On Chopin

 

What does it take
To write like Chopin
Seamlessly blending two voices
One steady, one light but sad
Complement, overlay one another
Right and left hands
High and low
Yin and yang
Together expressing
The integral beauty, and tragedy, and beauty in tragedy
Joy and laughter that it is to be human
It pains it pleases it pauses
It hits highs
It goes lows
Together, but separately highlighting each other

Negative space                 Emphasises

One voice holds, the other can be heard
Once the other is heard it becomes negative space
For as long as it repeats the same theme

Negative space
Deep breath

All of the pathos
None of the drama.

Feel it hard
Say it light.

Gently
Makes for delicate work

Patience

Then it builds, builds,
To a crescendo
Like everything in life
It will die
But it makes a valiant last effort to survive.
Everything dies.
Even the beautiful.
Especially the beautiful.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

 

 

 

The Watch

 

how does it feel
to be real

I have disassociated
outside of reality
a spectator of the self

I see you humans
I play human games
I laugh a human laugh
but underneath this face
all chill mechanics

can you tell
the light is broken here
only an automaton
this heart won’t budge
this watchlike brain goes
click click click

still they laugh
and play their games
and I watch
no matter what happens
all I can do
is watch

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

 

 

 

 

Life is an atrocity
We are angry we are shocked
Life is graceful
Spiderweb lines

We weave
Symbolic sounds
We weather
Whatever together
We sing so silly
We write so weird
Whenever we pleasure

To make a beautiful thing
Out of something sinister
We cling to it with desperate hands
But with no meat on our bones
It slips through
Our skeleton fingers.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

 

 

 

Family gossip

 

They turned over and over again
In their conversation
What exactly was wrong
With their less successful, more flawed family
(the ones not present)
They discussed why and how
But mostly what.
All the things they were doing wrong
All the choices they were making wrong.
Implicitly entrenching their own identities
As the socially accepted
Correct ones
The ones who make the right choices
The ones who know what to do
The ones who are
Better at least
Than these other ones.
Pity is their imagined superiority.
Anger is where they were bruised.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


More cat stuff

 

Yep, another cat poem. I can’t help writing about them. They’re always sitting on me.

 


 

The cat is simmering on my legs
A tub of purring fur.
My feet are toasty
In the blanket cave underneath her magma belly.
Toasty feet are happy feet.
This heat could never burn me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

 

 

 

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