in feverish forgiveness, until death do us part – 16 may 17

‘Feverish forgiveness’, you whispered before me,
the goddess shrouded in gratification,
melting in a moonwave of love and hate.
At the altar,
all smoke in the chest and burnt brandy in the throat,
you smiled as the blood went down your softened cheeks and was welcomed,
at the sunken chin,
by the hope that I would know what you meant.
The crescendo of the expectation held itself in your trembling chin
and you repeated it again – feverish forgiveness – and I wanted to ask how you knew
it boiled my blood to relinquish the sword but scolded my heart to pursue it –
and so in feverish forgiveness we stand before the almighty ‘I do’
and the blurred, no, marred, yes, charred gratitude,
with which we melt into moonbeams of love,
forged by a hate hardened by our holy cheeks,
unwelcomed by our lofty chins which hold in them a steel expectation,
an always burning crescendo.

-SARU MILLER //16 MAY 2017

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a hymn: psalm of lilies – 16 may 17

The lilies sing a hymn on the deep green hills of madness.
The lilies sing the psalm of people whose clasp on the sane has (not slackened) but cracked.
And people think there is weakness in cracking or that with cracks comes weakness,
but that’s not what the lilies sing.
The lilies sing the psalm and the psalm says that when one cracks, one lets the air whistle between the gaps,
one lets the sun weather the newly born surfaces
and when one cracks,
one expands.
But when one weakens, one shrinks.
One loses their surfaces,
one loses their contacts to the lilies and the deep green hills
and when one weakens,
one can no longer hear the hymns,
no longer hear the psalms
and when one cracks the psalm dives head first
and the hymn hits the soul.

the things we leave behind – 15 may 2017

There are growths in us that make us breathless,
that have the smell of our home;
of fresh, floral laundry, 
and
stiff,
hostile, white bed linen,
of polished and proud mahogany floors,
and well-loved and well-kicked, well-laughed-in-and-lived-in couches,
and bedroom doors that creak as they giggle (and whisper as they slam)
and of kitchens that are all clutter (all clatter), always hissing (always clanging).

These growths house the touch of our memories –
all soft fingers, like feathers and down
(but warm like bread and biscuits),
like water that rests in a beck until the sun goes skittering into the night.
Memories greet you, heavy, like mid-summer heat,
(meet you)
like mid morning august caught between the lungs.
And in the heart, the touch leaves behind
(the touch of the memory forgets to take)
that dizzying rush like stars shaken up
(like leaves in the torrent at tide)
in a sky that spins without an axis,
without grounding,
without gravity.

And the growths make us breathless,
but only when we press against them,
always when we are arriving(always when we have departed)-
the growths make us breathless no matter the distances we travel

(far
and
wide)
to find a way to breathe,
to try and leave growths behind,
to try and let go of yesteryear’s aches.
And the distance has a presence that is closer than the present.
It pushes against us as the future
(as the horizon)
pushes us into tomorrow and so we find our sides
(our insides) feel sharp
and feel weighted
and we call it homesick
but it’s really the way the things we leave behind still house us,
or rather,
the way we house the things we leave behind.

-SARU MILLER // 15 MAY 17

there is only creaking aching panic here – 26 april 2016

Is there any lonelier place
than the abyss, the canyon
of one’s mind. Has one ever faced
a more echo-rhymed abandon
than that of the self – a more
reckless hope of desolation
of desperate, clawing solitude.

Has anyone ever marvelled more than
the ways in which one gazes
transfixed on the burning,
smouldering orange of the sun
it’s breathless, dying gaze.
Have I ever missed,
more than warmth in barren freezes,
the order of a thought?
The one before the two and the three before the jump?
I have never been on such a quest,
never maddeningly searched,
never gaspingly sought
the alliteration
the melody
the bird singing perched
on the constant repetition of dawn.

The cave homes echo. They curl around each other
disturbed by our presence
and go chasing
racketeering
around in the sea’s ear.
But that thrilling cat and mouse
the adrenaline dry oxygen-less shudder
would I welcome now in the silence
of my own mind, to shatter the
creaking, aching panic I feel here.

-sarumiller