Kitchen Poetry # 36.
Those freckles on your back
I'll trace them
and map them
my very own constellation of stars.
Gathered Emotions.
I sat and watched the bustling intersection. Our favourite cafe, our favourite lamp post, our favourite brownstone and tenement. All those people carelessly walking by not even remotely aware of the memories we carved out on these city sidewalks. This here is home. Home as reflected through the transient beauty of a stranger's smile. Where do the lonely go to when everything reminds me of you?
I sat and watched the bustling intersection. Our favourite cafe, our favourite lamp post, our favourite brownstone and tenement. All those people carelessly walking by not even remotely aware of the memories we carved out on these city sidewalks. This here is home. Home as reflected through the transient beauty of a stranger's smile. Where do the lonely go to when everything reminds me of you?
at
00:05
But You Made Me Find My Voice.
And there she stood, her head held high above the luminous cirrus clouds of ecstacy. She had been here before but there was never enough time to luxuriate in the feeling. Not until this moment. But now, those memories were distant like the stars you observe through a telescope. A whisper of a dream like the pretty echoes of those long gone. She closed her eyes and stretched out her arms as she exploded into a million tiny fragments. The wind carried her on its wings and scattered her among the emerald trees that glisten like diamonds in the morning dew.
And there she stood, her head held high above the luminous cirrus clouds of ecstacy. She had been here before but there was never enough time to luxuriate in the feeling. Not until this moment. But now, those memories were distant like the stars you observe through a telescope. A whisper of a dream like the pretty echoes of those long gone. She closed her eyes and stretched out her arms as she exploded into a million tiny fragments. The wind carried her on its wings and scattered her among the emerald trees that glisten like diamonds in the morning dew.
at
00:00
Sometimes.
Waiting in the spaces between seconds is like being set on fire but you can't stop dousing yourself with gasoline. It's an unexpected rain on a blistering hot day. It's forgetting about tomorrow because you've only got today.
Waiting in the spaces between seconds is like being set on fire but you can't stop dousing yourself with gasoline. It's an unexpected rain on a blistering hot day. It's forgetting about tomorrow because you've only got today.
at
00:04
Invested In Loneliness.
"One wild and precious life", he says as he shows me the skull he had impulsively tattooed on his middle finger as a symbol that things should not be taken for granted. I'll sit with him in a diner as he sips his weak lemon tea and talk about the reasons stars twinkle up in the sky. Some made-up story I'll likely believe about constellations and moonbeams and how nothing is what it seems. And when it's late, he'll call me and tell me he needs to share something cool he just read. I'll wonder if he ever sleeps as I doze off listening to him drone on and on and on about poetry, social revolutions, communism and the art of keeping sketchbooks. And in the morning I wake to a phone under my pillow hoping I didn't embarrass myself by saying something I shouldn't have. I'll bump into him in the library reading some tattered old manuscript and he won't mention anything about last night. He'll just look up at me for a brief moment, smile because I did say something embarrassing then quickly bury his face back into his book. Red faced I'll sit beside him and slap him on the arm as we burst into fits of uncontrolled laughter, hidden between rows of books.
"One wild and precious life", he says as he shows me the skull he had impulsively tattooed on his middle finger as a symbol that things should not be taken for granted. I'll sit with him in a diner as he sips his weak lemon tea and talk about the reasons stars twinkle up in the sky. Some made-up story I'll likely believe about constellations and moonbeams and how nothing is what it seems. And when it's late, he'll call me and tell me he needs to share something cool he just read. I'll wonder if he ever sleeps as I doze off listening to him drone on and on and on about poetry, social revolutions, communism and the art of keeping sketchbooks. And in the morning I wake to a phone under my pillow hoping I didn't embarrass myself by saying something I shouldn't have. I'll bump into him in the library reading some tattered old manuscript and he won't mention anything about last night. He'll just look up at me for a brief moment, smile because I did say something embarrassing then quickly bury his face back into his book. Red faced I'll sit beside him and slap him on the arm as we burst into fits of uncontrolled laughter, hidden between rows of books.
at
11:40
People.
People fascinate me. You fascinate me. But what really interests me are the parts you keep locked away. What I see is the Image but I want to see the Real, the Object. But that's almost always kept well-hidden in a secret garden behind high, high walls. It's in a room where everything is stripped away and what's left is just a naked, pure form of energy. Once in a while I catch glimpses of it. Hidden in a place where words become fragmented and superfluous. Where the rhythm of your soul fills my cavernous heart with a beautiful sound.
People fascinate me. You fascinate me. But what really interests me are the parts you keep locked away. What I see is the Image but I want to see the Real, the Object. But that's almost always kept well-hidden in a secret garden behind high, high walls. It's in a room where everything is stripped away and what's left is just a naked, pure form of energy. Once in a while I catch glimpses of it. Hidden in a place where words become fragmented and superfluous. Where the rhythm of your soul fills my cavernous heart with a beautiful sound.
at
00:12
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