Midnight Prayer

when I close my eyes
to pretend to sleep I see

(I think)

my teak wood table
scuttle and weep
‘free, free, to the forest!’
and it would amble
(with a bit of rust)
amongst the trees and
whisper with the rustling leaves

my books would join in on the fun
covers flapping—a flock of swallows

the moonlight, bored of being pale
(or s’ennuyer, as it would say)
flooded back into the sun
and was welcomed as a son

the coffee complained that it was stale
and amoebaed its way out of the mug
leaving a brown and sluggish trail
on the poor old woolen rug
who, tendrils quivering, curled itself up
muttering things that didn’t matter much
and my soul;

fleeted
to praying priests
(‘they might be pretending’)

orchestras
(‘the players are faking’)

parents
(‘their divorce you regret
mending’)

CDs
(‘autotune’)


back to the room

emptiness

grinding the parched sound
drying
my throat;

and I wake up
run to the fridge
and drink old blood-
red wine
sour cold smooth
and oh so fucking good.

Elegy for a Lamy (fountain pen)

People will chide and whisper
‘it’s just a pen, he can do better’

 

just a pen that
wrote and unwrote
two love stories breathing
life into its letters
histories and
bad poetry

freezed with me in a
foreign park your dark blood
weaving warm words

your magic fountain traced
truths (I hope) and
lies (sometimes)

and now I hold
your broken frame your
blood black like lack of all
colour

and I guess this is the end
of our stories and the one’s
you’ve written; writing

with the next pen feels like
rebound sex but I guess
sooner or later I’ll learn to love
this goddamn Parker

The Blobbing Fish.
A Lamy fountain pen that I had for quite some time died today and I wrote this straight afterwards with a replacement Parker. Weird, but hopefully interesting.