catcher01

For those who don't know- today is journal poetry day. Two installments for ya's therefore, the first is by Joy Harjo and the second is by yours truly...

Perhaps the world ends here

The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what,
we must eat to live.

The gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set on the
table so it has been since creation, and it will go on.

We chase chickens or dogs away from it. Babies teethe
at the corners. They scrape their knees under it.

It is here that children are given instructions on what
it means to be human. We make men at it,
we make women.

At this table we gossip, recall enemies and the ghosts
of lovers.

Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms
around our children. They laugh with us at our poor
falling-down selves and as we put ourselves back
together once again at the table.

This table has been a house in the rain, an umbrella
in the sun.

Wars have begun and ended at this table. It is a place
to hide in the shadow of terror. A place to celebrate
the terrible victory.

We have given birth on this table, and have prepared
our parents for burial here.

At this table we sing with joy, with sorrow.
We pray of suffering and remorse.
We give thanks.

Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table,
while we are laughing and crying,
eating of the last sweet bite.

Here follows the account- Mine



I have my regret.

But just the one.

Here follows the hurt, feel the words

C, is it my place to tell?

Maybe not.

The hurt now, its the only thing we share.

You dont want to know me.



Not justification, nor explanation, but cathartic exploitation of feelings for poetical purpose.



Ive changed now anyhow.

You dont want to know me.

I had a dream, C.

I was forgiven.



But the waking world pains.

You dont want to think Ive changed.



Im just some monster.

Fine.



Youre allowed your anger

BUT I SAIDFUCKINGSORRYBITCHNOWWHOSHURTING?



For the hurt, sorry C.

Scented binned letters rot in a landfill

And from my memory.

Laugh and smile and blonde streak fester in my memory.



You think I lied?



One regret.

Snakebite venom feels good launched from wound.

Green puss. Blackcurrant for the flavour.

Tired now. Examination of purpose useless.

Exorcism of this shit from the inky colon pen.



Never say sorry enough.

Bold shoulder turned from, and heart away from me.

Evil hurt.

And thats It.

The regret is the hurt Ive caused.

Choices of action. And not just to you, but mainly.



Not a day, C.

Not a heartbeats breadth without remorse.

Nice lightning makes me forget

Novas in Belgium Night

and nothing else matters.

Then this heartbeat ends.



Acting on choice.



If the Choices I made hurt

Actions I made hurt

Sorry.

But they were my choices. My actions.

I might do them differently, but cant.

Sorry for the consequence.

But they were MY Choices. MY Actions. MY Decisions

AND I APOLOGISE TO NOBODY FOR MAKING THEM.


ahem. so anyway, life is generally good. the funeral wasn't bad, and it was good to see the family. i think i've lost interest in Laura, but no doubt will be pulling my hair out soon enough again.

oh, and i got a scafold piercing in my right ear

Listenin- Waiting for a star to fall by boy meets girl

Lushin- some nice purple haze

Lovin- Life