a state only the texture of a painting could capture

hazy memory and clouded emotion
blurred vision and blurred sense of self

disconnected

disorganized

dissociated

my circadian rhythm is the opposite of yours
ritualistic patterns i fail to comply with

when i can't sleep but can't wake up either,
i indulge in misplaced fantasy
and in the failed attempt to recollect fragmented ideas
that scurry away like squirrels

"what is your bona fides?"
"was your breakfast fried eggs with toast?"
"would you throw up at the sight of intestines strung out like a necklace?"

communication with myself is beyond esoteric
communication with others is incompetent and impulsive
communication through music is chaotic and raw
communication through art is insufficient

like reading a note that your brain left for you
that is smudged beyond legibility

i am not in my childhood photos
i am not in my mind
i am not in mirrors
i may be in others
mismatched, misbound, mistranslated

it will rain down again, after all, shimmering like sequin, slipping away like falling pages

"hello, can we talk?"

Feburary 2022

of an exchange between two on a rainy night

Throw away your soggy cigarette and ask me about my day.
Take a seat and smear with your finger the fuzz
of the meniscus of cold broth in a bowl.

Magnetise your bi-polar heart and show me where it points.
Guide me to the sea and explain
what you'll first fend off against:
the salt or the seaweed.

Where would you go
if you were to leave a trail of footsteps in the snow,
and weren't sure whether you'd come back the same or different?

I want to dissect your mind and study your thoughts.
I will determine whether your spirit is as fragile as
a rose in vitro,
as a naïve heart,
as the truth,
or if it is as sturdy as
history,
as a violin string,
as glass—

Feburary 2022

Once more

Once more, you came knocking on my door.
An even and predictable knock it was.
Every fortnight, more or less, you come.
A joy you instill that's worthy of applause.

But you leave.

Flowing animus, will thou aid me?
From me, embrace of hers slipped away again:
merciless, ruthless, rather graceful
departure. Love knows not of me — not of men.

But what if?

O episteme, will thou aid me?
Of no need is love that aches. Rationale knows.
In darkness, the wandering mind dies.
Only minds can fill other minds. Dispose!

Veracity.

What is virtuous in a patience that yields no fruit?
Perhaps, honour is in the heart of the resolute,
for only they have endured self-torture for an oath.
"The light of my life is worth more than my hurt," they quoth.

Once more, I came knocking at your door.

January 2023