(use desktop version to read the lines as intended or tilt your phone, happy new year.)
New Year Poem
I find it is
in my right
a few words to you as
this year is coming to an end. Not that I would first ask. And you know how time is,
different to you, different to me,
different than how it flowed a year ago,
I would even say this December alone felt like a full year.
A full year full of all the versions of us.
A full year full of all the versions available to life.
A full year of teachings and private framings, contextual feelings,
urgent stories, public mornings and filling each other full with our cum.
A full year full of half-filled conqueror young souls.
We spoke like the old and sounded like it.
There is a scene in my memory that hasn’t left me yet.
In it, the time is half an hour before midnight
and I’m juggling some wings in the oven and a young fresh love in my heart,
upstairs washing himself with this blue, celebrating (or mourning) a rebirth,
and I’m celebrating my own rebirth,
the birth I had with my fresh young love into a realm where I most certainly feel like a newborn baby because I’m learning how to make love, how to make art and how to cook wings for the first time.
A newborn. So the new year makes all the more sense.
And the memory and the blue and the smell of it all is still with me,
I think I might have even gotten into the bathtub to soak my body a little more in the fresh young love - but I know you wouldn’t let me do that but then why do I remember my skin to be damp and my hair to be wet, I don’t know.
And I remember how I couldn’t get enough of it, the fresh young love.
The bathtub sequence of this memory doesn’t have an end
but fast forward to the end of the year some minutes later
steam is coming off your freshly washed big hair
and you’re wearing my sweatshirt as you do and the fireworks and fireworks
and the fizzy drink that pops and kisses and kisses but maybe not real ones.
Did you also feel like a newborn,
in new clothes and this shiny little new toy that cooks for you and is okay with receiving whatever bodily fluid you may have at the store that day, I don’t know.
The next thing I remember is a kitchen operation to cure the hangover
and more weed and lime and the pomegranate that pops and that
is the first day of the new year, of this year.
You know how time is. Different to you, different to me,
different than what we make it promise to do.
The first day after the switch, next year, we will(I will)
only get to sit with the traces of low entropy
and perhaps remember the bathtub and the steam and the wings as
some far off memory that time so kindly allowed to happen.
The residue of how time did its job and put us together and broke us apart.
it was a year full of you.
Still, I can’t get enough of it, the fresh young love,
but time got me old.
And sorrow as aftertaste.
I don’t put much thought in it anymore. Instead,
I am wondering what will be the next color of my toothbrush. Wondering what Ike’s plea was to begin with.
Hard. to tell. to wonder this,
is actually the same thing as putting thought in it. Hard.
I remember how fragile. On and on and on.
And you know how time is,
a Friday to Sunday is enough to fall in love,
one night is enough to speak the truth,
but a lifetime isn’t enough to understand
it all and to find the right words to speak
so you let your body explore it instead,
and out of that comes the most beautiful fragment of time
and that feels like a forever.
But you know how time is.
It doesn’t let forevers happen
and instead enjoys better comas and full stops and yet,
you know how time is,
it nevertheless lets you feel everything as if nothing had an end to it.
And I love time for that.
I sit comfortably in it.