* * * * *
Day 27:
Time Heals All...
Time heals all wounds, but high heels always hurt. A stiletto punctured my heart when you died, and I can do nothing but wait for the hole to close. No one seems to actually believe time can truly be a panacea, though. Time heals all wounds? No, but time does heal all meaning until I'm numb enough to forget how peaceful it once felt to hold your hand for eternity. Time heals all wounds? No, but time does heal all quotes until everyone stops spouting cliches at me because they don't know what else to say in the face of such horror. Time heals all wounds? No, time doesn't heal shit, so learn to forgive instead, one man said. But can time heal this Biblical anger? Time better heal something soon because I feel as raw as the skin beneath a freshly popped blister from a new pair of high heels, and if I don't form a callous quickly I fear I might lose too much blood, too much puss, too much fluid to survive. Time heals all wounds? Well, time has its work cut out for it.
* * * * *
Day 28:
Grey
Why did you pick the name "Grey?" Hardly drab or muted, you seemed more like a silver than a dulled version, in my opinion. I would call you strong and dependable, like iron, and you have left me quite heavy and leaden. However in terms of color, you emanated neon hues of purples and greens in a way your ashen name never quite represented accurately. But maybe grey, like black, in your eyes contained softened versions of every other color, like a cinereal rainbow or a fuscous pallet containing a yellow-grey dun, a red-grey russet, and a purple-grey heather. Grey clouds of smoke did always surround you and emanate from your mouth, nostrils, and fingertips. But now that you're gone I want to rub charcoal into my eyes so I can see your color forever. I want to shade the world lyart so you pervade every aspect of existence. I want to color my feelings a somber stone granite, but instead, your name epitomizes my clean slate. And pearls come from the shit stuck in an oyster's shell, so maybe, in the light, after I shake these pebbles from my shoes, I will finally see in the mirror the pearlescent gem you always told me you saw.
* * * * *
No Basta
I got a tattoo in your honor yesterday. Pero no basta porque no es tu. The golden spiral, based on Fibonacci's number, starts at my hairline and swirls to the bottom of my neck. Pero no basta porque no es tu. I got it because you always said, "We are all long, beautiful math equations." Pero no basta porque no es tu. I got it on my back because in my imagination, your spirit always stands behind me with your arms wrapped around me the way we stood when we went to that Pretty Lights concert in Eugene, Oregon. Pero no basta porque no es tu. When the tattoo artist completed his work, and you permanently yet symbolically had my back, and we drove home, I broke down into tears because no basta porque no es tu. Then I realized, nada basta porque nada es tu.
* * * * *
Happy Boy's Cacophony of Hatred
You open your mouth and none of the heavens awaken;
You drop your lips and nothing is dead.
(You know I live outside your head.)
The moon stands still in blackness,
And necessary white dives out:
You open your mouth and none of the heavens awaken
You wished that I had forced you out of bed
And yelled at you sun-bleached, pushed you sanely.
(You know I live outside your head.)
The Devil rises from the depths, heaven's ice melts:
Enter demon and God's women:
You open your mouth and none of the heavens awaken.
You did not want me to leave, like I never said I would,
But you stay young and remember my name.
(You know I live outside your head.)
You shouldn't have hated that shark;
At least when winter leaves they sink forward.
You open your mouth and none of the heavens awaken.
(You know I live outside your head.)
I rewrote "Mad Girl's Love Song" by Sylvia Plath:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)
The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)
God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan's men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
I fancied you'd return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)
I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)
* * * * *
And finally, Day 25 overwhelms me for some reason so instead of writing a ballad, I just wrote one stanza, ABAB, 8/6/8/6:
Long, Math Equations
We are all long math equations
like Sine, Cosine, and Pi.
We are Newton's gravitation
insane, sober, or high.
* * * * *
Phew! Happy National Poetry Writing Month! Hope you enjoyed :)
Posts
