I dream in total darkness unmindful that I invented dark along the way. You see, Gatsby christened the green light
I can have something for myself, to believe in the speck
of green light drawing me to your name.
I exhale sirens as we speak.
and pierce the sky open for a look into the fates.
Pursued by hedonism, I look at you more often
than I should. That was decided too,
you bring destruction into the room with your swift stride
half a century before than it was supposed to.
There are certain poems you cannot scratch on bathroom walls so you stitch them between your thighs
for no one to read. Swords or Words? Swords or Words?
There are too many such poems.
The quiet hand inside me extends out to yours.
Weak suns fall into the abyss. I am (no) Cassandra,
(I won't) let this be a tragedy, I ring every bell in your apartment and leave without saying anything.
When you close the door, there is a burning unease
I ruin this poem by confession, too and the fog creeps
from October to the moon of another month.
You are tangled in my throat,
dulled by the humming of my heart.
I am immersed in ink, with a prophecy
that I'd rather give away.
Writing is often like screaming. Like Cassandra, this is my innate curse. My darling with blackpool eyes, you ask
why I write for cheap tickets and big audiences
but really every word is for you,
I am screaming in this poem too.
Do you see the green light?
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YOU ARE READING
SWORDS OR WORDS
Şiirfor jehanne ʻjoan de arcʼ • Poetry Collection // Anger is the the first word in Homer's Iliad, so we begin here. Eking out a saviour from the scraps of a girl, naming every hill she burns-pride, greed, lust, envy, gluttony, wrath, and sloth. ...
