Pianola

There once lived an organist whose heart mingled with music.
His long fingers blessed the organ,
and the sound of honey blossomed in the air,
notes melting into harmonies overflowing from his heart
until his own organs stopped taping along,
and his silence was buried next to the church.

His son was a banker;
his heart laid less vulnerable to music
his passion for music was an octave lower.

But how his love for his wife sang!
And with his elegant fingers,
his love poured out of the pianola
And she gently shut her eyes,
a beaming smile,
the happiness of her soul only given away
by the tapping along of her foot.

And through the sweet music
produced their only son,
Who only scored a grade 5
in the scale of love.
A quirky boy, he loved a bit of jazz, a bit of life.

His slender fingers were bouncy and playful,
his music chimed loudly and free,
just like his own spirit.
He showed his daughter
how to play “frè-re jac-que”
and to shout  “ding-dang-dong!”

Now I stare at my own slender fingers,
perfect piano-player’s hands.
I wonder, did I inherit that musical gene?
Am I in-tune with my father?

Curiosity is humming inside me.
An ache.
I despise the pianola’s sad out-of tune character.
I stroke the keys cautiously,
Pressing each soft, honey-coloured note
and my soul sings.

Filled with life, I open up and bleed.
My sad voice seems happier.
I feel heavy lust; the pianola’s sweet voice called me over.
My heart is one half-note away from falling in love.

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sea salt take 1

Sea salt and anxiety grip me,
how many ferries shall pass before
our ferry in the sea of the sky?
for seas and skies are singular
space equals time equals sky equals
sea
you equal me.
music equals you equals poetry.
creativity equals music equals the sea
equals maths and singularity.
All because I read one line
from ‘how to be both’ by Ali.

sea salt

Sea-salted air like salted caramel,
at the bottom of the ocean lies a pearl
that waits for time to find it.
And the time the moon takes
to pull the blanket of sea over the shore,
and pull it back again,
is but 12 hours of your time,
and 12 hours of mine.
And does it take the time of gravity’s mass?
Or do you want to find the pearls yourself?
Replace time and exist instead of it.
For those pearls cannot decay anymore.
The moon told me to go down to the shore
When the tide is high, when spirits are high.
And shake hands with the ocean,
because there is no time to do it himself.

Grieving

I listen to Dad’s old music – what I can find of it. Grandma however, didn’t share her music with us because she thought we wouldn’t like it. So I have no music to remember her by, except for the song I was listening to on repeat the day that she died, which happened to be ‘Month of Sundays’ by Metronomy. This was probably the most emotionally salient day of my life. It is funny how different things stand out to you depending on your mood at the time. Then, I was struck by the lyrics “I see we were similar, but I’ve never thought much about it” and the part “We’d skip and laugh,
I hold her hand” in an idyllic fantasy imagination. I realised after Grandma died how similar I was to her, how much I take after her. Now I have been trying to change and to escape things connecting me to them. Although I don’t want to escape, I want to be right back there, with them. Time is a place. It is a place I could be running around trying to find forever. Trying to find in all locations of the present and future, trying to find the place in time where the past will come back again.

The other ay I absent-mindedly wrote the teenth of February 2015, because my head is still stuck there, trapped there. The final months of bliss, of normality. My head is still stuck there suspended in a timelessly hanging present moment that is now falling further and further into the distant past. My head is stuck in the idyllic past whilst the world around me marches into the ever-changing new present moment that is filled with a different reality and absent of two of the people that made me happy and whom I loved the most. How will I ever enjoy a world without them I wonder? I still crave to see them in the past with every fibre of my heart. I daydream and nightdream about seeing them. It’s driving me crazy and I think I am crazy.

This is why I feel half asleep and half real in this world. This new world without them. I try to remember them, even though they’re imprinted on the back of my mind like a black stamp. I try to bring them back to life through their otherworldly spirit – their music, their future (present) wishes, their morals and values.

I am halfhearted. I try to love and live the present and I am half listening when you talk.

The other half of me wonders if I should indulge in my daydreams of the past and write stories about the past written in the present tense so it is a real world I can endorse myself in again. Lose myself to the fictitious-real past that exists in my memory and in my memory only.

I obsess over the days they died and they turned from present to past. A change of tense and of being here then not. Life is out of synch, once together, I now live in another time and place where they do not.

I think I ought to write about them whenever the back of my head knocks on the door of my frontal lobe, and I feel another wave of longing for them. Maybe writing about them is the only way to process their absence, and my continuing love without continuing life accompanying it. Because at the moment I am still gripped by the past and I’m out of touch with the present and life still feels unreal and blurry.

Intoxicated

Come into my bedroom and smell my dirty-sweet smell.
Peel open your virgin mind and reveal to me,
the thoughts you dare to say during watery small-talk.
I want conversations of stirring dark chocolate,
swirling as sickly and sweet as life allows.

Give me rich chocolate and a bleeding heart,
that pours in the daytime and sleeps sweet at night.
Let my eyes sting with happy whilst I am still alive
And whilst I am still able to sting at all.

A poem inspired by a friend is worth more
than all of the banks of England combined.
And a heart spilling over for a friend is a white wine-glass waterfall.
I want the toxic kind of love with life and its pain.
So I stuff myself with art in hopes of catching emotion.

I crave chocolatey connection but
I cannot open my mouth to speak. Even though
my mouth waters for a slither of raw emotion.
In love with passionately scribbled out thoughts,
crumpled paper feelings and glittery long nights,
I seek the messy bedroom pockets of life.

Sweet Decay

Poison runs through her sweet peach mind
She cannot hear through the thorny cynicism
Her honey-filled words are locked up inside
the poison fuels her hopeless indecision.
Winter’s black skies press in on her black mind
and she tries to feel hope in the emptiness.
She wants more for herself in her future life
than to waste it all away into nothingness.

Cognitive Depression / A morning of

This morning I woke up warm, ill and comfy.
Then remembered my grey world, quite dreadfully.
Last night I dreamt of my magical queen.
But reality returned, horrid and mean.

Standing before me was another long, grey day.
‘Psychology’s not a science.’ I hear my friend say.
Maybe it’s true; a degree as useless as myself.
Urges tempt one to indulge in hurting themselves.

What got me out of bed was imagining a pizza,
To eat alone and alone to be in miserable fiesta.
But no! I will just feel ten times fatter.
Have coffee for breakfast. Get skinny faster.

I walked to the bus-stop in warm Autumn weather.
Could sunlight and coffee really make me feel better?
Brown leaves and teenage-girls’ sweet laughter.
After warm minutes of sunlight; I did feel a-little better.

I want to live in the cocoon of a bubble,
An inner-world, pocketed away from reality’s hustle.
Can poetry somehow save me from this miserable gray?
Is art the magic antidote, alleviate an empty day?

A seminar on abnormal thought and behaviour.
I identify my own faulty thoughts, and consider-
Is this all that’s making me so down? My perception,
Actually is just inaccurate lies and deception.

But I still can’t stop the emptiness, the depression.
It’s too rigid. Too heavy in pressure.
All I feel is the lack of meaningful connection.
Alone, Alone, Alone, in mind and in perception.

And when I try to do anything at all,
My mind is compressed down by stone-brick walls.
It puts me down, disheartening and negative.
Telling me “it’s a waste of time!” and “you’re rubbish!”