These are not flotsam and jetsam thoughts,
they do not ebb and flow,
they are as constant as the stars and the universe,
expanding and contracting like the breath.
Tides cannot be turned off, and neither can the tsunami
of negativity that swamps me surreptitiously.
Caress me Death, I welcome thee,
with open arms and a closed mind,
and deadened heart heavy and blackened
in the precipice of my chest.
Where are your bones, stupid girl?
Where are your bones
Dare you laugh off these things I say?
You think they are in passing, but they ring true.
Take them as seriously as the sun,
for they burn just as strongly, and blister just as badly.
Blacken my soul, lest it be grey, static:
the unknown between tints and shades and colours.
Along the border is where I rest, the boundaries,
the invisible between love and hatred,
the numb and the empty – the Border Line.
Fill me with your kiss, tickle me with your scythe,
then take me away,
far away, beyond the separation anxiety
of the trio of selves I carry inside.
Do not go gentle? That saying is fucked.
There is no such thing as tomorrow;
only the continuity of flotsam,
and the fluidity of jetsam.