the body is a library of grief

The Body Is a Library of Grief

The body stocks it all,

words, fists, nights slept on concrete,

all crammed into you

like dog-eared bookmarks.

Each scar’s a faded footnote

in a children’s book nobody wanted.

The spine’s a battered filing cabinet

crammed with dead-end jobs,

unsent love letters,

and the dream where your father

said something kind.

But somewhere on the shelf,

one true sentence remains,

something like,

Even broken books

deserve to be read.

entity and nonentity

Entity and Nonentity

Darkness.

This poem will end

with darkness.

As before its birth,

before it lived, laughed,

loved, and knew loss.

This poem will end,

as it started,

with darkness.

This poem is from  Wilt 

caffeine

Caffeine

Science says that when you die,

the last sense to go is your hearing.

Imagine that.

Collapsing in the street, helpless,

and after the death rattle,

you hear a bystander calling out,

Oh, fucking hell.

He’s dead.

He’s dead.

He’s dead.

Imagine that.

It’s enough to keep you awake at night.

This poem is from  Caffeine 

sleep

Sleep

I’ve slept intoxicated in the womb.

I’ve slept in a squat as an infant and a teenager.

I’ve slept in a hostel for battered mothers.

I’ve slept with bruised ribs and bloody lips.

I’ve slept, restless, after finding my mother’s suicide.

I’ve slept in the back of a car and under a caravan.

I’ve slept with split knuckles in a piss-stained alley.

I’ve slept on the steps of a boarded-up house.

I’ve slept with a three-day hunger.

I’ve slept beneath a bridge with a fresh knife wound.

I’ve slept as an alienated teenager in foster care.

I’ve slept in a cell, stinking of cheap weed.

I’ve slept on bare breasts and thighs.

I’ve slept on wet grass.

And one day,

I’ll sleep beneath it.

This poem is from  White Knuckle