What’s left

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three closed books

one open book
two closed books

two open books
one closed book

three open books

no one left
to open any books

piles and piles
of books

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A poem for everyone

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some poems come as warnings
they lie in wait like
carefully placed bear traps
and leap off pages
in orchestrated waves
poems like this
are stored in tombs
ancient romans fund
their publication
they scare cities
universities pay researchers
to master them
—don’t let them stop you!

there’s a poem for everyone

some poems hibernate
they rise each spring
with the cut grass and
melted bitumen
they summon feelings
of such immensity
they break stones open
with chicken soup and
meatballs grandparents’ voices
and songs played by old lovers
on days of certain colours
—these kind will ambush you!

there’s a poem for everyone

Some poems are found
in the membranes between
fingertips tracing skin on bellies
and round lips
they taste like memories
the smell on pillowslips
—like things you shouldn’t clean
and couldn’t anyway
poems like this
unlock through movement
they are told by bodies
moving limbs and spines
in patterns describing
dream histories
personalities forgotten
and remembered
—it‘s highly recommended!

there’s a poem for everyone

some poems rattle round
in heads and hearts for lifetimes
unheard unspoken
they drive some to violence
against themselves and others
and others take hobbies
that approximate the rattle felt
from poems like this
some poems are never found
until the words are forgotten
then are found in places
people are not looking
—but keep looking!

there’s a poem for everyone

I probably won’t talk to you

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You seem to be tied up in romantic notions.
You seem to be tied up in romantic notions.
You can’t seem to get them out of your head.
I’m not gonna save you, no
I’m not gonna save you.
How could I possibly save you, when
I’m not sure how to save myself
from everything that’s happening?

We’re all in the same situation.
We’re all in different situations.
We’re all taking our position.
But time cares about none of that.
Time is taking everything away,
and time is catching up
to every single one of us.

Maybe one day you’ll be famous
– maybe one day you’ll be a star
(but I highly doubt it) –
keep shooting for the stars.
The stars aren’t gonna save you.
The stars aren’t gonna save you.
The stars are the worst possible
examples of success you
could ever imagine: they’re
burning at every end, and
they’re running out of ends
to burn, and they’re burning
so bright, they blind us.

We keep revolving,
getting tied up in
these romantic notions.
Why do you think that I
can save you? What
do I possibly have to offer?
You don’t even know me.
I don’t know myself, so
how could you know me?

I’m sorry, but I love you
nonetheless, now
leave me alone – I’m
dying at my own rate – I’m
planning my own funeral.
You can come if you like, but
I probably won’t talk
to you.

Jerusalem lost

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we don’t ramble or rove
coastlines pining death
no sea kelp kisses
or obsidian hickies
for us please
the salt spray foam
the wild horses
trigger allergies

we eat kumara
with garlic aioli
and the noise of traffic
drowns the voice
of any god who calls
though we remember haka
when drunk enough
and beer is still the rage

and the rain’s choir still visits
—the tin roofs of cbd apartments
are not unlike rabbiters’ huts
there are still traps here
but these islands
have been given shape
they resemble dystopian
backstories to tween romances
they feel like sitcoms

some of us still grow gibbous
under waxing moons
our nails are stained yellow
we still look savage roaming streets
peddling poetry on card and paper
we still bear the heavy musk of tobacco
some of us remember our geography
by rambling coastlines

and I guess I strike a heroic figure
in my skinny jeans
and am a mopey fuck like you too
so there is that