Andy B J Low

Raconteur, paramour, pragmatist, programmer and poet.

Not much fun.

And then you're gone:

It's quite surprisingly sudden just how sudden sudden is.
How suddenly you notice the things that you miss.
All that time to reflect, no more, one last kiss.

And then you're gone:

It's quite surprisingly sudden just how sudden sudden is.
How suddenly you see the things you miss.
No more time. Not even one last kiss.
Will you be missed?

Doubt: No one will hear:

The choice is ours, not to hear your words
once uttered, vanished, your voice unheard.
By silence, emboldened sets forth the doubt,
the claw that plucked them first from the air, now tares them from your throat.

Advancing as a wolf fixed on a scent, it has sensed your fear
a silent bound, it flattens you.
Its weight exhausts all breath from within your breast,
crushed cathedral of your voice, bereft
of all you would have said.
No breath to even welcome death.
Now, caught by the pack, surrounded held to the floor
your throat, crushed tightly closed, by doubt's frenzied jaw
and as the embers of your soul fade and cease to glow, your heartbeat slows
The voice that one wants not to hear, no one will ever know.

Your voice that no one wants to hear, no one now will know.

Making friends is tricky:

Making friends is tricky, knowing what to do
to catch an eye, a witty thought or two
Why you?
A whole lifetime passed and not a thought
but suddenly the ghastly vision of a sinking boat
the words catch in my throat
but I must jump or on the new horizon
the confluence of souls will come to naught.

A lie, not forgotten but ignored:

A lie, not forgotten but ignored
like the filaments of a fungus reaches out into the void
through the tiny fissures, the microscopic gaps
that exist when lies and life don't quite overlap.
Hidden out of sight, in plain view, deep within, penetrating bone, flesh, sinew.
A shadow disguised by blinding light or by other shadows and the dead of night
always not quite out of sight but kept just far enough behind.
Creeping closer as your labyrinthine paths unwind
then all at once the filaments combine
rise up and bloom, from horizon to horizon to every part of you consume
A binding noose
the price of truth long overdue.

The afterlife:

The afterlife
Let's party till we die
Then meet again at the party in the sky.
In English what can it mean?
Après sky, and après vie
In parting and partying alike
Raise your glass. "Until the afterlife."
I'll drink to you, you'll drink to me.
Jusqu'à ce que la vie après.

Deadlines:

Characters cower at my pencil's tip
Teasing, caress the paper, kiss me quick
Vanishing as virga words fail to form
Reluctant poems refuse to be born.

Morning run:

The morning air, reaches out and touches you
It weeps with joy, each tear a jewel of dew
as you glisten in the cold shimmering morning sun
and tingle as the moist morning air explores your lungs
A joyous bounce as you begin your morning run.
You soul ignites and you prepare to greet the day
May they rest in peace, those who dare get in your way.

First date, the flowers on the table:

They've seen it before, they've seen it all
the burgeoning crest, the falter, the fall.

Doubt reaches out:

Doubt reaches out.

Plucks words directly from my throat

And leaves a barely noticed rasp of breath

My words replaced by loneliness

and then by death.

Mirrors - guilt:

False reality.
What reason sustains this lie?
Is my gaoler me?

Mirrors - guilt:

my mirror in the morning
shows me many things
my gaoler in the shadows
my binding chains
my crippled wings

my desires my loves my feelings
flee, driven from my heart
the simple joys that filled my soul
lay shredded, ripped apart

each shredded dream each shattered joy
the shards of mirrors past
reflect the scorn I serve myself
howling hatred in the dark

Pull back the dark and shabby sheets
Cut down the binding weeds
What reason can sustain this lie
how became my gaoler me?

A mirror image:

A mirror image
Not superimposable.
Symmetric, chiral.

Why didn't you say? (blame the victim):

You open your mouth to speak and your body refuses to breath.
By (the) silence, emboldened, sets forth the doubt,
the claw that plucked words first from the air,
now tares them from your throat.

Silence taken as consent.
Fear mutates, metastasised to punishment.

Rape. Why don't you see? (blame the victim):

On display, my gaping wound is open to the world, but all who see,
ask what did I do, not what was done to me.

Judged that I am the author of my destiny.
See not that my shredded soul has been surly ripped from the heart of me.

Let me gouge their eyes so they can see.

What was done to me.