i was never real, and you’ll never be without me
because i’m a fabrication;
a pretty simulation,
a steamy stimulation
of a great imagination
and bleak resignation
sleeping with a hologram
and writing your own version
until i become the one you want
you’ve been programmed to adore me;
then abhor me.
Does the heart ever really repair itself,
Or does the underlying sense of something lost stay with you?
Does the past take a splinter of us and keep it?
Is that why we go back to people and places,
In our minds, our dreams, our cars, our phones?
To find the missing pieces and try to snatch them back,
So we can feel untarnished and wholly prepared to go into the world.
Perhaps our individual sense of vulnerability comes from the fact that we know we are internally shattered
And by some unknown substance
Have been carefully and tentatively glued back together.
Are we afraid that the absent, splintered shards of our hearts have necessary components of who we were?
Are we afraid that leaving and losing pieces of ourselves to the past is a terrible nod to the omnipresence of death?
I don’t fucking know.
i was standing in the bread aisle alone.
the lights were clear and white and i was almost surprised that the aged and raised white scars of thought across my face, were not illuminated for all to see.
only thirty minutes before the hour at which the super-store closed, the shelves were close to bare. i could smell fruit bread from the bottom shelf where the special varieties of bread were displayed to our ankles, and strangely still, our noses.
come as you are had been playing but i had been neglecting my ears in favour of my nose. when i tuned in, i zoned out, and i was not alone in the aisle anymore.
the lights clear and white, had illuminated a crowd of ghosts, just for me to see. i truly felt as though there was an old friend standing beside me, as i turned my head away from the past procession of silky spektors, who laughed with me at the coincidental and poetic irony of my position.
why do these steel wheels not break beneath us all?
set on fire by the cumulative heat of 900 degrees
i have lungs of glass – with such fixed capacity and inelasticity
i sip air carefully to avoid the shattering caCOUGHony of destruction
damn this too comptetnet nose for wanting life so much
that it forces the scent of kneecap sweat
into my already confined mind
but at least this engulfing ache is empathetic
to all the godless jails
filled with innocent convicts
The process of packing a bag has long confused me. A bag is representative of planning and anticipation, yet rarely feels suitability shaped and size to appropriate fulfill this function. When packing a bag, one must consider potential conditions which may require specific items, then the complete antithesis.
Allow me to clarify: when leaving the house, there is a chance that despite the clear sky and perfect forecast, it may rain or storm. For this reason it is necessary to pack an umbrella as well as a hat; two contradictory items which are both necessary in order to be sufficiently prepared.
The confusion is compounded when I consider that I have an entire room in my family home, dedicated to my possessions. Yet, when I leave the house my exposure to changing conditions is dramatically increase, with one 1000th of the size in which to keep suitable, anticipatory items.
Short of a Mary-Poppins-esque bag, a standard, sort of comfortable and practical bag would be too small for the above-mentioned needs.
folded in, folded up
crumpled and kept safe
in a cage laced with rust
the skin parted gently
like the sea to the rain
and the red, rosy petals
graciously took the blame