I wrote these before I promised never to write poetry in English again...
Autotomy
View from now
Living without
For a long time
The dark and wicked
lump,
was all I saw.
Ludicrously easy,
how it dissolved
in the end.
Funny now how,
being that stuck,
for that long,
seems
wasteful,
protracted,
unnecessary,
self-centred
and
deliberate.
(It wasn’t).
We tell people
they
absolutely
matter.
They disappear.
We self-mutilate
and we run,
leaving them
and our lost bits,
to rot on the roadside.
Fucking disrespectful
but we end up
enjoying,
forgetting
we were running for our lives.
Our compartment
of the past
feels sweet, blurry
and bitter.
An icy, empty glass
of tonic water
on a steamy day.
Good days come
Charged with
a whiff
of a hopeful, open
future.
A lap at the pool
with borrowed goggles.
Foreign goggles,
for a borrowed life.
Stay afloat,
enjoy the sunshine,
the path
to the deep treasure
is rocky and absurd.
A thousand gentle pushes
and you’re lost,
out of breath.
I know I can,
feels otherwise.
Life is a giant mojito,
fixed
with old ice cubes:
luscious,
with a hint
of decomposing hope.
Past and future,
words in a secret,
foreign tongue.
Only right here,
right now,
surfing blind,
with full trust,
in a sea of
joyful agony.
