Chorus

I wrote a poem
too sad to post
which might have languished
in my iPhone's notes

but,
instead I gave it chords
and a sweet melody
to soften the blow of
clenched fisted honesty.

It's always crystal clear,
here
a blank page sits reflecting the silence
of lies

if I'm forced
to cross my t's and dot my i's
I'm a funnel
for precise thoughts.

they continue to pour
a floodgate opened by a soft tenor voice

singing

'I don't love you any more'

Now there's a chorus
worth repeating.

Though I can't make you feel
anything
at all

I can still
funnel, shape
distill into intoxicating rhyme
freeze a memory in time

record, store
and between my verses

sing along with his chorus

'I don't love you anymore'.

Wiped Out

First,
you write a couple of tragic poems about
breaking,
emptying

then you go to a bar
do some more emptying
bottles
glasses
bank accounts

come home
with a cracked iphone screen
wake up in bed
with you shoes still on

it's only Wednesday
and they're only things
the things we break
then fix,
replace

just get a new one
a better one
the latest model

(with some nostalgia for our your old nokia, you know the one
life was less complicated then
wasn't it?
so much less written, less to write)

update software
everything will be quicker now

can't you see you've had enough?
You're full, too full
gonna crash
gotta get a new harddrive
a bigger one
more room
fewer memories
wipe them away

and wipe up that vomit while you're at it.

When We're Running Away, We're Still Running Towards Something

i
arrive out of breath

hit the ground,
all beating beating heart
blood pumping

there is a need, need
for something I can never quite express

though i always try

haven't thought to ask why
i guess it just seems

obvious?

always fumbling
clumsy

(i've been like this since,
since I can barely remember

slipping off scaffolding,
regaining consciousness to find
a finger in my throat

faces concerned and looming)

It's a kind of exercize
I guess
the kind where
there's no need to leave your chair
or even be upright
lying down
works quite well, i've found.

always racing,
but to what finish line?
what tape?
no flag to wave,
or time to be recorded
applauded.

no,
always silence here in front of
blank
bare screen

but with the momentum
there's no need

i wouldn't be able to hear it anyway.

Focus. Focus. Fingers, thoughts
syncronise.

Surprised?
Always.

I guess that's half the fun.

Empty.

Syphoning out
like blood from a vein

but don't we need blood?
you say

shut you mouth
I say

away,
away

I'll be empty yet
somehow
someway.

This Time Of Year

It's the time of year
for poetry
everything ending
slowly cooked in the heat
meat falling off our bones.

It's the time of year
for breaking
and mending
thinking about new beginnings.

My foot on the accelerator
all the way to Frankston
with a hundred dollars
to buy myself freedom
from you.

I'm a skeleton now,
nothing left
bearing bright white,
flesh unbearable no more.

I'm stronger now,
strong enough to carry these thoughts
without straining

In fact,
I barely notice they're there.