And the clash of our cries till we spring to be free

1 —

After a while, after alcohol ceased to lay to rest my guilt, I began to speak again.
This time it was a ghoul, a ghost, a joke.
My pride had wilted in the sun. Each morning was a surprise,
like a gust of wind with no air, flaunting me across the billowed sky.
I am the worthless son of some wealthy unseen father.
Where are your cries, and where are my tears?
I won’t be felt beyond the grave, but I’ve given up those fears.
I was 25, and still am I,
too young for death, too young for life,
on the threshold of either.
Either way, I have no say.
a mute prawn, a fish of the sea.
I am a shipwreck waiting on discovery;
dead, glum and pulseless on a summer porch.

2 —

This is a part of me.
This is apart from me.
I hear a voice, ice in the warmest paradise.
I am desolate and cold, a nightmare unto himself.
I am dark and night and death.
My crazy-talk speaks volumes and elements unto itself.
Espiritu Santo and holy ghosts! Oh merciful A-chuk A-chuk,
grant unto me holiness above thou, holy holy holy…
My leaves have drifted from me, all.
My hands are shaking uncontrollably and all
manner of insects are infesting my skin,
a frightened face that faces within.
You face me in no regard, you flaccid faced.
Is that a knife, a dagger I see before me?
Oh, there, is the handle toward me?
Let me fetch a pack off cards,
and play us a round of aces high, deuces death,
Jokers negotiable.
But still me, my soul, a part from thee, “ever I grow closer to thee”,
but depart from me.
I’ll deal again.

3 —

And won’t you still lead me down, my dear,
a fine catastrophe charged with my fancy?
As I lay dying with a gentle smile, the moyles of you,
the fragrant and putrid moyles of you,
lay me down, precious, sweet girl,
until your moyles burst.

And you,
with your cocksure attitude,
and your pennies,
and your multiple fallacies,
won’t you lay me down?
What would your father say and your mother,
if they caught us in the hayfield with our trousers down?
But we were only separating the chaff from the wheat.
Lay me down on the threshing floor with your fleece.
Pull it aside and if it, yes, be covered in dew then yes, let
us up to it to be; or, if it be no, to be
not. Come, let me clutch thee.
For if all the ground be dry then it’s you that rescue me.
Carry me down, yes.

4 —

I meant to sleep tonight,
but so soft, this morning ours.
So lift me up with the sun, Izanagi,
protect me and watch over me as I feign rest.
Create from this rubble a new land,
this morning, an island, this morning.

Night came quick,
while we bayed at the moon stirring
emotions best left forgotten. Filling
tears like beads of sweat, dripping
through pains of remorse, unfelt
by yours, truly
unforgotten buried memories
come forth in moonlight under
the weight of this ground I’ve planted.

Don’t you know me anymore?
Don’t you remember the folds of my half drooped eyes,
and the night we spent beneath the stars, looking up at the moon?
The smell of your skin afterwards, the fear in your eyes?
Afraid of me, like I of myself, like I might disappear in a heartbeat,
Like I did every time you needed me, but when I needed you…
I have shown you happiness in a handful of sorrow.

Time has spoken to me; it tells me I’m a fool.
But you won’t speak to me anymore,
except for a false kindness spread across your face,
a gentle breeze that blows men like ships aground.
You Catena Abulfeda, you giant chasm I have to deal with,
no wind escapes your hollow.

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Comments

2 Comments so far. Leave a comment below.
  1. Henry,

    Monumental in image and breadth of feeling, a great poem. Beautiful, raw, honest, and reaching. And there is the loveliest echo of hope in the midst of it all the sadness.

  2. abbey,

    This is very fine. And the naming of things is the threshhold to freedom.

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