I want to make things, write things, show things, tell things
I want to illuminate, ignite, inspire
I want to ask, answer, repeat, repeat, repeat
to myself until it becomes a reality
whatever it is that I’m repeating
I want to hold his hands and to be kissed
and squeezed at the same time
At the same time I want to
drink wine and talk about money and talk about art
and talk about Trump
and not talk about Trump
I want to not speak to you
about it any more
but I want you to talk to me
about it until
I hear what I want to hear
I know and I don’t know
at all what I want to hear
But tell me anyway, try
at least try
that is what I do want, yes
I want you to try
and them to understand
and for me to just…be
I need no clarity any longer
I need no answers at all
I want to be free from my thoughts
and I want to be so chained
to them that I get numb
I want the numbness of a sleepless weekend
and the deathly glow of a hospital light
and the grand colours of a
Portugese palace
with the solo grey of a million old t-shirts
I want loud and I want quiet
I want to be a bitch
I want to be so friendly that every time you think of me
your heart wears a warm little jacket
and I want to be cold
as cold as the tip of the ink pen in my hand
and so cold that you don’t fuck with me
because hate is more reliable
than someone who cares
I want to make my own cliches
I want us all to admit that so many cliches are
so fucking true: like the silly colours of the sunset
the stillness of love
the sweet sweet taste of misery
and the unflinching desire to never die
I want us to admit that
there is no truth
that aliens are us
that poetry is dead
that children are spoiled
that life is often a lie…and
how beautiful that is
that I am
and am not
all of the above.