Release

by Poetry

after years I understood that I
am not the great hero of my
own poems; all failures &
cruelties are mine & belong
to me – all weaknesses of the world
are the weaknesses I own – all
betrayals are thought-betrayals
in my own universe

                years growing, fracturing,
proud, synthesising – a sore, pus,
natural evil destroying all
beneath the skin unnoticed.

after years, — said the starlight
is a diagnostic tool
– I heard biblical
x-rays revealing or revelling in our
sicknesses & sins; as
the great villain of my words I
couldn’t believe you until I
coughed, vomited – ruptured
until the pus in my throat
fell into beauty
& stole the veil of poetry
to cover my shame.

We all like to think that we are the centre of our own stories; it is, I might argue, impossible to imagine for a second that world doesn’t revolve around ourselves. We are incapable of imagining life from someone else’s perspective – in this way, we can be said to inhabit different universes. As we are the centre of our own worlds, it is equally difficult to imagine ourselves as anything other than the the hero – the protagonist.

What happens when you break that cycle? When you come to see yourself as the villian, the antagonist of not just your own narrative, but the stories of each and every person you encounter? What happens when you break the ego, without stumbling into the peace and tranquility of the eastern philosophies which demand that you break your ego? Or am I not breaking ego at all? Am I, perhaps, simply subverting it against myself – as great a victim of myself as always, just without any kind of moral consciousness driving me.

What happens when a universe accepts that it is evil? When all the atoms and the planets and the stars, and the waterfalls and suns and insects clinging to a rocky face all begin to vibrate with pure villainy? What happens next?

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poetry
modern poetry

Night Terrors

When Nox and I go panting beneath, we
have asked the same black questions;

Coal Carthage

The bars of this cage, tightening nooses now; still Broken britain; legs & fluttering wings beneath scaled metal eyes twitching, humming lenses; glitter and stand resolute! wings blinking in nothing, rust against the wet night despite pleas of rattle-high footsteps ‘cross the cobblestones & the grass & the mud dirt.

Independence

gentle shores teasing infinity are
beautiful but they are not you
I think some part of you
resents that the idea
that I can unearth beauty
independently