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December 30, 2011

It was a Tuesday,
when we tried
to dive back into dreams
we’d left behind
like burnt out matches

That day we ran out
of the fire we needed
to burn all our notes –
a frail attempt, a step,
to start again;

you see –

the fire wouldn’t take!
our words
were made of steel
and in the north wind hour
when we woke
(to whispers of the dawn)
there was no burning,
only frozen laughter

In July 2003

February 23, 2011

It became dark quickly.
Summer cold crept in through the bones,
shirts closing the access to hearts like shutters,
excitement for what was to come shining through the cracks

Five tables stood in line
Small candles flickering Morse promises
of future greatness and the perfection of the moment,
casting shadows of time on
the crayfish, cheese, bread and the paper plates,
which were ready to lose their innocence for our pleasure

You drank vodka and sat on the far side o the table.
I drank vodka and made your friends laugh (a fragile bond at best).
I tried to understand where I was
and why I could not see through the dark
while people around me
ran through thorned forests at will,
but the raised glasses confused me again and again.

Later, we shared a bed like brother and sister,
while the sounds of your friends fucking wormed through the walls.
If you had asked me then, I am not sure I would have told you truth,
or maybe even known any.

Even later, it turned out that truth,
your truth, was a thin kind of ice and I went through.

But by then we were no longer speaking.

Meet me: Pt. 3

October 10, 2010

Meet me
In the apartment on X street,
where we used to watch
grainy reruns of Dallas,
and talk of Deleuze
and get drunk
on the weekends

I’ve still got a key
and I hear that it’s empty.
There are still weekends
and there’s cheap vodka,
but they’ve stopped
the Dallas reruns
and the philosophy reading

I will sneak in and wait,
so that my breath and my steps
can echo sharply
between the walls

Later,
when the empty room
is warm
from our bodies,
You can tell me
about your daughter
and I’ll say that
your eyes
look three times as tired,
as they did
when we met
by chance at the station

Way out

August 31, 2010

Marie lived in the present
She used to smoke at parties
Death curling from embers
Framed her face in gray

I only remember
That she was always leaving
Her only way was out
Slamming doors a passion

She hated the term captain
She never tipped the driver
Even change for the barman
A coin for the toilet attendant

She was great at giving
We all knew her genius
Who could have predicted
That she would depart the stage

We were always out on Tuesdays
We fled from the glare
And our waters never broke

We never hesitated to lose the moment
We rode in on elephants at sunset
And conquered both sunlight and flesh

Nothing was coupled with anything
Our swansong was gossamer
But our fists were clenched