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Ties that bind
Tag Archives: poems
The clouds are falling,
Blue sky rain,
I am riding through it on my bicycle on the way to work,
It drizzles and the subtle way it touches my skin reminds me of the way you caress my hair, love.
It is quiet, a calm clarity that cuts through the Saturday afternoon,
Every drop on my skin is a second that has elapsed since you left
To sojourn for a week,
Why have I felt so still why you were expanding?
Why is there less of me when there’s less of you around me?
The streets are still busy, but they’re subtle,
Like they’re waiting
To spring to life again
When you return to these streets.
Hours have passed with each footfall bringing us closer to the village,
it would be less difficult if I knew where we were going, but I am ignorant of our destination,
how far we need to travel,
we are seeing the canyon for the trees, the red rocks,
the crows flying in circles, the little lizards seeking shade,
refuge from the sun, as we do, at every outcrop of rock that at noon-time
can still offer the solace of shadow from the heat,
that radiating from sky and ground that has my water spent too early,
that sees my footfalls quickening for the sound of the river
and the small forest that quenches its’ roots with the water table,
and we are encouraged by a bridge that points the way to the village,
and in my mind I am settling, thinking I am nearly done.
Among other things, I am a slam poet – a breed of slam poet that is also an actor, which lends a lot of theatricality to my work. It had occurred to me in the past that there is a great opportunity to be strove to through combining theater and performance poetry: this is my first attempt at combining the two.
I scrawled you beneath my skin in wedding cake and salvaged bits of cellophane,
Around my ring finger, a testament to temperment, a subtlety I had been lacking,
To drive a reminder that each bright eye and every coy smile that declares love had better be worth covering you over.
Impermanence, how long did I lavish over you?
Drinking to dull the remembrance of your record needle scratches across the grooves of me.
Each inking after you, a pale comparison to the single spin our circling did around each other:
And though there is my history now stuck unto my temple,
It is you that drove these tattooes into my testimony.
Anatomy books and cannibals will tell you the heart is one tough piece of meat,
But everyone here knows despite its’ fibreous tissue,
It is not really made of such stern stuff:
It is mosaic cobbling of glasswork held over heat and harboring the cracks of every other inferno it has hovered over before;
It is ceramic suggestion of a plaster cast, a resemblance of what that ticker looked like last;
It is veins and ventricles sketched in charcoal and left in the rain.
Eartha harbored an unorthodox digestion that fluttered around the rhythmic syncopation of psychopathy,
That pseudo-science that sought to photograph the soul.
She hummed along with the machine that roiled and bubbled with each breath she took,
She made mischief in not quieting that wispy part of herself,
Kept her spirit soaring outside the vacuous chamber and after half-an-hour of snapping shots of an empty space the researcher cut her loose,
Figured he was never onto something.