Somatic Ire

She could’ve taken me out

then & there, but

I am not the type, and

honestly, that’s alright with me.

So I’ll head off to the bar

that’s downstairs, to

kiss a friend goodbye, and

crawl away for the night, because

—

if there’s some gleam in my eye

that might’ve caught her own

it must be tricks of the light, so

we’re both better off alone.

I’ve wandered out & in to worlds

that’ll challenge my style, but

have never survived for more

than just a little while, ‘cos I’m

an overcome claustrophile.

—

He could’ve allowed me in

to the fold, but

I was easy prey, and

seriously, why not play with me?

So I’ll fall upon the block’s

stranglehold, to

expect a dropped blade, and

shed ‘sorry’s for the weight, because

—

each bitter breath I take

is of a better man’s air.

This body’s taking up space that

could’ve been yours, or theirs.

I’d walk continents for your love

while you’ll not give a mile.

I never asked for your judge-

ment, let alone a trial, yet I’m

your culpable claustrophile

—

I could’ve just given up

any time, but

I’m depended on, and

horribly, that’s what’s wrong with me.

So I’ll stand in search of suns that

never rise, to

welcome warm their bronze, and

spread thin my shadow’s song, because

—

what little colour’s in me

is just a shade with no hue.

Although riddled by answers, I

lack a damn thing to prove.

I have to suck it up each day

like gulping down bile, and

it’s been feeling this way

since I was juvenile, ‘cos I’m

Headless hunger now does demand

ascension from glory — towering

—

above, dark shoulders spread, and

become the night sky, a thousand

hands plunging through canopies

—

made decayed by pestilent hatred

I’ve never planned an end, but I’ve been thinking about one for so long that it’s jarring to realise it still hasn’t happened. It’s unnerving. It’s a candle burnt out of wax & wick, yet still flickering on the kitchen table. It’s a mountain ground to sand still casting the shadow of its past body. It’s a winter breeze felt right through a summer-home’s walls, carrying the countless seeds I’d thrown away because, quite obviously, last spring would not be reaching me — except that it did. But the next one surely won’t be met; not, at least, until it has already passed me thoughtlessly by. Until another flower has both bloomed and begun to die. Until another storm has struck and then subsided. Until another sunset has left me cold, but still standing. Until another birthday. Another reminder. Yet more growth to the chasm between what is right and what is. It swallows me without ceremony, and spits me out without remorse. It says: what greater mistake could you make now than that already made — that of letting your mistakes continue? It says that each year I have cut a dead man’s hair. Opened eyes that could have shut long ago. Grabbed hands that would crush me if I were real. I have offered flesh and blood and faith daily, despite their irrevocable spoiling. I have sold away ten thousand smiles drawn tight by the pull of sod and breathless disintegration.

It’s a stupid thing

That I’ve done

And a stupid thing

That we do

Dancing all night long

To the beat of solitude

 -

I’m the mundane in a vibrant world

The quiet through the birdsong and thrill

 -

It’s a stupid thing

That I’ve said

About the stupid things

That you do

A poison in your head

From words you misconstrue

 -

I’m the mundane in a vibrant world

The quiet through the birdsong and thrill

 -

The midnight calls

And forlorn hopes

Have left us both

Up on the ropes

And if they give

What can I give?

To bring this back

What can I give?

 -

It’s the stupidest thing I’ve done

But it’s all been done

And there’s no coming back from

The grey skies I’ve known, when

 -

I’m the mundane in a vibrant world