All the wrong places

I've been looking for you in all the wrong places
down in the soggy dregs of coffee in my cup
I would try to tilt and turn the little bits
until they might shape into your face
but they dried so I had to give up

I've been looking for you in all the wrong places
up in the stars, connecting the dots to each
unsure if Vega was a good start or end
until I ran out of breath and space
as none were within reach

I've been looking for you in all the wrong places
into the bubbles of the foam in my bath
I would watch and listen to them pop
until I unsaw the mirrored gaze
and became Sylvia Plath

I've been looking for you in all the wrong places
through long nights of browsing Tinder
each ghost had something of you
until you would be effaced
drowned in cinders

I've been looking for you in all the wrong places
in between written words and musical notes
through hundreds of songs and poems
until I could no longer retrace
what I'm sure was a quote

I've been looking for you in all the wrong places
for you might have passed by in old Polaroids
I even checked VHS tapes and jigsaws
until no left-over puzzle piece
could surely fit the void

I've been looking for you in all the wrong places
in footsteps I never heard, in scented eaux
I never smelt, deaf and blind to signs
that you might not ever surface
until I have to let you flow

1+1

I'd love to thrash the idiot who told you
that happiness is a beautiful feeling
that it is as easy as 1+1

I'd love to catch the simpleton who said
that life is simple, just follow the signs
leaving me wondering where I screwed up

how many times have you genuinely said,
stopped mid-breath, I am happy right now
looked around you in awe and contentment

how many times have you actually said
I was happy back then because this instant
I am fucking miserable, and lonely

how many times have you added up
1+1 and thought you had the answer
why unhappy people thought they were happy

what if happiness was a trap laid down
by the most careful of hunters
catching only the unaware ones

what if unhappiness was a trap set
by the most careless of hunters
always catching the questioners

you see, happiness is like being well
you realise only after you get sick
that things weren't so bad after all

unhappiness is like being in a well
you feel the rising water and you stare up
burning your lungs screaming for help

then you finally grasp that 1+1
cannot be as simple as adding them up
that 1+1 is a fucking black hole

in my mind

whoever I have known might have died somehow
whatever I have touched could have withered
whilst I was only trying to feel alive

half my existence has been dreamt
painful day-to-day wish to belong
and to be someone else, and with

somewhere and somewhen else
because I have always been sad
without genuinely seeing why

even though I do understand how
as dusk brings hordes of breathtakes
and dawn its defibrillating gasp

the desire to persist even though
it means anguish, hurt and longing
the imaginedeath of others

living a mess of shifting somethings
ungrasped only in the twilights
images conjured perhaps
real, perhaps,
but all there
all there
in my mind

Afterwards

We thought he’d stick it out a little longer

It was a small favour, considering.

He would have all the time he desired

Afterwards.

We had all felt lonely and despondent

At one point or another, for sure.

But we all thought we’d have enough time

Afterwards.

We did everything we could to help out

Even the most absurd of favours.

We thought these would count

Afterwards.

We’d never have agreed to any of this

Down to the simplest request

Had we not believed he’d stick it out

Afterwards.

We were mortified and disappointed

When he decided to leave.

He had played us now and

Afterwards.

Through the wood and up the hole

We knew he was laughing

He alone knew what was coming

Afterwards.

Today I had weird thoughts about death

 
Today I had weird thoughts about death.

Perhaps it was the bleeding.
Perhaps it was the heaving.
Or maybe it was the visceral fear.

The stain on the couch points to this,
like the birth of a red black hole.

I couldn't but swear though out of breath

as I saw my funeral rolling,
as I saw my friends in tears,
as I saw the blood dripping.

The pain in the guts attests to this,
like a gash made by a sinkhole.

I didn't have the heart to tell my friends
that there wouldn't be any ceremony.
This is not how I want my life to end:
the plan is to bury myself at sea.

They sure know this isn't the first time
I've had weird thoughts about death.

Yet they may not understand as they
haven't have to bleed
for four days straight.
The twang of whiskey
a testimony to this
the old, familiar smell.

The thoughts never totally go dumb
though the clots are now down the drain
the flesh grows pale,
the mind goes numb

at the end of each day, only the pain

I shall wait for the right tide
eyeing life and sea
from their respective shore

bracing away for the last ride

trying not to bleed too much
this is not the way the world ends

it ends when I say it ends
the pain today can go fuck itself

 

As long as there are rivers, there will be libraries

 

For as long as there are rivers, there will be bridges across them.

For as long as there are bridges, there will be neon lights illuminating them.
For as long as there are neon lights, there will be moths orbiting them.
For as long as there are moths, there will be walnut orb-weaver spiders catching them in their orb-webs.
For as long as there are nuctenea umbratica, there will be entomologists fascinated by them.
For as long as there are entomologists, there will be Latin names to denote them.
For as long as there are Latin names, there will be encyclopedias to gather them.
For as long as there are encyclopedias, there will be books to explain them.
For as long as there are books, there will be libraries.

No rivers, no libraries.

And rivers are running dry.

 

Remember Ithaca

Keep Ithaca in your mind, audacious sailor,

for if the long stretches of horizon

from port of call to port of call

draw dreams and sighs alike

for if the destination is hazy

as a distant phlogistoned oasis

only a blink of an eye exists

between you and beloved Ithaca

Many before you have flocked to see her shine

to drown their senses in whirlwinds of spices,

many have thought her worthy of a sacrifice

and a promise which tides tried to break.

Remember people have died for Ithaca

knowing they should never come back.

Ithaca has become a name more enduring

than the Laistrygonians',

more legendary than the Cyclops'.

Flatten then the map with the palm of your hand

mark the place with a red cross like a treasure

remember that history, sailing and writing

are always achieved at an angle

the pen aslant across the lines

as if bent by the wind

as the ship unyielding through tempests

men carving unmatched paths on the sea

wild things of straw and bones in a firestorm

Remember Ithaca's taste of savoury figs

her smell of dark incense, her sound of oud

the touch of her dark, velvety skin

Remember Ithaca dwells on dreams

feeds on departures and arrivals at break of day

remember Ithaca harbours adventures the mind yearns for

remember Ithaca because one day, audacious sailor,

she will greet you like her conquered king

and you shall forget every other Ithaca.

 

A light through the darkness

Killarney, Co. Kerry, Ireland

Foundations

She is buried deep in grave thoughts,
her mind aflare with consciousness —
there are no more ifs, no more oughts,
at long last came clear-sightedness.

Like the tearing of a dark veil,
a haunting doubt finally interred —
glaring at her as chalk on shale
is the unshrouded truth made word.

She is enwreathed with bated breath
in a moment frozen in time —
restless, her vision’s boundless breadth
pierces through ghosts, grief and grime.

Out of the ashes she found peace,
in the cold furnace of her heart —
that which obtained in quietus:
the deathling secret at depart.

Wisdom

 

“When I have ceased to break my wings 
Against the faultiness of things, 
And learned that compromises wait 
Behind each hardly opened gate, 
When I can look Life in the eyes, 
Grown calm and very coldly wise, 
Life will have given me the Truth, 
And taken in exchange -- my youth.”

Sara Teasdale, American poet (1884-1933)