in the end

there is no grand end.
no, the birds would not cease
their songs; neither
would the wind delay its travel. we
have no grand end,
dust to dust, flesh to rot,
such is the end
of all men, women too,
with nothing grand about the end.

when flesh finds its rot
and the end has come and gone,
a new life becomes
or death returns
a relentless tormentor,
a choice* all yours.
there’s nothing grand about the end,
it is that life after that sparkles
with grandness that has no end.

*The Holy Bible John 3:16

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dark times

where I am, the stars don’t shine. the moon
is left to rule the night. ghosts of stars
float on city waters, but they sneak away
at dawn, in the shadow of the sun

on nights when unruly clouds join forces and haunt
the sky with hardly a respite, we are left

at the mercy of the night

borne in death

if I die tonight,
my wounds and scars would rot
with me, surely
I would carry no uncured aches
into the life rich soil, but the world’s pain
and the world’s misery
would find more space to own
in the empty cage of my ribs
and the sunken bags of my eye,
for they would not leave me be, even
if I die tonight.

how not to use a girl

every man, yellow, brown,
woman too, surely ought
to know how not, an’ tune
your ears, to use a June.

if you find a girl, say
at your door in a box,
wooden, in tissue wraps,
maybe blue, greenish swans

floating on blueish lakes,
groom’d with redbrown bow,
do not let winds of rage
blow your pale hands or beige

belt on my soft tan skin.
do not, in heav’n’s name, by
calloused hands, cunning tongue
ever take ‘tever’s mine.

not my will. not my drawers.
do not don me in dark

petticoats stitch’d, hemmed
trimmings of rifles, balls,
as a god soothe with the
Dev’l’s snare or dirge. do not,

i plead, use me at all,
for not a stud bred for
gaining more, akin to
polished crowns only for

reign am i. i am as
all men as i am a
girl.

the ones we stole from

they say
it takes a voyage
to see all faces
of our sun.

i have been on twelve
such journeys: five
summers i have spent
washing these white walls

till they shone like
limestone cliffs that brood
by sea-green waves that dance
without end as if like sirens

calling out to their walls, who sit
as stony as the walls i scrub. the walls
stare on, deadpan, when she pushes
blood red daggers through the hide

of my battered will,
again, till its cries
fade to pitiful whimpers.
these walls say nothing

as he takes my body
again before them,
his cries for pleasure,
mine silent for loathing.

but

my walls weep
as i wash over them now
with all the might i am able
to draw on from yesterday’s

unconsumed meals. perhaps i
remind them of the metal ruins of
the old pier rusty brown from its
wrestles with brackish licks from the sea.