Body language

One of the meanest thing I do to my body: to let it starve
And: to let it thirst
To let it cry without knowing why

To let it lose its language
The one our tongues took so long to learn
And now I just can not decipher

What does it mean to have a fever?
What does it mean that rivers,
Rivers of salt water released from the springs of the eyes
Could be so searing on the skin of my face

Forgive me, and let us be
Let us be amazed, once more
With the words we’ve known so long

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[Transcript] Clementine von Radics – Patron Saint of Manic Depressives

for the way we work our broken fingers through the dirt
 'til we convince the good to grow there

Patron Saint of Manic Depressives
by Clementine von Radics

for Vincent van Gogh, Patron Saint of Psychotic Manic Depressives
often, I think of Vincent and the meat that once was his ear
how he gave it to a pretty girl that was not certain of his name
and then spent the night alone
trying not to bleed to death
and ever since my own diagnosis
some part of me is always alive
and inside that moment, and I picture
scared girl
the bleeding painter
the jagged flesh between them
and sometimes I am the girl
sometimes I am the dripping blood
but most often, I am the one offering up some unwanted mess of myself
and calling it a gift
on the worst days,
to be manic depressives is to stand on ground
that can’t promise to stay beneath you
it is to be both violence and victim
both the knife and flesh that welcomes it in and so often in these poems
in a lovers bed
in my mothers kitchen table
I offer up the truth of this illness
and watch the people I love, pull themselves away from me
I am chaos
I am a barely hidden bar fight
and I know exactly how many people believe
that makes me impossible to love
there are days I believe it too
I am in love with a good man
he sleeps beside me every night and every time he says he loves me
my first thought is: why?
can’t you see all the nicer people with fewer problems
my second thought is that: who else is gonna love me when he decides to stop
it is so easy to lose myself in the mess of this
to say I love you and mean only I’m sorry
but I try and think about Vincent van Gogh,
how his first teacher said only a mad man could paint like that
only in madness could you hold so much joy and grief in the same paintbrush
and in that thought, every drop of paints and blood joins in the same river
like every sunflower bursts like a star from Vincent’s wild heart
you know
art historians say his mania is the reason he saw the starry night skies swirl like that
his illness became his genius
which became his revelation
and thank the stars for that miracle
for the way we work our broken fingers through the dirt
’til we convince the good to grow there
I have spent countless nights grieving my own brain
but tonight, I sing of its brilliance
in the way that only I can
and thanks the stars for that
for this new joy
for this good blood
for the beauty I find in the river it takes to carry me there
and I swear
I will not apologize for what allows me to see the sky
not tonight
not ever again

Unavoidable

My fatalistic point of view is unavoidable
I apologise for having molded that part of me
It was the only way I could had survived
Myself, my very own enemy

Sometimes, I forget
and those days will be fine
And sometimes I remember,
or someone reminds me
and still–those days will be fine too

2017

 

// A colleague was surprised reading my handwriting. “I have never thought that you have this baseline,” she said–pointing at my sentences that curve down in the middle but go slightly back up in the end. And a few moments of analysing later, in the inside I was like: yeah, that is me, I have forgotten for awhile, but I guess that is true.

[Transcript] Sam Sax – The Politics of Elegy

Politics of Elegy
by Sam Sax

Like anyone, I can make a list of the dead
I can make them my dead, by making the list
I can write my name, the name, names below it
I can craft and obfuscate and collapse
I can publish it
I can ask; who of us is left to tell their story?
This land of plenitude and pens, of plateaus and platitude and pens
This land is my land
The song says: this land is mine
How long have humans buried each other in the earth?
How long have we sung their names into absence?
How long have we been paid for that singing
Every architect expects to have people to inhabit their building
Every poet intends their poem to outlive them
Every piece of furniture in my room is shaking its head
What’s the difference between weeping alone and on camera?
What’s the gulf between an epitaph and an epic?
What’s a eulogy but a coin rising in the throat?
Eulogy from the Greek means praise
Praise from the Latin means prize
Every public dirge is burning capital
Every shirtless picture of him I keep is a small Virgil
Every hell I’ve traveled through is an expensive bird in my mouth
I was paid a thousand dollars for writing a poem about a dead man who hated me
I was paid and each dollar is a ghost in my wallet
I was paid and I am trading his body for bags of food
I am never more dangerous than inside the arms of a man who will die before me

*please correct me if my listening is wrong, below in the comments section :)

Statics

I met her
She cried inside my face
And I could feel her question
purging my sanity

She grabbed me by my neck,
plunging me into temporary death
“Safe,” she said,
“You’ll be safe.”

I know how she lied to me,
time after time.
Her language danced,
as if I craved her every syllable
to mean something to my ears,
tapping on its drums,
electrifying.

They don’t.
Her cries are screaming statics.

 

2016

Memories

maybe i rather die all alone inside my head with a little sanity that has lingered long before the alarm rang. let me slumber in a meaningless nothingness.

14 November 2010 at 12:32

Send my regards to the early winter.
The first snow might hold some parts of me.
Ones that were dissolved by the rainwater.
Ones that have traveled way around the sea.

14 November 2013 at 18:30