Pale blue hues disassembled by well tuned vision and so soon I found my life consumed and my lust for division incised into a well created immersion.
I found you in myself in the nether
in the hardcore breaking fake-weather imagining station place of devout desperation
where a nation of youths carved out their dreams and plunged into their muse
we had secrets too
sick becoming, longing, particle of wave of generation and of destiny and of dynasty.
Now Wild Turkey nights and such physical emotions
like bricks we take in to party
in bags not well hidden
we unzip them as we drink to break them
but they never break but
we break, and windows shatter,
and morning breaks and here we are again
23 months later
we lucky few
more mouse than men.
You often escaped with a pen that embraced many names
except for my own
and I remember holding it for a while in the chill of night
in the deep cold that wouldn’t breed fog
and choked dog
and stalled beast in the night,
safe roo to die by morning
and you’d lay there drunk and mourning
all the moments we went over again and again
we were bored, or we were of genius then,
but all i really know is that
you’d berate me as I wrote with the pen…
And then you’d forget what you were saying to me,
and you’d mumble about Clare Island,
and I wouldn’t listen,
too busy writing out whatever it was
until I was finished thieving.
While you were still drunk I’d slip the pen back under your cloth-dinner-skin,
and tear the page and light it and smoke it down into my lungs and into my blood and I’d bleed tears carrying you back and you’d slip and grab me and I’d grab onto nothing except frozen air and somehow we made it home and made ridiculous promises and woke up hung like foxes, matted and depressed, and dead.
But we were foolish for such reasonable memories, such logical futures.
And I’ve never been so blissed out as I was then.
Using your pen.
Balancing deadly between the dark and the light
and feeling an immense heaviness,
of young power,
I was drunk and in love -
you know -
you have that knowledge
of eternity because of stupidity.
You would tell me how you broke your phone
and your mother cried
she knew you were growing up
but you didn’t know and you “knew nothing” you said, loudly.
Your frown was like an avalanche over a rich mountain,
your tears were hot like friction between rocks older than humanity
and you always caught them as they dripped off your chin
because you had certain reflexes
inherited from your certain kin.
But you never lived up to them,
and they burned you from within.
This is in remembrance
and it shouldn’t come as a surprise
because you know me and I and we
are always remembering
and always in remembrance.
We are the embrance,
we are the boys of the embrance.
But do not bastardize this, and not me, not now.
I’ve no idea where you are now
and maybe nothing has changed
maybe this is just a clever long season
“god, I can’t wait for the weekend”
those highs and lows but extend them
and lower them
and drown them
and throw them in among the fears you inherited
and painfully clear philosophical lectures,
and many many more…
You will hate me if you ever read this,
but I’d hate you to never read this.
And this is just all in remembrance
of how we are all liars,
and truth seekers, and how
we are getting old now
do you fear it?
“Ye men of embrance,
do ye fear it?”
Don’t fear it…
Not now, it is too late.
We are the embrance.
Nothing has changed
apart from the part of us
that wants to believe it has.
“Maybe this is just a clever long season,
could you believe it?”
I could believe it
but only on one of those long cold nights
when we drink under the starry sky
and smoke our beautiful insides dry
because we are
because we are too young to die.