I wrote these before I promised never to write poetry in English again...

Autotomy
View from now
Living without

For a long time

The dark and wicked

lump,

was all I saw.

Ludicrously easy,

how it dissolved

in the end.

Funny now how,

being that stuck,

for that long,

seems

wasteful,

protracted,

unnecessary,

self-centred

and

deliberate.

(It wasn’t).

We tell people

they

absolutely

matter.

They disappear.

We self-mutilate

and we run,

leaving them

and our lost bits,

to rot on the roadside.

Fucking disrespectful

but we end up

enjoying,

forgetting

we were running for our lives.

Our compartment

of the past

feels sweet, blurry

and bitter.

An icy, empty glass

of tonic water

on a steamy day.

 

Good days come

Charged with

a whiff

of a hopeful, open

future.

A lap at the pool

with borrowed goggles.

 

Foreign goggles,

for a borrowed life.

Stay afloat,

enjoy the sunshine,

the path

to the deep treasure

is rocky and absurd.

 

A thousand gentle pushes

and you’re lost,

out of  breath.

I know I can,

feels otherwise.

Life is a giant mojito,

fixed

with old ice cubes:

luscious,

with a hint

of decomposing hope.

 

Past and future,

words in a secret,

foreign tongue.

 

Only right here,

right now,

surfing blind,

with full trust,

in a sea of

joyful agony.

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