Every night I get drunk
My Dad said to me;
His words in my head,
As he became me.
Don’t take any drugs
Said the shamans in suits,
While injecting me
Daily, daily yes do;
Then these two
With morphic roots,
And one, one,
I’ll savour this day
Despite daily hurts;
One of so many
Until we emerged;
If lived without hurting
I’d own lesser words
For usurping circadian
To find Life’s Arcadia
Held by our terms,
Not yet in wide heaven
But here on this earth.
We cannot just close off hurt;
This is as absurd as trying to cram
An already full cupboard
With one too many of multiple toys
Destined to remain unplayed,
A little mouldy here, a little frayed
Around the ears. For hurt
Is always stronger for us,
And eventually, as inevitably
As fir cones on a forest floor,
The cupboard doors open
Not with an announcement,
Not with a crash of cymbals and drums,
But a quiet undoing in the night,
So that on awaking, everything,
Everything has departed the mouth
Of that destitute space,
And there is nothing left to say.
This is why we watch each other
From across an indifferent room
Where strangers are in a hiatus,
We may as well be further away.
No, it is better to leave these remains
And sometime purchases from shops
Now closed, where people worked
Who now are dead, and businesses,
And love, oh how we live,
Where living brings an end to death,
But hurt there, dressed and exhaling,
Looks at itself in a mirror, and begins.
I miss you, so much.
However far apart, you
Grow love in my heart.