to wonder if its something you become,

or if its someone you’re made of;

to wonder if it even is wondrous

or something stingy as cold rum.

I became a poet to count my losses;

or I was perhaps always lost in poetry;

I became a poet to rhyme my words,

or to live not in plays but pauses.

Do they say poet is as poetry does?

Or poetry is as does poet?

I know not what makes poetry.

I know not if i am poet or verse.

I became a poet for this

or I became a poet for…

Nothings

I have a desk for my nothings —

where I stow them all away;

where I forget about them existing.

All my nothings are littered —

some empty and some full;

but most forgotten and withered.

I don’t think of them very often —

only when I open that desk,

some nothings are tough, some softened.

All my nothings have their spaces —

scartered inside the desk;

always sitting and taking up the spaces.

My nothings are non essential —

but I never throw them away,

for I think they’ve still got potential.

I have another desk for nothings —

but that one’s in my head;

there’s a lot in there I think.

And sometimes I need my nothings —

so I never throw those away either;

because sometimes, I need my nothings.

On a morning as wintry as John Mayer’s All We Ever do is Say Goodbye, you’d see a girl, twenty something, melancholy something, walking along the brown footpath of a British town. She was on her way to the train station, heading back home from her visit to a cousin’s place. Every few moments as she walked along the autmned pathway, she’d stop, click a picture, and smile to herself as she went on.

Stop

Click

And on she went on. She would adjust her coat, feel the soft woolen scarf around her neck, and walk, humming to a song…

these waves of softness and heartache

float in and sing of home

reminding me of the drug you are.

-these books I wrote in your name-

-they smell like war and caffeine-

Oh! for art’s sake,

my love, I dream not of your loss

but of your fires.

-burning away, turning away the wind-

-whisking away, risking away the cinders-

what happened on those streets?

we were sitting in the starry night,

whispering sweet nothings and kissing.

-these laughing faces sit and weep-

-thinking of your tree trunks and lakes deep-

darling, what church do I go to find you?

…

there they sit solemn, all these blues.

your art, your scent, scraps of dated news.

look here, all these autumned parchments.

the wafting breath of dark roast enchantments.

in that corner, you left your diary of despair.

lonesome, fearsome, stormy and unfair.

the city gates open in wreaths of rose.

in the wind, memory burns, comes and goes.

there, your shiny, gold cigarette lighter.

ashes of home on your whites, none the whiter.

the song of desire you left on the books.

exchanging, in sync, melancholic looks.

your grey sweater entangled in my fingers.

the soft wool born of rage that lingers.

there you sit, solemn in reminiscing lies.

our hands, broken, paint birds in dry skies.

-for Newcastle

and everything it left behind.

Where have all your melodies gone, love?

I’m still looking for our time and space —

so many of our strings attached,

so many of our footsteps losing ways.

I gathered all your symphonies, love;

I kept them in a box, stacked in home —

they’re floating now out of reach;

I don’t know where we lost our Rome.

Your songs are my breaths of sadness, love.

You’ve melted away, dissolved in smoke;

you’ve floated now out of reach,

I kissed you but our goodbyes broke.

Where are all your melodies now, love?

I’m searching through my exhaustion;

there’s no finding home or you —

there’s not even rhythm of distraction.

I’ve sung all your odes and elegies, love.

I’ve run out of all our verse and rhyme;

let me now lose my soul into you;

let me now love you, for it’s time.

For it’s time.

My love I have left you in silence,

in startling abundance

of melancholy;

our flowery streets lost in existence.

My love I have no plightful prayer;

our hope a betrayer

of melancholy;

I find us in the devil’s lair.

My love where have we disappeared —

to hold you I have feared;

of melancholy,

our blood flows through veins seared;

My love I have loved you in parts,

oh our wild, estranged hearts;

of melancholy,

our souls, rigor mortis in art.

My love I have swept away this dirt,

and burned into you hurt;

of melancholy,

our last dance in the desert.

My love this must be goodbye,

for all of us but a lie;

of melancholy,

we wrote a tale destined to die.

The poet and I,

our disquiet and fire,

sat in reign; rain rained.

we did conjure a tale

of sorcery; a terrain

of fail veiled veils.

we did write rhythm

of light and freedom;

it entails tales stale.

we did build desire,

the poet and I,

fighting pain painted pain.

we made enchantment

on quill and parchment

in verse of fear — faint, feigned.

the poet and I,

our disquiet and fire,

died in vain; veins wailed.