Spirals
Dormant
Spirals
Reaching up over
Your sunken head
Do they wish you dead or
Just not
Among the living
Instead
Instead
Trembling with
A senseless fear of guilt
Over what
Should have been
The twin
He who whilst you call out brother
Listens to sister
Whilst you cry sister
Smiles even broader
On the bed
By his window
Is that smile
An upside down reflection
Of the corners of your mouth
Let me live
Cries the whisper
Crawling among toys
Let me
Live
The spirals
Like plants
Never dormant
There is no likeness to the sun
Always
Instead
Of your sunken head
A day In The Eighties
Cocaine. She'd woken up smelling the stains of the previous night, now she was already in a fit.
Where were they? The boys who had been so loud, all gone now. The wooden floors reminded her of dust.
They had all taken turns shouting their names into the big black void, the edges of it shining on the wall. They had laughed at first, then they had stopped laughing. Then they had disappeared.
A window she opened made a noise like a pregnant cat. The air struck against her face. The leaves gently thrown off the trees. She thought: Cocaine.
Come on and dwell
Come on and dwell
With her again
Writing on walls
Riding too far
Put on a shirt
Ignore where it hurts
Go do a job
Buy some donuts
They’re dancing round clocks
They forgot to turn off
Make her despise
And cast you aside
Sink as you think
A bucket of pills
Look at the bugs
What they’re whispering right now
Another place
An accident
Watch how it ends
Beginning again
The rests
Cement
dilated pupils trembling
dark materia
turning
the yellow grass growing at its sides
bending
seeking acceptance
from something as seemingly indifferent
as the seasons turning
something encompassing
the grass shooting the leaves trembling
the wind in stride the leftover darkness
caring not more than you do but
externalising the way things ought
the way things ought
as cement guarded matter
trembling stone in a raised fist
the terror sinking into black puddle
the rest as history
until it goes
In A Hospital
In A Hospital
In a hospital
Not much left to talk
Silence plots your king
Your queen takes everything
Or the other way around
The way it is set up
In a hospital
Not much left to talk
War deems everything
The way it is set up
As unnecessary beings
In a hospital
Not much left to talk
Silence plots your queen
The way that she’s being
Makes war seem unnecessary
Not much left to talk
In a hospital
Something about stars
Something about stars, a way in which they control through description(s)... the more narrative surrounding stars, the more unreachable and near they seem
they are said, many(?) of them, to be burned out - like patients at a hospital, shining brightly many years ago, right now (but/and not all, some have perhaps yet to be created...)
are they formed, created, creators of their own - from the slight arrogance of a viewer narrating they might seem, as Shakespeare hints of, combusting in failed narrative... to be... in our faults
From a guess of sorts... they would have to be broken to be spreading light, in such way
Those shining away from earth, are likely not to be called, stars, other than by such an inclusion