Together

These eyes are round,
They’ve grown that way,
Like the planets, the stars, the seasons,
And this inferno,
Created and destroyed this way.

I am…
And you are…
We,
Round this way
‘We run around’,
And, ‘We come around’,
And it’s…
‘About this’,
‘About that’,
“Will you come around?”
“Will you come around, to this?”
“…To me?”
But it’s agreed though, right?
That 'We…'
…That 'WE' never change.
But everything revolves,
Evolves.
So, how is it that we have become like this,
This way?
And that...
We are no longer around together?

This fools paradise only sees so little.
We are made this way,
To see close,
Evolved,
To misconstrue,
The grand movement of greater bodies,
Because,
In order to have survived,
Thus far,
We have had to become a little selfish through instinct
Along this great flat plain,
That is nevertheless,
Inconceivably round,
And inconceivably…

Together.

Fallen masonry

I can’t be sure if any of this is right.
I’ve asked everyone for confirmation,
And still, I fear, my heart can’t tell this wrong from right.
And now I’m here, and the fighting is gone
I’m so cold without you here beside me in this tiny flat.
But I can’t help what you feel,
Or how your anger towards me has grown -
I think you’d like to see me dead.
I’m feeling as if all my weaknesses have been revealed,
Like an untidy stomach through a gaping shirt,
Or some strange manners, to which I am blind.
And you threatened yourself with injury, yesterday,
What was that all about? A tool to blackmail me out?
And then you threatened to have me beaten up.
Now, I need my sleep after three days drinking, trying to manage pain,
I wish I had your version of these clumsy words,
So that I could put them together and fill the holes
In this broken mess, not far from the Seine.

Revelation

Circumstance peels back the skin.
And all that was there, all this time
beneath,
expands like a fist unfolding.
An ugly flower, whose pollen chokes
those that once believed
that it's nectar was sweet.

The Reaper

And there is nothing I can say,
But that this is. These words,
Their very existence are the necessary bleed for some kind of cure.
This rage that you have opened in me,
This bile that has consumed me and struck you twice,
Clouded with wine and frustration,
You tearing at my flesh in retaliation and pleasure.

I am consumed.
Sapped and drained like this human scum,
Draped across what branches I've scavenged with my inadequate claw,
So far downstream,
Daydreaming too long.

I've met these rapids unprepared,
Caused this turbulence,
From afar in ignorance to be sure.
And this bitter effect comes now,
At this dawning day in all its stinging reality,
The one which would always be tomorrow.

Golden

When this pound of incompatible flesh,
Becomes,
As it does,
Moment to moment,
Like some blinking sun,
It's best of all that I do not speak,
At all.

In anticipation of Poppies

In consideration of ways to counter pain.
For Example, words and fragrance
that envelope me insane.
I am:
old,
shrivelled
and
of a behaviour, so I'm told
unsuited for a man of my age;
Damned perhaps...

Pain

It's not that you're entirely wrong,
and that I'm free from the effects
of what you suggest.
It is this though,
and that being,
that this barrage,
whose perpetual rearmament
serves only to keep me down,
weighs against a full recovery.

I can only hope for some day of armistice,
some pitiful respite on which dawn,
we'll embrace across no man's land,
and play ball amongst the craters,
until night becomes,
and we are...
at war again.

Mote

For whatever reasons,
The ones I know of,
Here I am.

I could say that again,
In emphasis,
Only lost to this composition.

Another strut, lost to the structure,
Like I,
Now;
To time I drip into the great ocean,
Where I soon will be lost forever,
And all that weighs upon me,
And all that I make obstacle,
Will be gone.