he said queen, i throw this sword at your feet
she said king, i'll wound myself for thee
o it was a bright kingdom we grew back then
now this blackened castle
the instruments of battle lying rusted
she said king, what you doin with my heart hey
he said queenie saving it for a rainy day
the horses moan to march forth again
the oil boils in the pot
the servants stir to loving or to fighting
he said princess ain't you got it yet
this kingdom isn't what we dreamed
it's princes here who love the kings dear
princesses fuck the queens
Friday, July 6, 2012
hush little baby
Once there was a sea inside
where a babyswam unfinished
fingers fluttering hard
against the skin within there
where no one else could get through
those hot days long
he went on swivelling
'round my womb blind
with bellyblood, silly baby
on my inside, stirring
nothing inside of I
had been another someone once
the fattening happened
quick like that things changed at school-
girl no longer, now a mother
-youngster, with a baby-
heavy belly bloating my youth
isn't always pretty
hard work, all that lumbering, clumsy
bones bearing the alien weight baldly
everyone sideways eyeing you
were the worst: you're too young
was i informed, you can't love now
keep being obedient
as ever, I bent against the blob hissing
"dumb kid" as she went, mum left
off loving, and dad did too
young to understand feelings
all crammed together
in failure. we didn't love well
'till then she'd not asked much
of her talk did come kind
of tough race she'd run though
I'd let her down once already
i was ending any small lovings well trying
my best not to let them down
where a babyswam unfinished
fingers fluttering hard
against the skin within there
where no one else could get through
those hot days long
he went on swivelling
'round my womb blind
with bellyblood, silly baby
on my inside, stirring
nothing inside of I
had been another someone once
the fattening happened
quick like that things changed at school-
girl no longer, now a mother
-youngster, with a baby-
heavy belly bloating my youth
isn't always pretty
hard work, all that lumbering, clumsy
bones bearing the alien weight baldly
everyone sideways eyeing you
were the worst: you're too young
was i informed, you can't love now
keep being obedient
as ever, I bent against the blob hissing
"dumb kid" as she went, mum left
off loving, and dad did too
young to understand feelings
all crammed together
in failure. we didn't love well
'till then she'd not asked much
of her talk did come kind
of tough race she'd run though
I'd let her down once already
i was ending any small lovings well trying
my best not to let them down
looking glass
By the way,
remember that friend I had?
The friend who died?
I realised today, she didn't die;
she was only hiding!
I heard her giggling behind me.
Of course, you idiot! Of course I looked!
But she was too quick for me.
And too clever too!
She disguised herself as a tangerine candle!
I didn't know she could do that.
Did you? 'Cos you could have told me.
It's okay, though.
I blew it out the second I realised.
She was cool with it. It's a lame game anyway.
And it's slack too, hey.
Anyhow guys, don't die okay?
It's getting tiring,
It's getting really tiring
all this checking behind everything
remember that friend I had?
The friend who died?
I realised today, she didn't die;
she was only hiding!
I heard her giggling behind me.
Of course, you idiot! Of course I looked!
But she was too quick for me.
And too clever too!
She disguised herself as a tangerine candle!
I didn't know she could do that.
Did you? 'Cos you could have told me.
It's okay, though.
I blew it out the second I realised.
She was cool with it. It's a lame game anyway.
And it's slack too, hey.
Anyhow guys, don't die okay?
It's getting tiring,
It's getting really tiring
all this checking behind everything
only forward
We can stand to see you burn, bird. We've faced fires before this blazing.
Seen you thrash yourself to ash, rise again renewed. Repeatedly.
No more. Believe me. No fear your wretched flame.
Don't dare think you stain us, or mark or scar or thaw us. That time is lost.
The pyre has grown shabby from your writhing and your wailing,
your naming all your changings, constantly re-emerging and always being
(almost) the bird you were before.
We cannot see you change and change and remain unchanged ourselves
Fat fucking chance. We won't accept another incarnation of you.
Not this time, bird. Now we are not made dumb by wonder.
The spectacle has staled. And still you don't know
You come back altered every time.
That's fire under your pyre you stupid fucking fowl. You change.
