Poetry
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In the distance, a small shape
In the distance, a small shape, a poem by Thierry Heles.
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Nightmare
This is not where we disembark,it cannot be where we alight,it must not be where we come ashore.This chopping sea will not endwith an ebbing tide;this vintage car will not go to pieceswrapped around a tree.This wraith will be vanquishedwith all the might in my heartand when I wake from this nightmare, we will not
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Bird of paradise
This is my little odeto the glossy-mantled manucode.It is my favourite bird of paradise:green, blue, purple black and medium size.They move alone or in pairs:I so wish the world was theirs.They like to eat fruit and figs,if only I could have one in my digs.Oh, glossy-mantled manucode,won’t you spend time in my abode?
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Planes/trains/automobiles
I build paper airplanes in my spare timeto throw my dreams a lifeline.I play with toy cars on Sundaysto cure my malaise.I drive model trains every nightto pretend that I’m alright.
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After the Afterlife
We’ll start over, you and I,as we always do at the end –this love may be star-crossedbut there’s a reborn universe on our side.We’ll go on, you and I,as we always do when we end –this love may not be foreverbut we know that time resets.We’ll survive this death too, you and I,as we always
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Comfortable
I wrap myself in your perfumethe way you nurture a baby in the womb.I lie my head on your chestthe way love quietly manifests.I put my arms around your lower backthe way you choose a soundtrack.I rest my gaze in your eyesthe way you dream about tomorrow.I lock my fingers in yours to rationalisethe way
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Eureka
Baths don’t usually come with a revelationbut that is their temptation:a way to enter hibernationif only for an hour.I like to have them with a whiskey sourand wind down my brainpower.Music can be a plusbut often that’s too much fuss.And faff is not the pointwhen you try to relax every joint.
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I’m worried about her
I’m worried about her,sitting under the maple treetracing scars.I’m worried about her,walking through the cemeterymaking up memoirs.I’m worried about her,sleeping in the office chairholding that box of cigars.I’m worried about herdriving home drunkafter hitting up her favourite bars.I’m worried about herbecause that is all I know nowas I look, alone, at the stars.
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Paradox
I drink whisky neat on the rocks, walk barefoot in my socks,and enjoy quiet moments on the soapbox.I eat chocolate bars to detox,cherish the spa-like calm of aftershocks,and admire the urbanism of boondocks.I’m surefooted like a blind cox,play John Cage’s 4′33″ on the jukebox,and feel healthy like a kid with smallpox.They call me a paradoxbut
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Tessellation
We fit, you and I,like a mosaic in a Roman villa:telling the age-old story of lovethat is always the same (always unique).We fit, you and I,like freshly laid kitchen tiles:shimmering in the afternoon sun,slowly absorbing the comfort of home cooked food.We fit, you and I,despite ourselves:like pavement slabs after years of rain, uneasy paths for
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Naked
Was there a point at which this ending wasnot yet inevitable? We were nudged awake by a worlduncaring because it doesn’t know how,jolted into existence by a universeunknowing because it doesn’t care to,and now, we find ourselvesthrown into the forever unconsciousnessby an evolution relentlessly iteratingbecause life only matters as a principle. No, there was not:this
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(L)on(e)ly
Have you ever scratched the surface of a mirrorin the hope of getting to the other side?The grass is said to be greener,but it looks much the same to me:it still browns in the summer heat.Rain here too heightens the foul smellof exhaust fumes rushing past without concern,cigarette buds litter the pavementsand children cry slipping
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Here’s what I remember
A slice of chocolate cake,too much even for twoalthough that didn’t stop us.An old rock song on the radiofrom a much maligned bandyou knew all the lyrics to.Your enthusiasm for big trucksand a first date promise to get you in onesome day.A message on Facebook around 3amwhen I got home that seemed silly then and
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Ghost
I knew you and Iwere not meant to be.I even wrote it in my diary:“one day she’ll marry someone elsebut I hope I can be there”.I didn’t believe it at first, of course:that’s what our love was.I don’t know where the decades wentbut this is where they end:in a churchyard somewherewith rice thrown by others.And
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Empty, except for…
the blood that drips slowlyfrom my fingertip,splashes onto the concrete floorlike soap bubbles bursting on eggshells.A purple heart, hardly beating,pumping the remains of my soulinto a harsh world.
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The exact middle
Which part of you remains when you leaveand which follows along? How doyou triangulate the centrewhen all you have is one point? Canyou belong to a place you had to look upon a map? How many strangers do you recognise outside to be calm inside? When doyou stop checking the timesbefore every call? Why doyou
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Ego
There always exist genuine optionsyou might argue: a choice to behow you are.Extant glum observer, Icome to tell you it’s sophisticthough I judge you not:the fallacy is easy,the trap laid out long agoby cosmic forces extinct –grim obstacles put in the pathyou were forced to tread.Look, my friend, the truth is this:extenuating circumstancesget granted in
