what bird is this
that comes to me
so late at night
and speaks sweetly
bringing word
of places unknown
with tales of forests
overgrown
of running rivers
never dry
of star filled nights
that shine and thrive
it whispers to me
where i reside
a dank, dark well
amidst the tides
for i know no sunrise
or blue moon that shines
my world is darkness
and endless night
consider the letter “F”
consider the letter “F”
i have always perceived the letter “F”
to be the most comical letter in the alphabet.
i associate it with being
the beginning of some of the funnier words
from the english dictionary.
fart. farcical. funny. funk. fuck.
but then i remember some of those words
made to be written in lights.
fantastic. fabulous. fortunate. famous.
then there are less funny words
like fake and futile.
and the emotional words like
found. forgiven. forgotten.
but on the other hand
fork is a funny word.
but to fork something is quite a violent act.
perhaps i have been wrong for all these years
about the letter “F”.
it’s a dark horse.
a sad clown.
it presents itself one way
whilst hiding so much beneath the surface.
if the letter “F” were a vegetable
it would be an onion.
not because of the layers,
that would be a cliche.
i mean that i do not believe
an onion is really a vegetable,
it feels like so much more.
and so there it goes,
the level of thought provoking debate
prompted by the humble letter “F”.
the more that i think about it
the less that i find the letter funny.
suddenly, “F” appears pretty gangster;
so sharp and edgy,
a silent assassin.
an introvert.
it’s not showy and dramatic
like the letter “Z”
or vain like “V”
definitely not a narcissistic, psychotic, megalomaniac
like the letter “X”.
“F” is understated.
a charade
and master of disguise
with a sense of humour.
a fabulous, fantastically fake, fanatically flamboyant farce.
the humble “F”.
now F off.
a billion to one
we travel through billions of molecules everyday
that gather on either side of us,
and sometimes it is hard
to see the beauty through the endlessly mundane.
flowers floating in sewage water.
it’s about looking at the road
from a different perspective.
there is a reason that the path you chose
is less traveled.
it’s dirty and difficult and confusing.
anyone can be content,
even happy,
if you choose to seek adventure.
in every person there is a hero;
in every task there is a quest.
it’s a billion to one
that you’re even here.
what are the chances of your mother
meeting you father?
what were the odds
that they would fall in love?
we are all artists
waiting to paint.
like a brand new ink cartridge
you pushed me into your pen
and drew with me
such beautiful lines
and I caressed your pages
with mine.
you used me up,
but not completely,
my colour was never enough.
you wanted more
and yanked me out
without a glance
discarded me on the floor.
i walk across the bridge alone
in the cold moonlight
i see your face in every
passerby
and those that see me cry.
the innocent moon
that does nothing but shine.
i came back
angry and offended
and see the willow tree.
he was like the moon, cold and distant - but always within reach. she would watch him from the bottom of her well. she often heard laughter echoing through her chamber. the stone walls that encircled glistened with blue light; small comfort. she would sometimes sing; that unsettled him, shattering his illusions of a perfect world. the rope had been cut - long ago. she knew it had been him. the neglected forest, wild and overgrown, kept her a secret - never to be found.
i look forward to that day when i bump into you in a coffee shop or bookstore and not absorb a drop of that tiresome anxiety. the ongoing lament; another existential crisis. when the words you say sound like nails down a schoolroom chalkboard and not a chorus of angels singing. the numerous meals i cooked were not enough to make me the centre of your universe. instead i was a planet in a vast solar system that revolved around you. even as my life shattered, i finally felt i was coming up for air.
ill at ease. still a child. no boyfriends. a squandered youth i still regret. the absence of rebellion. i look back, think about myself and feel depressed. oh to erase the feelings of ineptitude. what did i do? read books, write poetry. fill page after page of countless diaries. i listened to sad music; i listened to my parents and did what they asked me. i'll end up alone, i would tell myself.
it comes at night. i love the nocturnal silence. when it comes to me and takes hold! only daylight is my saviour. i do not mind the bland paint job on the wall. or the dull, worn out carpet. the sepulchral surroundings comfort and ground me. i am a daydreamer. my head whirling with words that find their proper order in the starkness of this room.
god knows i suffer in the summer. the season doesn't invigorate me, i find it depleting. the new light disorients me and fulminating nature overwhelms me. the hazy air, thick with cut grass and pollen, like an invisible army endlessly assaulting my eyes and nose. it all begins in the spring, equally as melancholic. i sweat all day, but by night i am freezing. no sweater or shoe seem right for this temperamental time of year. every blow of my life has taken place in warm weather. the jovial laughter in chiffon summer dresses only remind me of the losses, betrayals and disappointment. the summertime inertia of waking up in bleached surroundings and having the distinct feeling of being inevitably pushed forward. but today is the weekend, i do not have to leave the house. i can wake up and not get up. there is nothing better.
THE LONELY WHITE WOLF 