Fall.
What a funny word - fall.
As in tumbling towards cold?
As in slipping on a pavement?
As in stumbling in your cheer?
Fall.
Rainy days and melancholy.
Bittersweet moments are back to haunt the lightheaded mind.
Winter will be nicer; it won't be so... insecure.
Fall.
And yet a rise of new beginnings.
New friends, new experiences, new lives to discover.
It's never too dark, even after the bright heat has gone away.
Fall.
Which can be so bright. Or so very dark.
It all points to you -
it pains me to know
that there was more that melted away
than just the snow
and as the flowers bloom next spring
and the birds begin to chirp and sing
i carry the guilt of winter on my back
and every-time i stop to think of the season to come
i nearly have a heart attack
because i thought winter was the most stupid season
i'd sit there and hope for spring to come without a reason
but as the seasons go by
i realise that there is a reason i
had to be saddened by winter
i know now
that if i hadn't been broken by winter drifting away
than i will be
Set me alight but not by fire.
Use your words, your touch and your gaze.
Read every inch of me like your favourite book,
Make notes in the margins and crease the pages.
Set me alight but not by fire.
Kiss me like you'll never see me again,
Hold me like I might disappear,
Love me like the world is ending.
Set me alight,
Make me feel more alive than I have before,
Hold my hand in the dark,
And lead the way in the light.
But not by fire,
A look is enough,
It will ignite every nerve in my body,
Awaken my soul.
Earlier in America
it got so cold
we drove west
the far west
the car's tires
stuck to the road.
As a gunman
you menaced shopgirls
your rat-sleek hair
your flashing glasses
small, dirty teeth
the girls adored.
You liked the way
they walked with arms folded
in the cold going for coffee.
You were asshole buddies
call me not back
thru loveless dirt-strewn streets
thru eddying pools of summer want
i go not that way again/
call me not back
with eyes diamond-glazed by silent hallway lusts
with dark pubic pressures on sheets of fire
with the tender heat of small rose-nippled breasts
i go not that way again/
for now is winter
and i have seen blind children weep
on bruised knees
around a frozen pond/
with this sight my heart and feet are ice
and i can
go not that way again/
day like spring in thick of winter. turn down the thermostat preserve energy the air is too balmy for a crisis today perfect for making love all day long. but the problem remains "how can housework be made into a creative activity?" objects that are cherished are born of an intimate light they attain to a higher degree of reality than indifferent objects. daily at eight the housewife awakens furniture that was asleep. is there a single woman or man who does not respond to the word wardrobe? so white your sheet white as the moon on the wintry meadow. imagine every morning every object in the house would issue from our hands. things become crystallisations of our weakness but a bit more polishing and we have something quite different. sit in corners & see how old the world has grown how worn. common sense lives on the ground floor same level as everybody passers-by. you want to write? either go down into the basement or upstairs.
winter takes a break everybody has the london flu
takes it easy so why not him our backyard is an
icebox turned on defrost. through all pores drips
melts runs how vulgar can you get. as snow dis-
appears old garbage reappears and i read
" a nest is a bird's house "
i've known this for a long time people have told
me for a long time it is such an old story in
fact i hesitate to repeat it. nests are places of
intimacy designated by an attraction. there does
not exist an intimacy that is repellent. its being
is well being. and memory is a wardrobe with the
presence of lavender the history of the seasons
enters. what dreams are reserved for us if we re-
call the land of tranquility. memories come crowd-
Gather 'round
Close your eyes and
Listen as I tell you a tale:
Let me introduce you to Noreen
She, much like a sponge, sits and soaks everything in.
Every morning you can see her
Sitting, and staring.
Sometimes, with a crossword puzzle nestled between her fingers.
As usual, Noreen sat there.
All day, everyday.
Contented by just sitting there,
Watching,
She watched as the buzz passed her by,
Cocooned in her bus shelter.
Who did she watch?
Why was she there?
do you remember
that lonely November
Where I had your sweater
in my favorite colour?
do you remember
that early December
where you and I
had a fight
and it all came crumbling down
when you left that note
on the counter
saying
"love it's over"
And I thought it'd be hell to live without you
Now it'd hell to live with you
And I can't stand to hear your name
When did we come to this?
frost, i breathe in,
the freezing air filling my lungs,
bleeding into my veins, chilling
to the bone, as it spreads throughout
me; a network of ice just as a cobweb,
and i am the pitiful prey trapped by
nature's embrace. teeth chattering,
reddened skin pricks at sensitive nerves
threatening to fall apart any moment,
a frostbitten heart ceases to beat no more.
for acceptance is one that cannot be forced,
for it is nature's law that love has its destiny,
for it is our right
to refuse another.
Lovers, forget your love,
And list to the love of these,
She a window flower,
And he a winter breeze.
When the frosty window veil
Was melted down at noon,
And the cagèd yellow bird
Hung over her in tune,
He marked her through the pane,
He could not help but mark,
And only passed her by,
To come again at dark.
He was a winter wind,
Concerned with ice and snow.
Dead weeds and unmated birds,
And little of love could know.