Cheating the Polygraph

Like you know, I did not
talk back.
Not because I'd lost my voice (close enough, though)
but because from that
moment on,
yours became a cloudy
polyphone
of weak air signals.
Always too hushed (to be homed)
always too many
(to be yours)
It took me a couple of
doubled-over nights
and a book of terrible straitjacket
poems to get here,
but what the hell, I'm
here now. Good bad ugly? Na, I swore nobody's
any. But I see a little
beyond that, now.
It's you against your
sickness and
everybody else, a slow-motion
accident.
Collateral damage,
is that the word?
Perhaps.
And every one knows /anything /goes -
Only it doesn't. Scary as it is, people
are real. Real enough.
Some still have the gall to
feel, falter.
Fall? Bleed their guts out before
driving the fuck on, may be.
Sans swerve-aways, sans
shame.
And the brain can only smoke
so much auto-defenses
to haze their
faces into flakes
of impersonal moments. It's
you against your sickness, and
I see how I got in the way.



But hey, I'm not the one cheating the polygraph.

(Not anymore.)

To a(ny) Butter moon Girl

It wouldn't appear so, but
you and I, we'd been on the same path.
I've 
crossed the same blue-black drops
of wintersmile trees, taken a left
'round the butter moon,
hanging, fooh-ed
in it's cheeks, laughing,
waited on my rubber toes
to watch the world
fog up. 
Like you, I've rested,
for a few hazy noons, at the feet of the
that tickly pond-grass,
tried my hands at some
bad poetry while
the sun hit the
slushy waters and turned
my insides into paper
roses
or dust,
I've wiped the same tangy
sweat
off my palms, re-
traced
the same red skin and
smiled
through a night
or two. No, no it wouldn't 
appear so,
anymore, now it wouldn't,
but I've shot the same 
butter moon, dared
it to bleed into
my heart.

Oh Oh and our leap of faith, the same
vacuum, the gravity, and
waltzing, 
you'd remember? I,
I
picked 
a slow motion
accident, true, yours, it
had your back, but 

you
and I, we'd been
on the same path, and
I,
understand, if






it couldn't appear
so.

The Moon and The Yew Tree Were Still an Accident:)

"The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right,
White as a knuckle and terribly upset.
It drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quiet
With the O-gape of complete despair. I 

live here."








Hello,
I do, too.
:)

1963

To trudge back to a winter,
'coldest in the century' and
hug a dead girl
warm, to pass her
a scrunched up
paper singing the
songs of
her June thunderbird, to
toss
it into the crackling
fire and tell
her,
I am I am I
am


 all that you'd made up
'inside your head.'

For being to me everything
real.

The Worlds Shed Skin in Winter

Multiverse.

And in it, ours,
a dream of dream of
a dream.

-

Is memory the point of forgetting, or
the point of

remembering








allforgotten?

You are You are You are

You are
just the voice in your head
telling you that the world
is still
real in parts, still a little
brighteyes and good
love, innocence and
continuum, still a
little
sealed-crack, braveagain
for a steady
fall, still,
you are
justthevoiceinyourhead
but


you are

Sleep Dealers

It's hard to believe that people around,
that girl down the street and that man
waiting tables, all miss the unmoving
brokenness at the heart of their world.

May be they just chose not to see it, not to look the dishonesty of the moments
in the eye and die inside, while they are given full marks by this naive little world
for putting on their dresses and heading to work
and making cold love everyday -
A shiny happy Grade A for being alive, while
all the way down inside they are wondering
just why.
May be. Or may be they are the truthless moments, ones traded
to save face, clear conscience,
trip on power and make for a sound-good
conclusion,
to feel a little awesome-er about
their jagged mirror selves.
May be they are the ones that were
once more than flesh and blood and bloody rubber,
once,
ones that could feel joy and pain like one might
feel a careless razor gash across their shower limbs,
ones that could give and receive good love, be, just
be,
without taking away from the world around.
Or may be they are simply what they are,
sans awkward apologies, born
to break it down,
the universe's way of telling you that you've
got to kick some serious ass to
survive. To knock you down,
give you the dust cough and the time
to realize that feeling alive is
a select privilege, that the basic begins at just
making it through. You know?
Because how else do these random people on the road not break down
and cry their knees red, not
take a minute out to cross the rails carelessly
enough?. God knows there are too many people in the world
who have no clue why they are still there, while
they suspect that they aren't. Type in the word
'Painless' on your Google bar and the second thing you are suggested
is 'Death'. (The first being 'Delivery'. Haha. Guess between the painlessness
of delivery and the painlessness of death, it's one massive track change.)
There are all these people, 'losers'  and 'quitters', you'll say, haunting forums
just trying to gather enough balls to say fuck it for a last time.
Their reasons will never be your reasons, and no reason will
ever be enough. But they are all reasons nonetheless.
Isn't it sad that a boy will take time to type in 230 characters
just to see whether injection of alcohol has more chances
of 'luck' than a building leap? He'll be up all night, comparing the stats,
trying to believe that the world that doesn't provide you with faith,
is still gentle enough to provide you with an (embarrassment-less)
escape.  Because if you fail to do this right, it's another
epic punchline at your expense. Your own little joke,
one you don't understand enough to try pretend to
laugh along. Some will go through with it,
most wouldn't. Some'd land up in the ICU
with a Brain Damage no Floyd will care to sing about.
And some, they'd leave behind a trail of bewildered questions
in their wake -
'Never pegged her to be the kind!'
'Him? But he always smiled and waved at me on his way to school!'
'Tsk tsk, sad sad thing.
Real unfortunate. So much bright light,
just wasted. If only someone had got in her way,
asked her not to quit.'
No one will stop to think that may be, just may be,
these nameless lot did not really quit, may be
they just believed in looking for a world a little
less caught up in lies and fears than this one
right here, that may be
while they couldn't do it your way, they just
got their pieces together and
moved the fuck on.

So yes. It's hard to believe that people around,
that girl down the street and that man
waiting tables, all miss the unmoving brokenness
at the heart of their world.

But then again, it's hard to
believe

anything.















'Don't bend/don't break/ baby, don't back down'
Lather. Rinse. Repeat.
:)

soapwatersun

- with just their souls, swept 

  away, a couple of wet shirts 

  off  a windy

  clothesline

  

( his smiles still soapwater, her folds  still
the colour of 

sun - )

They Met

Like words-in-the-head, 

orbiting 
each other 
                in breathtaking quiet, 

like words through the finger-ends, tripping
clumsily onto a phasedout 
paper,
like words that meant the world and 
words that

didn'tfuckingmatter,


they met.

From a Sleepy Draft-Box

Strange it is.
How often the things that once meant the world to us
just blend into a mesh of washed out memories,
distinguishable only in fractions.
And these memories, 
like a meal we might have had forgotten
to take, or a vial of perfume we had 
caressed before putting it back on the shelf, 
implode into one shy semaphore 
that coils down at the nape of our brain,
hoping to never hear from us again.

:)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IcrbM1l_BoI


The only bit of him she still seems to
get.
Stay safe, another's words.

Only a Woman

Oh then the lonely 

miles of the moon 

fell through

the silver sieve 

sky, a  

liter of winter

curled up

on her belly

and smiled

Pretty One, Hiding in The Catalogue

http://thoughtcatalog.com/caitlin-collinsworth/2013/12/maybe-one-day-i-will-meet-you/

One of those rare Thought Catalogue posts that run
deeper than bullet points and ask to
linger. Perhaps even into the night,
long after your old desktop has stopped
missing the neon warmth of it's amnesia screen.