Category: Sonnets (page 6 of 8)

Her toenail polish is chipped and I love it.
She’s doing that crazy dance and it’s cool.
I’m feeling dizzy, not sure if she’s real.
But she is and she’s crazy and yes so am I.
I mean, a little bit crazy. Not real crazy.
Just a look in her eyes, wind in my throat.
I didn’t learn how to hang the tea towels.
I’m happy for her to teach me these things.
I’ll teach her just how to be really crazy.
We’ll get crazy, even if it’s just a little.
She calls me monkey-tail and other things.
These words will become my new dictionary.
That’s also a little bit crazy but so are we.
I can’t speak anymore, but I can still hum.

I follow the story-lines of your hair
in photographs. Tracing the sources of
stream tendrils. Making my way back to
the original kiss. Asking the universe
to contract. Let’s reserve a table in
a future restaurant. An advertisement
in a foreign place. Paperweight heart.
Your lessons in film-making, driving.
Navigation being the hardest part. We
could animate our own dreams. Powers
swirling in our star charts. I follow
the newspapers each Friday afternoon.
They lead me to a place where love is
a large explosion. I’m feeling lucky.

Why? Because. That’s it. No reason. Just
because. Why? Because why. It’s as simple
as that. Because. Because why? Trust me,
because. Why? Because that’s the way it
is. That’s no because, no why either. I
shrug. Because, that’s why. The reasons
are the answers. There’s why and there’s
why not. I’ll take because. Because why.
That’s why. Simplicity itself. Because
we’re all seeking simple answers. Why?
How would I know? Just because I know
why because is because, does that make
me an expert? Why? Because. O sure, I
heard you the first time. Because why.

I’m looking for a house to live in but I
don’t know if I can live with myself. It’s
tricky. Damn my moods, the forgetfulness.
Hanging a sign outside my skull: for rent.
Mexican dances for the dead. Forget them.
Shelves lined with mix-tapes, coffee pot
forever mouldy. If it’s all the same, I’d
rather squat on grass. Those shirts from
the late 1980s we hoarded, that paisley.
A cask from last week’s costume parties.
On a whim I visited my grandmother, then
I applied for a flat I’d never seen and
was successful. I’m moving in next week.
Utilities connect themselves, off-peak.

Fields of megafauna, legends in our eyes.
Beneath a confected dune, I spilled some
water from a glass jar and watched as it
disappeared into yesterday. We pitched a
tent on the beach, listened to the dingo
howls, and prayed for rescue. The locals
don’t seem to mind us being here, though
we are invisible to them, of their past.
The animals’ eyes glow softly in amber,
rare mosquitoes frozen in space. As time
washes our shorelines away, we struggle
with this eternal fear of obsolescence.
We’ll never know what it was like before
we arrived; and they, after we have gone.