Illiterate Swine
“Her definition of romance was absentminded intimacy, the way someone else’s hand stray to your plate of food.
I replied: no, that’s just friendship; romance is always knowing exactly where that someone else’s hands are. She smiled and said, there was a time I thought that way, too. But at the heart of the romance is the knowledge that those hands may wander off elsewhere, but somehow through luck or destiny or plain blind groping they’ll find a way back to you, and maybe you’ll be smart enough then to be grateful for everything that’s still possible, in spit of your own weaknesses- and his.”
"What I know about living is the pain is never just ours
Every time I hurt I know the wound is an echo
So I keep a listening to the moment the grief becomes a window
When I can see what I couldn’t see before,
through the glass of my most battered dream, I watched a dandelion lose its mind in the wind
and when it did, it scattered a thousand seeds.
So the next time I tell you how easily I come out of my skin, don’t try to put me back in
just say here we are together at the window aching for it to all get better
but knowing as bad as it hurts our hearts, made of only just skin, knowing there is a chance the worst day might still be coming
let me say right now for the record, I’m still gonna be here
asking this world to dance, even if it keeps stepping on my holy feet
you- you stay here with me, okay?
You stay here with me.
Raising your bright against the bitter dark
Your bright longing
Your brilliant fists of loss
if the only thing we have to gain in staying is each other,
my god that’s plenty
my god that’s enough
my god that is so so much for the light to give
each of us at each other’s backs whispering over and over and over
“Live”
Smoke. Or mist ?
Or fog, or gloom.
Hand-picked and plucked
From The flower-beds of a dream
With flashes and glimpses
Of brothers and books
And too many cigarettes ; frightful clarity
As we tremble and chuckle
And huddle over warmth
With dirty mugs and broken pencils
and an empty jar of olives
Intimate details I’ve come to rely upon
Just like those socks; tossed on the kitchen floor
Bewitching and stirring, this pang of grief
Though just a pang
careful now
Let’s not make such a splash tonight
Let me be okay with that subtle sense of happy
And vague notions of love and warmth
All those things that don’t seem like much
But of course this surely , is only a crisis
Perhaps the only one I can lovingly call my own
Cold.
Hollow.
Acute and startling panic
several uninterrupted hours of it.
I would go mad with the monotony of nothingness
Scorn or arrogance?
a sentence laced with condescension.
Mockery , sweet and reverbating
Throughout this small room
Into which we tuck delicate things
Won’t you just paraphrase ?
Pray dear, just speak for the sake of effect
Glittering,blinking impersonal city spaces
I hear they call you retrograde
How poetic to be thought so
just show up, they will do all the work for you
Building the foundations
Of a dysfunctional mechanism
Yours truly
Enough of beauty
enough to know ;
it has nothing to do with truth
Two branches intertwined
weaving out a dream
memories with all the details
you never thought you’d remember
Succulent illusions are they not ?
A brief flicker of romance
Chasing the shadow of a phantom lover
The rustle of a curtain there
And the lingering echo of a whisper here
The magic remains
But we move on
Just like old Fitzy - ‘boats against the current
born back ceaselessly into the past’
“The high ambition, therefore, seems to me to be this: That one should strive to combine the maximum of impatience with the maximum of skepticism, the maximum of hatred of injustice and irrationality with the maximum of ironic self-criticism. This would mean really deciding to learn from history rather than invoking or sloganising it.”
energy and vitality went into a violent affirmation of the negative
principle “Never give a damn."
— F. S. Fitzgerald - The Beautiful And Damned
