Black hole
So hollow
you take everything
So full
you can’t stop pulling everything else in with you
Nothing satisfies.
Some people didn’t believe such a thing could exist
They just didn’t know how to look for it.
I’ve seen the black hole
In you.
The brightest stars shine empty
I was kind of torn whether to post this whole thing or just the best sections of it. Usually I just post the best section(s) when I end up free-associating a mess like this. But I think it’s entertaining as a whole, maybe you will too. At the very least you can get a sense of my poetry process… or lack thereof.
And yes, I was feeling extra crazy yesterday. Gaze upon what low blood sugar has wrought.
And so it goes
And so it grows
Another day
Another flaw exposed.
And everyone
Is digging in their toes
They don’t get
That shit just overflows.
Put a bird on it.
Fffuuucckk
I’m writing this bit for me
I’m writing that bit for him
And this one for her.
And who the fuck are you?
Well
Have a little piece of my soul
I’m not using it anyway.
Why does the devil want souls
I think he’s in some kind of an arms race against god.
Once he gets more souls than god
he can begin the war?
Well maybe it’s his pride
maybe this is all about
His stupid ego
Like he wants a bigger business than god
But surely his business is bigger
Everyone says it is
But fuck that
What do they know
They want to think themselves the persecuted few.
I don’t want it
I don’t want it.
Take it back with you
I don’t want it.
Give it to your wife
You crazy sick bastard
Tell her it’s from me
Tell her I said
I think she’s pitiful
And I pity her
For being with you
And drowning in a pool of lies
She doesn’t even know she’s dying.
Like a frog in a slow boil.
People hurt
People steal
People love
People heal
People kill
People die
People always
Wonder why
People win
People lose
People live
What they choose
People give
People take
People bend
People break.
You are different.
You can see.
You are not like others be.
You don’t struggle as they do.
They don’t seem to have a clue.
You are far removed and free
You are pure and
Okay you’re just a fucking sex addict, who are you kidding.
Give us a kiss.
Give us another.
Give us three.
Kiss deeper.
Deeper.
Let us tongue you.
Let us inside.
Let us inside you.
We want what’s best.
We care.
Let us take care of you.
Give us a kiss.
How to just not.
Here’s how:
…..
Mostly that.
Also if you want to join the revolution
Don’t forget to pack the sandwich I made you dear
And be back before the street lights turn on!
I don’t want you getting a cold
Have a nice time.
Shoot someone for me!
And so passes
Another successful day
I didn’t kill myself.
I got some work done.
I made bread
It turned out better than I’m used to
And I didn’t kill myself.
I snuggled the cats
I didn’t kill myself.
I drank some tea
I got ice cream with Hannah
Two flavors!
I thought about something stupid I said eight years ago
And I didn’t kill myself.
The weather was really lovely too, all day.
I didn’t write anything last night! Narcolepsy won.
So here is another of my old poems.
I remember the giant old tree
In the courtyard of Trinity college
In Dublin.
It was all gnarls and moss.
It drank hundreds of gallons of water
Which would otherwise have ruined the college’s foundations.
It was clearly alive
A sage of its kind
With character all its own.
I can see how the Britons might fancy
Their trees to have spirits
If they have such trees as that.
American trees, Missouri trees especially, are
Young
Scrubby
Sweet
Weak rooted.
American trees don’t know frost or hardship.
They know small things
And think them large.
American trees are children.
They are flexible and joyous and green
And they shake their leaves in laughter
At their wise older cousins.
I love the wind.
The wind loves me.
We lean into each other.
I give it my weight
It lifts me.
We embrace each other.
It touches my face.
Our fingers interlace.
It sieves through my hair
Runs through my clothes
Like a cool stream.
I am cleansed.
I want to see it.
I close my eyes
I wrote this when I was reading The Pillow Book, a diary by Sei Shonagon. The Heian period (c. 800-1200 AD) is so weird, if you like history you should definitely look into it. A Heian lady actually wrote what is regarded as the first novel. They lived for poetry, and the only topic worth pursuing (aside from court gossip) was the beauty of nature.
A woman
Sits at her writing desk
All grace and brightly layered robes.
Her hair is not like yours.
Her skin is thick with powder.
Her worries curve in a direction you cannot follow.
Even her moon is too new.
But while she watches this moon
White round face upturned
A small reflection of its object
Briefly
Her heart is your heart.
Sarah D. Silvey 