You lay down.
Motionless, emotionless
for far too long.
You skin crawling away from
the big
bad
waves
of feeling
crashing down on you,
all curled up
in a kernel of
peace
like a nutshell,
hardened out
around soft you and
holding
only
you,
just to end up
swimming, soaked, in pieces
and scattered.
Now, you are
seaweed
you
are fucked,
your soft bits hang in the waters.
In the sobbing and heaving waves,
sharks dance for no one.
How do you
fight the dark?
Staple
it onto a white paper,
drown
it in ink,
make it
lay bare, flat out with outstretched arms,
capture
it,
licking it
with your brush until it begs for mercy
under the
dire lights of an interrogation lamp.
How do you conquer
the dark?
Spread
it out over silences,
over spiky
chords and notes,
jail it,
behind the
bars of a song,
a handover from your wiser elders.
How do you
make the dark collapse?
Share around its picture, in the open,
outstretched
and nude under the light of a screen,
so that
everyone can see her,
recognize her, pursue her, be warned,
be smitten,
be in love.
It was
never there
But now is gone.
It never
lived
but now is
dead.
Recoil,
crumbling mouth,
melting
ears,
deafened
eyes,
broken
shards oh so soft to the touch.
It was
never there
but beware,
It bit my
heart out.
Hollowed
out, I wander,
hellion and
bird
missing
what did not exist.
My crusade
is to create smiles
out of
nothing,
out of dark
seas of despair,
out of
connivance in awful sins
out of pain.
I am the
clown, the jester, the thief
of tears,
the collector of broken feelings,
the mender
of drums, the tuner of internal instruments,
the door
to a special
kind mourning: the death of sadness.
Empty your
pockets of pain, your head of drama, your chest of dumbbells
trying to
pull you down.
The circus
is here, it is just arriving,
conquering
your town.
Crusaders
of laughter, promoters of joy,
defeating
the darkness with make-up and jokes,
we serve you
our own blood for cocktails
we feed you
our own sad heart.
Blooming
starfish
limbs.
Fireworks
in the water.
Slowly, my
arms and legs unfolding,
like
throbbing petals in the living blue.
'Tis no
good alibi
when
night's feral cats are scratching your cheeks
leaving
twin defective vertical stair rails
as the
blood drops pave the rhythm of your song.
'Tis no
good alibi
when words
beaks pick up the maggots
of your self-infected
chest.
No, 'tis no
good alibi
when there
is a dark door obscuring
the path
that leads up to your brain.
There, in
the time
of your
ruin
is your
glove-disguised hand,
great
revenant
of ancient
sound and teenage grip.
they gathered their heaps of feelings
one on top of the other,
to build high piles of dishes
by the sink of life.
Some were sparkling, some dirty,
some cracked,
some were washed up,
some forgotten,
some glued up, some just bad.
Removing just one
any meaning would topple:
their balance in pieces
to be cleared and dusted
with hurtful slivers
of their jarred hearts.