a reminder for beautiful people in not so beautiful times

if we were put here to experience,

to share fruit and look at the moon,

to skim pebbles across open water

and hope that summer is coming soon,

you'll wish for snow every year just to complain

that it's made your fingers far too cold again

and ruined your day

but when it's gone you'll miss it

so enjoy it whilst you can

because spring leaves no prisoners when she decides she wants to bloom

and the cold will be gone just that little bit too soon,

everything you can see and touch and taste was especially made

for you to know this world personally

on a first name basis

to see it's many faces

and kiss them all, impulsively,

remember to look at paintings more than once

until you notice something new

maybe a new favourite colour

or the beautiful eyes of another

waiting to be noticed by you

all those years later,

time is a worthless indicator

when connections can be formed through paint and ink

for those who used to write and smile and think

just like us, right now,

look in the mirror for a little longer today

all the shapes of your face

and it's intricacies deserve to be admired

and traced, by loving hands

but if you get a little tired

and lost inside your mind

just turn and look at mine, instead

and empty the thoughts inside your head

into the open

until there's nothing left,

and submerse yourself in thoughts divine

there's so much more to see

the sky will be starry

and everything beautiful is free,

we did not put ourselves here

but we're here all the same

so experience everything sublime

and if you'll kiss life's many faces

you should let one of them be mine

Comments

to the daughters of builders who drive white vans

on the 6am train the men smell like my father; red bull, cigarettes, dried cement - they wake up like my father i feel safe in this carriage, these men are my father, any man with a van and one arm out the window, sunburnt from the elbow down - the infamous builder’s tan - seats so dusty i can’t breathe and i have lungs like my father, full of second-hand smoke and concrete, a touch of asbestos, i should weep for my father but my pockets are healthy i am told by my father whose hands shake as he brings another beer to his lips at 10am on a saturday morning, this is coping for my father these men cope - cope like my father - with the asbestos lungs, uneven tans, shaking hands, muscles in constant pain, water on the brain, the ever encroaching grasp of old age; with substances up the nose they unwind like my father this kind of masculinity doesn’t last forever, you know...

i can only write when i am thinking about God

I can only write when I am thinking about God and sometimes God is God and he loves me, most of the time he does not the hand that feeds me overpowered by teeth that bite he visits me at night like a shark smells blood he smells lust, guilt, and greed brought to my knees, voice hushed he picks apart my greed and my lust promising to forgive, to forget he will make me repent and regret, any pain or pleasure at his expense provided in selfless restoration a gift of his affections exchanged for endless loyalty God is not always God, sometimes he is my lover he tells me he loves me, most of the time he does not I can only write when I am thinking about God

crisis of faith

and when i meet god i will ask him why he punished me on earth by denying me the pleasure of being known by anyone other than him intentionally, innately, irrevocably known in a way i could have remained silent forever whilst always being heard i will ask him why the world kept spinning as i screamed and spiralled into the sins he’d laid out for me for me to fumble in my guilt on my knees, raw from repentance and retribution who is to beg for forgiveness now? and i will apologise to my mother for carrying her burdens in my womb it was her first time too, on earth longing for something she’d never known please tell me i did it right, that i made you proud please tell me i lived how you wanted me to give birth to me again and i’ll try harder would it heal you to see me leave, or would it hurt because you never did will i see your face one day in the mirror and touch it to feel your skin and i will ask you if you could not love...

my love

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