I had to take out the bins on my birthday
which sounds like a metaphor with depth
but really, I had to take out the bins today
and isn’t that life?
You can fall in love
but still have to do the dishes
and remember not put colours with whites
You may crash out of love
but still have to decide if you want to put
8.3% of your salary into your pension
You can throw parties and
celebrate diamond anniversaries
but still have to bleed radiators before winter hits
You could perforate the hearts of others
with callous words and thorny thoughts
but you still have to pay your phone bill
You may have cashed in at the table
or received a cracking company bonus
but still have to defrost the chicken before you leave.
I can’t remember when I stopped making wishes and blowing out candles,
maybe when I realised faith fails to translate into finances, we never went to Disneyland dad
or later with bouts of terrifying self-awareness, calculating each year’s gaping mishaps
who on this earth deserves to be fêted, let alone the writer (or the reader).
All I want is a bathrobe and some fluffy house slippers
give me grandeur as I entrench myself into the wanders of adulthood.
I used to fear that giving voice to my fears
was like releasing gusts into pirate sails
now I write them instead,
anchoring them to sheets
1. The death of my parents
2. That I may never be loved
3. That I will never be satisfied
a. It will not be Hades nor Anubis that comes to collect the souls of papa and mama
they will live long and shower their great grandchildren with gifts
sleeping and slipping into the arms of the Lord of Hosts, of that I’m certain.
b. A flower seemingly predisposed to displaying petals to weeds
nestling those who nourish with nettles, is what I’ve been
but even considering what my inner most thoughts say,
I’m fucking fantastic
and since Christ did indeed die for me
earthly love just won’t do.
c. Alas, the last I am yet to conquer,
will I be resigned to the dredge of modern monotony:
marriage mortgage mortuary
what if my true love’s kiss just won’t do
most of all, what if at the end of my days
I look back and shiver at my lack of progress, a pitiful pilgrim,
even when written, ’tis haunting.
Birthdays aren’t for me
they’re for my mother, father, sister
and all the angels above
singing, strumming, soothing my soul.