write ‘memory’ till
it looks right.
when the word makes
sense, you know you’ve
done your best – for
as long as it’s ink
alone, you’re nothing.
if it doesn’t mean anything
to you – then readers – then
it’s not real, anyway, if
you, then, if it’s just ink
then what’s the point
sorry, don’t stop
volume, semantics – together
we’ve seen every sentence
properly restored, gleaned
fragmented description
into tools, sharp bladed
instruments, cool scalpels
for cutting flowers.
we lived downstreet,
drunk with colour &
cracks, looking for
warmth – we were
promised being
broken led to light.
from largest to smallest
you wrote, starting with
the cliches, as is
tradition – now the years
have gone long
and all you
write is dust
in blood, dim
thoughts find
themselves.
there’s fascination
with that, with those
patterns in the red.
memory – muscle
thin vine curling
up the masonry.
breath, write.
drop – hold nothing,
but drop. empty
days and minds.
there’s as much truth
as we want in this,
stone-carved stories
bloodied bark and
tearooms, lives
we talk about living.
it was near the river,
when we heard thunder,
echo of a broken sky.
i smudged the colours
on your neck, blurred
those painted edges
while jotting highlights
to your eyes – wince
and sit, glancing down
at water popping up
all along the river.
you sat with me
while you ran away.
incense light, shadowed
wisps follow lines along
your jaw, splitting nostrils
exhale to cycle, breath.
forget – forget – forget.
mandate silence, curtain
open, reflect-light merge
throw shapes on skin.
think loud to not think.
cold air, bridge of nose;
imperative nothing.
existence revises occasionally
expanding, the often touted
building up – more cut
than construct, chaff, fat,
carved meat of carrying on.
again, more to say
in fewer words.
the old statues were
painted, we think.
ardentpoetry 