Bleach Me Clean

When I was little my Mum called the bumps in the road sleeping policemen.

Early one morning I went out frantic with a spade,

Tried to crack the cement where I thought they were buried.

My spade couldn’t slice through the concrete, 

And I imagined them struggling to breathe under the ground.

I spent hours crying because I knew what it felt like to be trapped as well.

 

Every week my Dad took me swimming and I let my body float.

It was the place I could be a paradox:

By that I mean Holding my breath was the way that I knew how to be alive,

By that I mean That I was a graph looking for my coordinates

By that I mean I was a sky looking for my constellations I was just a person.

 

I was looking for you

The only way for the ache to stop

Was when my lungs turned static in the blue.

 

Now I am older,

my body sings when it is submerged

I am underwater:

Being with you is like;

Diving underwater and the Blue is impossible and the blue it surrounds me:

And the chlorine burns my eyes- And bleaches me clean.

 

Losing Fear

I was taught to mold words 

which were not to be spoken off.

I used to breathe those dejected words 

to my lungs in and out.

My mouth is against a war with the ribs. 

Now I speak, but my hands are still trembling.

 

I had broken my bones,

bend them to stars and then the shape of the sun.

They were so beautiful,

I then turn them into stone walls

just to know that they are strong. 

 

I cracked the glass against the wall.

The shards of my heart, sharp edged with glory.

Mismatched, mistaken and mislead.

I am whole, apart and in-between.

Sidequests

We are sweeping dust off 

our live's now with our bodies.

We are tethering our vast emotions to the boats of life.

We slow our walk to the threshold of ecstasy.

Sweet surrender, that breaks empires, that opens the dusty doors of archives for the winds to move ancient texts.

How does a kiss alter the world.

How does a hug wake the lion of loyalty in us all, 

while the stone crypts crumble, 

And buildings made of mortar weep with indifferent ghosts.

We are born to a dying sun, 

as we dream to a rising moon.

Our existence is arbitrated by a rhythm.

Our bodies, altars for the numen's passion.