141115A
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Whatever one happened to love
in a long history of lost loves
is what tends to remain somewhere
when everything else is gone.
It is a type of misfortune
that one does not wish onto anyone.
Love always takes prisoners
that it never really sets free,
but some like it that way,
and are always looking for a jailer.
Some are prisoners of love,
and others are the prisoners of duty
Love is the kind of disease
that nearly anyone can catch,
and that nothing prevents.
It can make you so sick
that you think you are going to die
before you ever get over it.
Some people go for repeated doses,
the way junkies crave their poison.
It is similar to an addiction
to repeated jolts of electroshock.
Wiping something out every time,
with its convulsions of loss.
You get to spend more time
trying to forget completely,
whatever it is that you cannot forget.
Trying to wipe your slate clean
and in that way starting over
where the chalk marks once were.
You simply have to learn to accept
that it is impossible to give and get,
before the deck gets shuffled again,
and you get dealt another bad hand.
The kind of game where you never win,
as they raise the stakes and trump you out.
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141115B
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A poet is always cursed
by the confines
of attempts at honesty.
At least in the use of words
which tend to defy that,
and nearly anything else.
Trying to get it right,
without breaking something
in the process.
A process where it happens
that something always breaks
at exactly the wrong time.
Sweeping up the debris
of shattered language,
where it seemed to be as clear
as looking out through a window
onto some idyllic scene
that one can never really enter.
All the fears and wishfulness,
battling with each other,
until everything seems to cancel out
falling at the ends of lines,
having stumbled on punctuation
that hesitated at the edge of an abyss.
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141115C
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The idea of romance
is always about something forbidden.
There has to seem to be some danger
of crossing one or another line.
It never really exists
if there is nothing to be afraid of.
So they make you more and more afraid,
of what amounts to less and less,
as if that might make you settle,
for something easier to take,
than a feeling that the sky is opening,
and that the earth is beginning to shake.
You either go that far down,
or you start to surrender your ghost of a hope,
that you will ever find anything from above,
that is any more than another boredom routine,
with which you can try to fill the time,
between coffee and the usually pretentious rituals.
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141115D
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It always costs more than you thought it would,
and your pockets are always emptier
than you were led to believe that they would be.
Between those two notices
you draw the usual blank stares
of those who do not see anything in it for them.
They do not let you in on anything of real value,
but they do not want to become guilty
of leaving you completely out.
So you get filled up with vague promises,
that always chance on being forgotten
before one or another expiry date.
They count on the simple fact
that everything expires eventually,
but they prefer sooner rather than later.
Some want everything the sooner the better,
They have various ways to wear something down,
until it all falls apart in the process.
You can never quite believe that it is true
that you can never find anything you look for,
but you might be given something else.
You simply have to perpetually make do,
with the various contrary arrangements
that feel as though they are slow suicide.
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141115E
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It is always a search for the one
that you never really find.
That is what betrays your wishes,
and once wishes are betrayed
they never really come true.
It is all about keeping secrets,
from anyone you wanted to trust.
They always use everything
to their own advantage,
taking your best, and leaving the worst.
It keeps you perishing
to your own big dreams,
which seem smaller all the time.
It is all a matter of counting the losses
that you never expected to suffer
and being deprived of the consolation prize.
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