they shouted. Their fists came, he broke in two. Pulls himself to his feet. Up, onwards, home. Wakes up with his face stuck to the pillow: dried blood.

2.) Miscarriage in the shower. She didn't know she was pregnant.

3.) Puts a pillow over her face when he fucks her. 20 years of marriage and his eyes are still vicious but he never looks at her. Lurches and grunts, one last thrust - he pulls out, penis quickly flaccid, embarrassed-looking, slopping against each thigh wet from her insides as he goes into the bathroom. Alone, she breathes rapidly, turns over. Between her legs, what he put in her slips out, sticky, sad, expected.

4.) Long sleeves in the height of summer: stabs whatever she can lay her hands on into her arm. A glass of wine for courage and then the razor digging inwards. It is as graceful as a ballet - the frenzy is over - she sighs, leans her head back. But the hysteria resumes (that unexplainable feeling inside her heart!) and she needs it again - fast, quick, a flush of red. Afterwards: washes her arms, applies a makeshift bandage. Sleeps easy most nights. Wakes up smiling and does not look at her arms.

Friday, 2 July 2010

Side-Street, Stumbling: (should probably start updating this blog properly at some point)

Side-street, stumbling:
A lit cigarette and
Wide sad eyes.
The outline of a rib-cage
Under thin fabric.
No empathy now;
The thud-thud-thud
of the music.

Their bodies move in time.
Smeared lipstick,
Slurred speech.
His face beneath
Neon hysteria,
Emptied of feeling;
Its anonymity - crucial.

Open mouths of hunger:
Well-earned, badly spent.
Knees bloodied,
Gutter to gutter -
The old bruise resurfaces,
Lingers and discolours.
The street lamps sigh.
They are amnesiacs.