Who cares if my heart explodes
from love, or caffeine overdose?
Ballpoint ink works as lipstick, since no one ever takes your word.
(They want it all in black-and-white.)
Who cares why my heart explodes,
If all the headlines stay the same?
Whiteout makes good mascara, hiding mistakes makes you stand out.
(Names stand-in for batting lashes.)
Who cares if my heart explodes
if it explodes always,
all the time?
They just want new headlines.
She attacked the shackled podium
Called out ancient dirty lies.
Young souls oxidise like sodium
Guess she couldn’t compromise.
She came unprepared to barter
Public did not meet her eyes.
“People only love a martyr
Humans go for half the price.”
She professed unmoderated
A love for things they made her hide.
All her harms are self-inflicted
All her scars show deep inside.
“Social norms will underload us
Fallacy wins no real prize.”
She is done fulfilling quotas
She will die and she will rise.
Wrinkles become unbecoming formed for unbecoming reasons like
lost belief, or jealousy
Wrinkles photographed and framed are free of undeserving fame – you must
Yes, be the shrivelled monk on hunger strike for strangers, for only
he is beloved for worry.
Yes, the kindergarten teacher biting nails over playground bullies,
For the women never wiled by the pleas for ghosts of smiles are those who
write forgotten poetry.
And the women, meanwhile, ordered by no one to smile are those who
I wake up to the cries of ants we
hide from behind the window,
I seek them out heartbroken with
a glacier-freezing stare,
That conjures storms outside a door taped shut with vacant lies.
I want to have those sunshine eyes they
draw in children’s picture books,
the light-bulb-coloured bunny teeth so
I could smile away dark matter,
As I branded kindness on the endless midnight skies.
(But I listen too closely,
So the world is always ending.)
Everyone walks on thin glass around me,
So careful not to break the ice
That peppers my skin, acne-like, in crystals and hoarfrost
And they drive the ‘bout around me,
Dodging the weed-choked square
Where glossy crows take sup under broken traffic lights
And no one walks through me
Through the cold orange of a flame
Seen as blazing blue only by colourblind eyes.
‘Tis a sanctum, this pen that belongs to me
and only me, who has the right to wield it
Can with its blessing open up a universe or two
while knowing that, by fire or by steel,
It can by no means be taken away.
The blade is never drawn at dark;
It hides with Master’s sheath
Who knows what lies in steel and bark
To ponder or to seethe?
It once stood tall on yonder rack:
A fixture of the hall
How did it feel when hidden back –
If it could feel at all?
When every day the Master sparred,
Uncaring of the wear
Did burning out leave it so charred?
More torn than ore could bear?
A knife is forged for finite time
A best-before, it’s wrought
And if neglected in its prime
Then all will come to nought.
I strode alone to follow suit what was a dead man’s dream
eclipsed by golden rays, with the sky at set of sun.
I strode as to commemorate what was a great man’s dream:
An ember stubbed too long before the crawling night was done.
I tarried on the path aside the hallowed great man’s dream
– for I had met a broken bridge, across I could not run.
I tarried on, the fractured road unveiled a dead man’s dream
So as to carry on, my lying eyes I did so shun.
I wandered off the circle rail that made a dead man dream
– for empty symbols weighed upon my shoulders by the tonne.
I wandered off so wide because the brightest ‘great man’s dream’
would cost a life of shadows– and mind you, I was done.