How is it possible to
have writers block?
I’ve been trying to
stop the words for
years. Nasty, insidious
things.
Oh I closed my mind,
but they bribed the
doorman. More like
I’m in the elevator
and words want
to talk. “How’s
yer day?”, they
ask. I’m jabbing
L, repeatedly.
Then <>
.
your eyes and the pour of time
through my breached defences
i am uncertain of my edges now
aware of the mixing swirl
of a cosmos in which we are the dance
of endless restless smallness
we are the coalescence of waveforms
mingling in a glance
itself embroiled in the everything
a sharing of the tales light tells
a charge, a spark in the shadows
Hold callus in your hand.
Catch abrasions on knees.
Prepare skin for laceration.
When it comes, cradle it.
Gaping wounds don’t appear
overnight. Reassure it, aside
from the callous of the world,
it will always have a home
with you, as it weeps.
like the bunched duvet
you left behind to haunt me
memory of wood
sucked dry by the thirsty flames
left ghost, a haunting
shaped from the fire's soft grey tears
collapses empty
beneath the settling structure
we carefully built
later i'll make the spare bed
leave ours your lost body's cave
fuzzy-edged distortion
your hands warm in my hands
we breathe across the sky
foraging for dreams we misplaced
and forgot the flavours of
drift smoke-light across dusks
each more heartbreakingly beautiful
singing tales soft
we hope and fear are heard
and dread hearing bounced back
from uncaring slabbed dullness
we dissolve and fizz
edges like ash exhilarating
in spin and drift
sometimes it's easier to hold on
than it is to see you
it's not - it can't be
yet somehow is
we laugh but shy, as if someone adult
might take it from us -
the moon perhaps, though she's allied
to lovers, traditionally - or some lurker,
hedged, patient, primed to spring
we both carry that fear bonewise,
running the body's rivers
seared in the deep red meat of us
how even if we get this moment that's not
but somehow is, somehow it isn't,
and won't, can't, mustn't be, or ever have been