diaric, poetry

‘23. your ship is sunk, my friend

when i remember my own tipping point.
when you chalk yours up to
a generation’s desolation and clawing for
something resembling
control. weight. A carrying. 

You are underneath, darling, now what
can i do to help? Have a cookie.
Have two.
Get mad. Madder even. Loose the still. 
I became a derelict
—that’s fine, i accept—
by not keeping their ship
afloat. I surrender, you’re asunder.
Oh I must be so powerful.

Even now, I swim the same
sea—yet vast, yet oracle;
skim the surf
while at bottom,
the sands, the deep, and theirs eat
the planks, the convoluted halls,
the mezzanine. A clinic
of leisurely reign.

In so deep you have to remind yourself the water is moving.



Photo by coco tafoya on Unsplash
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diaric, poetry

Wars, Dynasty, Rules, Gifts

Saw this poem coming from a
mile away.
Had me in its sights.

That guitar—neck snapped right
at the base.
Heavy gauge strings now
heavy gauge coils.

I broke it. I snapped. 

Here you go, have it
back.

Oh, this feels good—a sink
into the warm bath.

You did bargain for this
whether you
know it or not.

An elegy; I best be on
my way.

broke meter
Maestro of form so above
it all, neglected yours.
Pithy thing. 

Don’t take that tone with me.
Watch what I
do with it. 

When it’s time for
The Grandest Scale.

You woke me up, dammit.

The runway. I’m on it
like a bonnet. 
You betcha. 
Okie doke.
Here lies.



Photo by Camille Brodard on Unsplash
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