Each time your feathers melt to flame. You change.
You cannot end and end again and yet remain unmarked. It is not natural.
It is no kind of living. It is not a life at all.
I don't know what you think you are becoming
I do not even know what on earth you were before.
This land has been too bright for much too long. Our sight is scorched.
We don't see so much as look. Or closed our eyes too long ago to tell.
Go on falling to flame and firming back to flesh. We'll look away
Pretend new belief in newer yous. But you remember this
It will be important soon, in a time yet to come
when we are gone and none are left who see:
The rain comes for us all bird, and the rain will drench us all.
Seen you thrash yourself to ash, rise again renewed. Repeatedly.
No more. Believe me. No fear your wretched flame.
Don't dare think you stain us, or mark or scar or thaw us. That time is lost.
The pyre has grown shabby from your writhing and your wailing,
your naming all your changings, constantly re-emerging and always being
(almost) the bird you were before.
We cannot see you change and change and remain unchanged ourselves
Fat fucking chance. We won't accept another incarnation of you.
Not this time, bird. Now we are not made dumb by wonder.
The spectacle has staled. And still you don't know
You come back altered every time.
That's fire under your pyre you stupid fucking fowl. You change.
Each time your feathers melt to flame. You change.
You cannot end and end again and yet remain unmarked. It is not natural.
It is no kind of living. It is not a life at all.
I don't know what you think you are becoming
I do not even know what on earth you were before.
This land has been too bright for much too long. Our sight is scorched.
We don't see so much as look. Or closed our eyes too long ago to tell.
Go on falling to flame and firming back to flesh. We'll look away
Pretend new belief in newer yous. But you remember this
It will be important soon, in a time yet to come
when we are gone and none are left who see:
The rain comes for us all bird, and the rain will drench us all.
no day but today
this is the place where we are.
we are here.
grasped in the hand of morning clear
a late heat rising from the crumpled dawn
the shivering earth unsure.
so ask what it all means anyway,
as the bare sun moves above,
what of hunger, addiction, loathing?
these open wounds, that love?
it is mine, this fresh dawn
and the friends that come stepping slow
spreading treasures before them
unlike any i have owned
i don't know what the answers are
yet somehow i know
everyone is everyone,
we are none of us alone.
and in this slow born dawn earth meets sky
gold at their jagged join
and the sun will rise above us all,
our single incredible coin
we are here.
grasped in the hand of morning clear
a late heat rising from the crumpled dawn
the shivering earth unsure.
so ask what it all means anyway,
as the bare sun moves above,
what of hunger, addiction, loathing?
these open wounds, that love?
it is mine, this fresh dawn
and the friends that come stepping slow
spreading treasures before them
unlike any i have owned
i don't know what the answers are
yet somehow i know
everyone is everyone,
we are none of us alone.
and in this slow born dawn earth meets sky
gold at their jagged join
and the sun will rise above us all,
our single incredible coin
misspent youth
Amy passed out in Miss Shop.
Her eyes rolled back in her head. Looked at the inside of her skull.
Sometimes, she said afterwards, she thinks she does too many drugs.
But only sometimes, she said.
I should have asked the plastic mannequin that broke her fall.
On those evenings that are cool like spit I like to sit and think
('cos in class you're more popular if you fall asleep).
Oh, and Belinda keeps lipstick in her pencil case you know.
A blush brush in her bag. Me & Cookie steal P-plates from cars.
Probably to make us feel like we're going somewhere.
Walking home, other people's eyeballs sluice in their sockets,
I'm buying marijuana from moustached men in tight trench coats,
or I'm twisting street signs into obscene shapes.
Depends on who's watching I guess.
It's just all of us at seventeen getting an education
in acting smart, and every exam teaching us to be what we're not.
Because nobody nowhere understands,
except everyone. And each other. But even then not even.
In my mind it's always Amy passing out in Miss Shop.
A nice nineteen year old, normal name;
Her eyes reversed. Looked inside her mind.
And then she died. I coudn't save her. She died right there in Miss Shop.
And she didn't know she died. Her calves were white
where they flopped across the tracksuit tops in Miss Shop,
where she died. I couldn't save her. Amy died.
