all we have in common now
are 3 mutual friends
i can still hear you
telling me that i
spend too
much
time
staring
at the coffin
lid and that our
love would never end
and don't you think that's
kind of rich now babe, now that
all we have left in common are 3 mutual friends
what it is is that you remind me of someone i used to be
but the trick i learned is that just by thinking it doesn't make it so
the first day we made love we drove around naked in my car
it wasn't a statement, it felt like the right thing to do
then later that night at the bo you went a little
crazy and i became the man who fell in love
with the moon. it was my first time in
forever and i decided that that's a
good place to be, but not alone,
and you only have to live long
enough to understand lon-
gevity. you must be
asking yourself
why i need
this poem
don't you
know if
it isn't
mediated
it never happened
well at least that's the
line i keep repeating to myself
while i watch your colours fading
ah but it's taking so long, you always
had all the colours this man ever wanted
well it's half past four now i have to go
got a list of chores that need to be
done. guess i won't call you when
next i'm in the moon, it's too
late for that, all we have in
common now are three
mutual friends
i wanted to live my life like a poem
not necessarily rhymed, but
constantly cognizant of the
jagged symmetries that
build up over time, the
dealer decided other
wise, so here i am
healing instead
of drunk. it's
1:39am,
not
late
enough
for bed, not
early enough
to be reborn and
so, wisely, instead
i tried to entongue these
words out of the thoughts
that had me. yes, i wanted
to live my life like a poem, not
necessarily rhymed but constantly
cognizant of the jagged symmetries
that build up
over time
i will write you with blood
said the stone to the
cloud, i will wash
you with tears
said the eye
to the
tongue
i will whisper
your name forty
three thousand times
tonight before i sleep said
the poet to his dearly belovéd
while she slowly extracted her knife
from his wound
and when he was buried
they read out his scroll
which said "it doesn't
matter that you
killed me, what
life was it any-
way, before i
knew your
lips, it
doesn't
matter that
you don't remember
my name, for these are
the only words worth remembering..."
followed by her name,
carefully repeated,
43 000 times.
those in the
village who
had
forgotten
how to love
were immersed
again in the shimmering
memory of what it feels like
to feel, and that night, curiously,
the moon seemed to take on a crimson
glow, as if she too had been fatally stabbed
Aryan Kaganof is the proud father of Goya and Abraxas. He sold his wheels and prefers to walk nowadays. At 44 he's still writing for the barbarians. Slowly.
Comments (closed)
Shirley Sacks
2009-06-01 16:21:27
You sure have a way with words.