In The Ruination of Reminiscence —2017

there, touched on the glass we slice open our hearts, not with the callous like finger tips but with the delicacy of the skin hidden, v-ed between our heart beats

how many glancing blows can we hold inside our eyes’ memories?

you’re just a syphon giving away kisses through a sieve & holding angel wings in the corners of your smile, what luxury this is, to touch such sweet heavenly murmurings with the tongue of your words — how hush this is

watching the light dance across the open cold sky, blackness that is deeper than all the blacks I’ve seen before, colour colder than I’ve felt inside my inner bones, yet, it is lovely

not lovely like the sun, or the blue sky, or the rushing sea, but lovely like a hurt can be —

snow settles exactly where the branch is thickest, where the wind can hold no more, something must be let go, something must be buried, something must be lost, something must glow, a hundred thousand sparkles cannot even begin to describe what rest on the edges of snow in the moonlight —ask me what I know of heaven on earth, tucked in those little places, silent & still

how lovely is the lonely of knowing beauty despite this blood bath of pain, hot & stoked & consuming, everything is burning

I could reminisce on this ruination, another x or more aptly, another stroke on the wall, counting off the torture that is, but what point is there anymore to this?

all I would hear is gunfire, & death, & hear the rhetoric & lies breathed with every breath —I’m a courtyard of murmurings of memories of what agony there is here, year after year

…and so, let me stop myself from recalling what is best left forgotten. Let me stop. Inside this silent night. Inside this darkness. Inside this sparkling cold. Beneath these lights. Where the snow has settled, just right. Where I watch Venus dancing, spinning in all her light —

how I hold this beauty, intense upon my throat just for its warmth, just to feel the sensation of life still zooming fast through my veins, love in all its strange horror lovely —

there is ruination beyond this place, here in this moment where I lay, clutching the future; letting go yesterday’s decay



this clear sky of night blooms up over the frozen haze—memory encrusted in tomb-like silence

how often are the stars this clear, this bright, as if I could catch & melt one on my tongue

plume upon plume, feathered breath and an ache I’ve felt before

I turn my face back downward, I close the door…


You will ask: what are the horrors of patriotism?

I watched as blood ran down the loosely lined streets—soft billows of hate still rising

each staking their claim, each proclaiming their repugnant holiness, sinew stuck between their teeth

how quaint, your holy city, filled with the corpses of each other, each the others enemy

how endearing & sweet, I can smell the refuse of Gehenna burning, the valley churning as you pillage for another body to burn

how holy. how holy.

what is holier than all the holy wars. what is more joyous than to wrap our gifts in guts—all pounded out & tenderized, a small slip of vein bowed up around the bomb.

Oh, how long is this war.

How often I’ve felt the bones beneath me, crunching, giving way to another layer of death.

Patriotism & religion. They sour my soul. They mark themselves as unholy despite their blood-lust claims.


and so that intense quiet of snow upon snow has consumed

both light & sound, already, the world in all its greenery

has become some fictitious memory boasted about by strange bullies & beasts

I am washed down, with this tin taste of blood in my lungs, the cold only biting with small teeth

how often have I run, lungs bursting, drowning, here in the cold

what wild consumptions of ice & black & how peculiar this sky, singing strange horrors in the night

all things are whimpering at the door, humming, or howling…or screaming

slowly light attempted its feeble rise, only to fall, in breaths of blood & flicker

Ask me what I know? How does the North keep me alive inside it’s deathly embrace?

How much blood has it frozen, blued, crusted in the veins of my fingers & toes & most definitely my heart?

How lovely is the frozen face & the water eyes of winter as they realize…

I once heard, rumours of soft sand & high held sun & ocean waves & leaves that never fall; of trees that do not stand, thin stark & white, glimmering rig immortally in the night

But here, this sway of stiff limbs & creaking bows & strange songs slithering along the snow, this, this is all I know. It is hum-drumming through these frozen wastelands—where my body barely breathes, only puffs, clouds of haze & glow.