Amy died. I couldn't save her. And I didn't even try.
Her eyes rolled back in her head. Looked at the inside of her skull.
Sometimes, she said afterwards, she thinks she does too many drugs.
But only sometimes, she said.
I should have asked the plastic mannequin that broke her fall.
On those evenings that are cool like spit I like to sit and think
('cos in class you're more popular if you fall asleep).
Oh, and Belinda keeps lipstick in her pencil case you know.
A blush brush in her bag. Me & Cookie steal P-plates from cars.
Probably to make us feel like we're going somewhere.
Walking home, other people's eyeballs sluice in their sockets,
I'm buying marijuana from moustached men in tight trench coats,
or I'm twisting street signs into obscene shapes.
Depends on who's watching I guess.
It's just all of us at seventeen getting an education
in acting smart, and every exam teaching us to be what we're not.
Because nobody nowhere understands,
except everyone. And each other. But even then not even.
In my mind it's always Amy passing out in Miss Shop.
A nice nineteen year old, normal name;
Her eyes reversed. Looked inside her mind.
And then she died. I coudn't save her. She died right there in Miss Shop.
And she didn't know she died. Her calves were white
where they flopped across the tracksuit tops in Miss Shop,
where she died. I couldn't save her. Amy died.
Amy died. I couldn't save her. And I didn't even try.
many a splendoured thing
This is a pretty shitty piece, about something fucking awful.
So, note: today there will be no lyrical descriptions.
Nothing about the way the grey light spread out cold.
I wasn't really considering that. Not on a windy Sunday.
Instead (when it happened), my thinking bristled with cliches
Like, I can't believe this, this is fucked, how disgusting,
this is completely ridiculous, I'm speechless.
I didn't know then, the way these things wait
sly behind dark-glassed windows, wearing malicious grins,
ready to bad-news-blindside you on ordinary afternoons
Someone died that day, and I know you'll disagree.
"She's still alive." She's not though, not to me.
That's the horor of her death. It is deeper than dying
Despite being dead, she'll keep walking and talking
Text you sometimes. Ask you to have brunch on King St,
thinking you've forgiven, or been fooled back into believing,
But here is what I know: Love is canny. Love is sly.
And love hates you. Love just means getting fucked.
Over and over and over again, and then it's you,
deciding to go back for one last fucking. Not the good kind.
You're gonna burn your tongue on someone. It'll scar.
Take away the shiny stuff, the bits that believe in love
It will be ending after ending, and a failing,
and a always wondering if anything's coming after.
Don't despair though. There's something to be had out of it:
You will understand the lie of love at last.
This is what the lie is, so listen:
People are not who they say they are.
And they are not who you think they are.
They are not who they think they are, either.
They never are. They never are.
So, note: today there will be no lyrical descriptions.
Nothing about the way the grey light spread out cold.
I wasn't really considering that. Not on a windy Sunday.
Instead (when it happened), my thinking bristled with cliches
Like, I can't believe this, this is fucked, how disgusting,
this is completely ridiculous, I'm speechless.
I didn't know then, the way these things wait
sly behind dark-glassed windows, wearing malicious grins,
ready to bad-news-blindside you on ordinary afternoons
Someone died that day, and I know you'll disagree.
"She's still alive." She's not though, not to me.
That's the horor of her death. It is deeper than dying
Despite being dead, she'll keep walking and talking
Text you sometimes. Ask you to have brunch on King St,
thinking you've forgiven, or been fooled back into believing,
But here is what I know: Love is canny. Love is sly.
And love hates you. Love just means getting fucked.
Over and over and over again, and then it's you,
deciding to go back for one last fucking. Not the good kind.
You're gonna burn your tongue on someone. It'll scar.
Take away the shiny stuff, the bits that believe in love
It will be ending after ending, and a failing,
and a always wondering if anything's coming after.
Don't despair though. There's something to be had out of it:
You will understand the lie of love at last.
This is what the lie is, so listen:
People are not who they say they are.
And they are not who you think they are.
They are not who they think they are, either.
They never are. They never are.
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