“̶I̶ ̶f̶e̶e̶l̶ ̶s̶o̶ ̶l̶o̶n̶e̶l̶y̶,̶ ̶I̶ ̶w̶a̶n̶t̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶d̶i̶e̶,̶”̶
s̶h̶e̶ ̶s̶a̶i̶d̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶p̶e̶b̶b̶l̶e̶ ̶t̶h̶a̶t̶ ̶p̶i̶n̶n̶e̶d̶ ̶h̶e̶r̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶s̶k̶y̶,̶
a̶s̶ ̶h̶e̶ ̶w̶a̶t̶c̶h̶e̶d̶ ̶h̶e̶r̶ ̶f̶l̶y̶f̶l̶y̶f̶l̶y̶ ̶a̶w̶a̶y̶.̶

“Ay! No more,”
she said,
“of this astigmatic mind.”

All a-blur
and all awry
and worse than seeing with The Eye.

The Eye
don’t lie,
but minds like lies.

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Close each door the right way.
Maybe, some, with a broken hinge.
Maybe, some, with a gentle fling.
If each stays open,
ajar and upwind,
then all the frames will fall
like flying numbers.
Domino ring.

There are days that I have been elsewhere than here.
There are roads unlike my own on which I’ve walked.
There is fact: the fact of this.
There is, too, fact: the fact of that.
What’s to say I’m not the one
or neither?

I don’t even know anymore.

Tears come,
they fall,
they form a globular procession on the floor.
They all march forth.
Some deserve to be there,
some not at all.
They all hold plastic hands,
and all the droplets bounce.
Some come together,
some feel left out.
Some look like glass,
and they pass a luscious chalice around.
All the wet lips sip;
they take a liquid hit.
Their bouncing turns to dancing
and the place is FUCKING LIT.
“This is it!
I happy!
Tears happy!
Wet and happy!
Lakes happy!
Waves happy!
Rockpools happy!
So, why for you cries,
Human Freak,
Human Mess?
Just get bit wet.”

That’s what my tears did. That’s what my tears said.

Words for Tokyo

Tokyo,
I can’t build a tower for you.
I cannot scrape my name into your sky
with architectured letters,
bold and wide.
That doesn’t mean I don’t feel high
like you must always do.

Tokyo,
I can’t say when I’ll be back here.
I cannot write your soul into my life
forever. Perhaps it’s better
that I don’t.
That doesn’t mean I don’t find mine
has lost itself in you.

Tokyo,
I can’t invent for you a switch.
I cannot turn you off at our goodbye
and pray you’ll stop without me,
wait for me.
That doesn’t mean that I won’t think
about you from back home.

Tokyo,
I can’t believe you don’t have ears.
I cannot believe that you might not hear
this poem-lullaby
I sing you.
That doesn’t mean that I don’t think
you’ve heard it all before.

 

My Vocabulary is Lacking [w.i.p.]

Wet of eye,
blessed by some distant moonlight,
I write:

“I don’t know,”
I sigh,
“It’s just that
it feels that
no-one ever
could have felt the
same way as
those words that
I write
because
where is the word,
then,
to dignify
the feeling?
The one that
I write of,
reveal,
and revisit?
No one word
has tasted the tongues,
one-by-one,
of
mother,
daughter,
son.
None.
So,
here I am
with several.”

 

I no longer want to be that girl.

The one to waltz another person’s whirl.

The one who sits on mountaintops,
but at a word –
LOOK AT HER DROP!

I no longer want to be that girl.

The one whose dreams in others’ hands unfurl.

The one who traded in her mind
to leave nobody else behind,
but –

I no longer want to be that girl.

The one whose love the boys wear strung as pearls.

The one whose heart,
not polished up,
has now just ruptured –
ruptured up, and

I no longer for them am that girl.