#eva h.d

[rainydayreadingblr]

Bonedog

Coming home is terrible

Whether the dogs lick your face or not

Whether you have a wife or just a wife shaped loneliness waiting for you

Coming home is terribly lonely

So that you think of the oppressive barometric pressure back where you have just come from with fondness

Because everything is worse once you are home

You think of the vermin clinging to the grass stalks

Long hours on the road... roadside assistance and ice creams

And the peculiar shapes of certain clouds and silences with longing because you didn't want to return

Coming home is just awful 

and the home style silences and clouds contribute to nothing but the general malaise 

clouds such as they are are in fact suspect and made from a different material than those you left behind

You yourself were cut from a different cloudy cloth returned Remaindered

Ill met by moonlight

Unhappy to be back

Slack in all the wrong spots

Seamy suit of clothes

Dishrag ratty worn

You return home

Moon landed Foreign

The earth's gravitational pull an effort now re doubled dragging your shoelaces loose

And your shoulders etching deeper the stanza of worry on your forehead

You return home deepened

A parched well linked to tomorrow by a frail stand of “Anyway”

You sigh into the onslaught of identical days

One might as well, at a time

Well anyway

You are back

The sun goes up and down like a tired whore

The weather immobile like a broken limb

While you just keep getting older

Nothing moves but the shifting tides of salt in your body

Your vision blears

You carry your weather with you

The big, blue whale 

A skeletal darkness 

You came back with x ray vision

Your eyes have become a hunger

You come home with you mutant gifts to a house of bone

Everything you see now, all of it Bone

-From the movie I’m Thinking of Ending Things, based on the book by Iain Reid. Officially an unpublished poem by Eva H.D

[forgivenrevenge]

Bonedog by Eva H.D

Coming home is terrible whether the dogs lick your face or not,

whether you have a wife, or just a wife-shaped loneliness waiting for you. 

Coming home is terribly lonely so that you think of the oppressive barometric pressure back where you have just come from with fondness, because everything‘s worst once you’re home. 

You think of the vermin clinging to the grass stalks long hours on the road, roadside assistance and ice creams, and the peculiar shapes of certain clouds and silences with longing, because you did not want to return. 

Coming home is just awful.

And the home-style silence is in clouds  contribute to nothing but the general malaise. Clouds, such as they are, are in fact suspect and made from a different material than those you left behind.

You yourself were cut from a different cloudy cloth, returned, remaindered, ill-met by moonlight, unhappy to be back, slack in all the wrong spots.

Seamy suit of clothes, dishrag-ratty worn.

You return home, moon-landed, foreign.

The Earth’s gravitational pull, an effort now redoubled dragging your shoelaces loose and your shoulders, etching deeper the stanza of worry on your forehead.

You return home deepened, a parched well linked to tomorrow by a frail strand of anyway.

You sigh into the onslaught of identical days, one might as well at a time.

Well anyway you’re back.

The sun goes up and down like a tired whore, the weather immobile like a broken limb while you just keep getting older.

Nothing moves, but the shifting tides of salt in your body.

You vision blears, you carry your weather with you; the big, big blue whale; a skeletal darkness.

You come back with X-ray vision your eyes have become a hunger.

You come home with your mutant gifts to a house of bone.

Everything you see now all of it bone.

[meditative-cat]

a man has to have his breakfast

a man has to have his breakfast. 

a man has to have his sad eyes. 

A man needs a hair on his legs and nose to filter out the poison that tries to enter a man’s multitude in as many rooms. 

even before his breakfast has been served and gone.

 a man has to have a filter and a frame for that matter. 

A man is made of matter and alma and body and soul. 

he cleaves to his mother who is with him. 

when he arrives to breakfast on this slim and spinning platter we call it a tiny moment Earth. 

we call unbearable. 

a man needs to bear things, to bear off, to man up, to telephone his mother. 

a man needs to shore himself up. 

against her loss.

 a man has needs that bind him like an infant swaddling strips or an electric chair. 

he has many rooms. 

a man. 

he can be entered. 

a man must be looked at by the faces of tall buildings and women and the blood-dark moon.

 and called beautiful like a spilled vein, changing color in the light. 

a man’s beauty travels lightly. 

prime to pick up and skip out on a dime. 

what a show at the doorstep or breakfast in the twinkling of a man’s standby. 

really all you had to do was ask. 

-Eva H.D