desertion

in another time, perhaps miles of anguish

and tunnels of panic away from now,

our bone breaking pursuit will finally be over.

absolved of our stages of shared guilt, 

undisturbed by our candid stitches,

we will have found the safest nowhere,

the perfect place for abandonment.

there, a grey empty shore will open for us,

the way death greets its chosen ones

with the relief of a long-expected departure,

and all our stories of love and hate will find their awaited sleep.

without a word, without a glance, we will sit next to each other,

the coldest shoulders faintly converging in softening void,

empty yet free from the illusion of separation.

as our own sentenced hands will drown the terrible masks,

we will no longer be flesh and bone, but unreachable ghosts,

marching away like pale disarmed soldiers.

in another time, in a scene of petrified wilderness,

beneath the stillness of perfectly pure black water,

our hunting blood will finally find home.

ouija

no touch of daylight can completely erase

the traces of the hands we abandon our heads into

when present tense dissolves to mute denial

and all that’s left is past and uncertainty.

none of us will speak of what happens

in loud corners in the midnight of mind,

when strangers with features like ours

direct the chalk on the blackened board

and the unfamiliar starts dripping from our warmest place

with the weight of a saddened identity.

as if confined to a recurrent accident of a play,

we're nothing but puppets in the eye of time,

puppets to the voices that sneak in our ears at night

puppets to the untiring daggers that hunt our blood

to set in motion the tides of memory gongs.

it’s the law of weaknesses, that we will always meet at the round table,

rehearsing fears and longings and all those vagrant pledges

love speaks of from the dead.

before our eyes, a dear world burned to a matrix of unreality

and all that happened after the apocalypse

was not more than a quest for whatever might have been. 

fault condition

my image is cut off, I am covered in ice.

from this angle of night I have no mouth,

no ears, no pain, no gestures,

only a gaze that draws blood backwards,

through tunnels of ruffled sleep.

wrapped in confined space, in light twists of seconds, 

incidences of past swim through your mind

as darkness merges with the lines of my body

and once again I turn to fields of frost.

between two walls of memory,

winter takes over all heart territory.

distressed by the sound of breakage,

we fall back on the thieving thoughts

that push us separately to the old house,

only to find it vacant.

throughout the black

possess anything you can find, but you’ll never really possess the mind,
placate the guilty, painful room.
some things hardly change: I go home uninvited, I leave uninvited,
days and weeks slip me like vapor trails,
I turn to shadows for acceptance.
the picture is settled: our tall, stony bodies, walking without us,
oblivious of what resides in their hands,
our connection, scratched out by its own aching edges,
oblivious of our small actions and their cosmic consequences.
sometimes I lean on the skeletons of words I use to fill
the long evening of solitude that opens up between us,
other times I turn wayward like a disobedient clock.
the shell closes in anticipation of another rift.

starless and unending

as I recall it, love happened

like an erratic, hallucinatory film.

(the loudness if it piercing through

with its city lights, literature, medication and blood)

(the dire shades from a flashback of running on burning bridges,

unexplainable yet warm like an ingrown memory

from a night out of this world)

(the impalpable texture of a certain darkness,

a screened world bound to die under silent daylight,

leaving behind nothing but the longing

for that inarticulate thing that has been taken from you

and will forever remain elsewhere)