#garbagepoetry

[oliver-hawthorn]

Hello? And

I am alive-

And arent they the same?

And arent we all just dying

Or at least just living

Maybe not surviving but

Maybe surviving on

Something other than this sort of

Sick feeling healthy feigning death

On the sides of roads we havent

Even traveled down yet and if so then

Who am I to a grave robber?

Aren't I just another resounding

Hello?

Aren't I just a pile of bones in the process of

Becoming?

And do I owe them the effort of

Adorning myself in gold and trinkets or

Would it be more helpful to waste away

Ahead of time?

To a grave robber,

I can only be so much potential so

I'll burn up this body and

Nothing golden will remain but for the fruit

That will undoubtedly grow from the ashes

I scatter of myself in the winds

I might remember speaking to as a child

On my death bed.

Because I am not here to supply;

I am not here to offer gemstone seeds to the world

But fuck you if you think I haven't ever

Planted gold in a person;

Gold for them to hold and leave behind

Gold for the funeral fires,

For their growth, or at least

For their grave robbers.

I may not be great, may never be great,

But fuck you, anyway.

I know I have been a hand in the dark to people

In the process of Becoming.

Isn't that golden enough

Wont that be proof enough

That I was some sort of Alive, too?

Hello. And-

I am Alive.

[oliver-hawthorn]

Honey suckle flavored breeze like

A memory of way back when,

Before the sour taste of

Rotten luck tasted me like sweet wine,

Developed an addiction to the marrow

Of bones small, but not yet hollow,

Not flightless, just not flying-

It would be years until I learned to fly-

To rip myself from the ink of it and run

Down the street and straight into the clouds.

[pterlya]

This is a place for the waning.

The ends of all roads.

The resting place of the last winter raven.

The grave of the cherry coloured bugs.

This lone cabin is my childhood home.

Here I stand,

On the frozen river,

Who does not speak to its image through the mirror.

Withering without weather,

Tethered to the ice of deep waters,

Stagnant like all waning things should be.

- birthplace