again the discussion of drugs: this time i might be bipolar and when presented with the evidence, he draws back. perhaps you are just uni-polar.
how about the madness that’s about me? how about the madness i have seen? how about the suffering i have incurred and have put on those that love me? are you telling me all that isn’t enough to feel as i do, to be racked as i am?
there is progress to be made, but it will be made on my terms, as i am. there is nothing wrong with me, there are no wild pendulum swings. i am human, i am frail, but i carry within me a monster who is also my strength. i have a cold trigger, i can become detached at will. it is a survival mechanism.
let’s talk about that. let’s talk about what the fuck happened to me that i felt the need to survive.
hopped up on prozac or coke: it’s just another drug. i am full of addictions, but chemicals ain’t one of them.
the singing beggar
simple beacons
the beauty of everything lies in simplicity: even the most complex structures are made up of smaller, finer things. the way she parts her hair, the way the boy tilts his foot, the way the girl sighs. the intricacy and force of a kiss, the depth and promise of fingers entwined beneath a bed sheet. the way your daughter laughs when you tickle her, the squeal of your son as you scoop him up from the floor, the way she breathes as you undress her. the simple things, a spot of light in the dark, a beacon to return home.
sorrow and i at the end
and the year has come to an end. all this trial and tribulation, all this dis-ease, all this pain and madness, all this alienation and sorrow.
where does it comes from?
i weep thinking of you, your death, your life, the pain i’ve brought you, the harm you’ve inflicted on me, ‘you’ over and again, always different, this cavalcade of pointing, the infinite gesture, of reaching outside from within, of breaking the skin, breaking this veil, into some other place, where there is only you, only me, i and other, eternal, absolute and pure.
project snowflake: harry opening amanda
i really don’t know where to begin. sometimes it feels as if i knew amanda before i even met her. she had that quality: she reminded you of someone you had hurt and you were compelled to make amends. for all of her strength and intelligence, she would often come off like a wounded animal. and while most of the time you were tempted to put her out of misery, you found yourself more often than not tending to her, licking her wounds, brushing the hair out of her eyes, and holding her through the night.
little did i know that more i held her together, the more i came apart.
you're going home
there are things you walk away from. a car accident, a pistol, drug use.
there are things you cut off. a tumor, an infected limb, a telephone line.
but there are things you cannot abandon. love, children, peace.
here to be love whipped
do i arrive too quickly? do i come and go too easily? am i difficult? am i difficult to please? she stands before me, whip in hand. how remarkable. so easy, as if she was meant for this. but i do not want to be whipped, i want to break, i want to be shattered. she presses her body onto mine, runs her fingers in my hair. you are loved, she tells me, rubs herself even harder against me. am i? i whisper, am i here to be loved?
moss, mold
dreams of infinite sadness, i cough bleeding. three shot, perched amongst ruins, a tombstone slanted from the mud. i do this to relieve the pressure of your mouth. and she was scarred from head to toe. broken twigs lined the driveway and the spigot was afoul. i had heard of this, of winds tearing into houses and stealing wills. and she was talking from all places all at once. amok and cindered, christmas trees wrapped tightly into nuances. we can only keep nothing. and i breathe moss, i breathe mold.
crushed
Mysteries and puzzles. She says to me, you’ll never figure this out. And I dig my nails deep into her thigh, deep into her back, through gritted teeth I reply, you never wanted to be figured, you only wanted to be blindly adored.
unwrapping
And of course, christmas morning, the boy stumbles about and the girl rips through the gifts starving and half mad.
What beauty they still possess. How they shine while I grow old and dull. My god, they are mine and they outshine everything I’ve ever done.