From the freezing attic,
from the greasy mouths
out of the cold,
out of clarity,
train of thoughts
rolling on, rolling on and on,
cesspool of brain waste,
rolicking vomiting,
a borderline burial
of this monastery family,
revolt, evolve, break loose,
move away, enjoy, repay
any day now any tomorrow,
follow the signs, sharpen a pencil, strike a pose,
history's written in the concrete stars,
audition to fit in,
no doubt,
no dish,
no dogs,
no vanity.
woensdag 26 december 2012
zaterdag 22 december 2012
Sheets
It's been nineteen years since you drowned in the bedding,
a fortnight before my birthday, in the age of the typewriter.
I opened my eyes the next day and stared blankly into the future.
It must've looked eternally dim and grey and foreign and strange.
How was this brave? This slow decline, this yellow skin, these stinking sheets, this madness met by morphine, this agonizing wait for death?
The shallow gasp of your last breath?
a fortnight before my birthday, in the age of the typewriter.
I opened my eyes the next day and stared blankly into the future.
It must've looked eternally dim and grey and foreign and strange.
How was this brave? This slow decline, this yellow skin, these stinking sheets, this madness met by morphine, this agonizing wait for death?
The shallow gasp of your last breath?
vrijdag 21 december 2012
Swing Set
We were born to starve ourselves away from loving arms;
we were born to slowly be digested by words.
We fight our minds.
Your bedroom might as well have been an attic for all the purposeful steps one must take to reach the state of isolation we desire -
to quiet the soul, to rest forever, a taste of death.
I can see you swinging from the ceiling.
I tied a rope around a curled pin that used to hold a swing set;
I made your death bed.
we were born to slowly be digested by words.
We fight our minds.
Your bedroom might as well have been an attic for all the purposeful steps one must take to reach the state of isolation we desire -
to quiet the soul, to rest forever, a taste of death.
I can see you swinging from the ceiling.
I tied a rope around a curled pin that used to hold a swing set;
I made your death bed.
woensdag 19 december 2012
I would happily give up sanity to be able to think right now.
A stranger in my house.
I am a stranger in my own house.
I am the keeper of the room key.
All the secrets to what does not go on in here are mine to shut up about. No one should be ashamed of acting, of doing, of speaking, of cleaning, of sullying, of weeping, of starting, of copying, of marrying, of breaking, of erupting, of listening, of shadowing, I should be ashamed, of knowing, of waiting, of keeping, of sedating, of staring, of rephrasing, of staring, of freezing.
I know melody. I have felt it in evenings and mornings embedded in fantasy. It was treachery. It left me. It left me barren. I treat it like a lover would, gently sobbing whispering shrieking.
I am a stranger in my own house.
I am the keeper of the room key.
All the secrets to what does not go on in here are mine to shut up about. No one should be ashamed of acting, of doing, of speaking, of cleaning, of sullying, of weeping, of starting, of copying, of marrying, of breaking, of erupting, of listening, of shadowing, I should be ashamed, of knowing, of waiting, of keeping, of sedating, of staring, of rephrasing, of staring, of freezing.
I know melody. I have felt it in evenings and mornings embedded in fantasy. It was treachery. It left me. It left me barren. I treat it like a lover would, gently sobbing whispering shrieking.
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