Tuesday, January 2, 2018

A better year this time by Christian Gould

2015, 2016:

Split ends, burnt edges.

A transition of fire,

The slice of a knife to draw my way,

And no other.

And consequences are sequences,

Of explosive factions,

Set off in motion –

I am cleaning my plate of charred ash,

Of reality,

Of fresh trauma, created by me.

My decision to fail, to derail my self-esteem.

To set myself up on the same loop,

Winding and rotating like an aimless axis,

Without anyone but me to inhabit the outcome.

And come out: broken, burnt –

Yet better than ever.

Saturday, December 23, 2017

O Tree by Christian Gould

O tree.

Point your cheer,

Through the black mass of perspective.

Through the deep, dark

Of the present,

Where the off switch is pressed,

And the screen goes black.

And we sit from a couch, staring into the void,

Steering far from our goals.

Venturing off into nothing.

The Parties by Christian Gould

One head cannot

Fathom the lesson of the next.
Both past-tense.
Tensed into XL limbs, like rustic America.
Shattered between terse,
Planks of land, that we say benefit our hands.
Oh god, they are mud-glazed.
I fear their hollows and tumult.
Spaced memory finished. Another forgotten.
No helping two mud-slats,
Already marked as broken.

Monday, December 4, 2017

Single by CG(me)

My poem

Single by Christian Gould

Single, single.

We cannot break the eyes,

Into sharp shards,

And poke at others with blind sighted,

Disguises and compromises,

That we cannot actually believe.

Believing that one day someone,

Somewhere, in a land far off,

Will strip us of our darkness,

And detonate the immense happiness,

That always lingered inside.

No, instead I see a future of knives,

Raised with accusations,

When the cloaks of light fall off.

I see the darkness inside, finally,

Waiting like a lost lover.

Another entity, but is it meant for me?

                                                            Single by Christian Gould

Saturday, April 22, 2017

Paper-Wings by Christian G

I, a folding of paper-wings,
And ink-blots gluing my eyes in place.
Though, again and again,
You seek to remove my face.