Sorry, there’s no room at the inn
As in, there’s plenty of rooms But not enough rubles, dollars, euros, yen pounds in your pocket to come in. There’s no room at the inn, As in, there’s plenty of rooms, But inside, the right side of the borders siding with the people who were born inside the borders Not the people whose homes have been bordered by our troops, torn down, blown up, burnt out by us, waging war against the land that supports us Rockets rain down always outside the borders, where people can’t come in. Inside rocket ships, billionaires lie down to sleep While billions sleep in the street Will you really claim space travel is for humanity When there’s no humanity in how people are treated next to me?
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Just a little too much going on
not because I’m too busy or life is too crowded in the quiet, the colors of the painting become more subtly saturated than my self can handle which makes handling my handling feel like too much to handle which makes me feel weak because how can I handle normal life if I can’t handle quiet life? and how can I handle the day if I can’t handle the night? But maybe the problem is in the handling because why should I handle the sun rising and the moon moving across the sky or the weird pain gas makes as it moves through the system? In a system set up to serve me as it harms me tells me I’m not good enough can’t enough too weak to handle a system which sees me live normal in the day and wake in the middle of the night in a sweat, is that sweat normal or malignant? Is it neutral, nothing, normal? Is it creeping, growing, scaring? Scaring, certainly, which makes it creeping, growing but from the inside or the mind side? Which is inside but a different side — the scared side unable to see through the murky side of me, side pain, back pain, stomach pain? Up side, down, need to take a breath get up get out of bed so I can take some time to see if the indigestion is coming from the fear or the fear is coming from the indigestion the chicken or the rotten egg that I had for lunch? Which might or might not have made me sick Sick with fear or sick with sick Am I K? (sic?) Keep on going though because in the middle of the quiet I am still strong strong enough to slow the breath down the feeling of death, down the chicken and the egg, down and even though the sun keeps moving and the moon keeps moving it is my strength to relinquish them back to the sky meanwhile, I can keep breathing keep slowing keep coming back to me breathing until I’m me, breathing “There’s a part of me that I lost, and I don’t know how to get it back”
you thought. until on days you don’t expect when you do the things you used to which make you who you are. when the light shines in through the window and even if it’s cold the sun still feels warm on your face. when you dance on your own sing loud and the songs that run in your blood bubble up and you realize that the heat, the art, the bubbles are perfumed with the scent of the parts of you you thought you’d lost and like the end of winter, shoots of your self spring up again and you remember who you are. Sometimes it’s 5 in the morning
And then it’s not worth trying to go back to sleep So i enjoy the quiet noises Like the low hum of the fridge And the sound of people going to work too early Sometimes it’s 5 in the morning And I’m the one going to work too early On the sliding scale of obnoxious times to wake up 5am is a medium Sometimes it’s 5 in the morning and I’m already at work And my eyes feel gummy behind my eyelids And my throat feels crispy And my skin is too tight And someone secretly kneed me in my lungs during my “sleep” the city is quilted in silence like
there’s a roof over my head and a carpet beneath my feet I'm finding myself treading a little lighter eyes a little wider heart a little slower breathe a little deeper. And in this moment knowing It’ll all work out in the end. What if the lion eats me
Because the glass wasn’t strong enough And he saw me and wanted to eat me. And he pushed through Because the lionesses weren’t around And because the zookeeper forgot to feed him that day And because I was visiting the zoo on that day when they forgot to feed the lion, when the lionesses weren’t around and the glass was weak And I was at the lion enclosure at that moment when the lion decided He needed to eat. Oozing, pulling, bruising, leaking then
Shaky-shaky Shaky-shaky Is that too wet or too dry Shaky-shaky The top is down The down is top Shaky-shaky Shaky-shaky And everything is going blurry now And black now And loose now And. If I had said it before
It would be still worth saying But having not been said It has thawed And is now rancid: Unsayable. There’s a big rock and it’s on top of me, and I can’t dance because if I do my organs might slip out from underneath me and then the rock would crush me.
You’re grinding down on me and the air I’m breathing is warm and wet on my face and inside my mouth and I know that there is smoke and all Bacardi and your sweat is clinging to my clothes and my hair and inside my lungs, tucked inside my alveoli. and my chest is full of water. and I’m worried that it might burst and all the water would pour everywhere. and my skin feels slippery. and my chest is full of water. I can’t hear the music anymore. But that doesn’t stop it from making my brain vibrate, making my ears crust over, making my fingers glow, making my eye bulbs pop. I wanted to reach out and touch your hand, but it just slippery slid out of my grip. I’m trying to swallow my saliva, but it has turned all pointy like a nettle, crunching down my throat. Your shard is sticking out my fucking neck.
A foreign body pouring deeper into the crevice. Curled up necks to me, jugular. You make me want to puke hot, steamy bile. A sticky reminder of what used to be. Everything is glowing pus yellow. Swelling, bursting, flooding, flowing. Dull. I miss you, shard inside my neck, even though you had to go. I can feel you, chunky ocean, swelling inside my stomach.
This fucking sack won't burst. I know it won't. I'd like to slice you open and scoop out the stodgy cement like a video I saw on the internet of some pregnant shark a couple of days ago. But instead, I have to wait for you to arrive. Take your time, dear. This tirade of semi-dissolved cuisine battering of my oesophagus. Then you squeeze and wring yourself out. Ensue a waterfall of vomit. That bread I ate a few hours ago didn't digest properly. That's what hurt. It came out as whole as it went in. More whole, strangely. Except that one corner, fizzing way. Fizzing. I remember, "I'm so tired, I could puke." Those were the last words I spoke before I went to sleep, "I'm so tired, I could puke." and now, here I am, hunched over this porcelain bowl, looking at the former contents of my own stomach. I feel much better now, thank you. |
AuthorI write stories, but sometimes I write poetry about the slippery and crunchy moments in life. Archives
July 2023
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