Hold, Please

Can this hold to prevent breaking?
What can be used to brace?
Capable hands
Sensible selves
There’s structural damage
Internal bleeding
Draining what’s left of dreaming
The ‘Dream’
Bold claims
Boys hipping in daddy’s soot-suits
Boots faded brand new
Dark jaded unhewn
Stone and mortar replaced by paper and glue
That won’t hold
Become your own saviour
That rope around your waist
Is it long enough to tie around?
Can it hold to prevent breaking?
Will it hold?
Will you be ashamed of stains and stray frayed ends?
A face that’s afraid
Why not let it break?
Embrace the fall
The fall is as important as the hold
Nothing lasts
Not even this feeling fleeting moments past
If you return home now the memory will be in leaving
In flux or an influx?
Why this empty space?
There are so many question marks at the ends of all my sentences
An inward agitation expressed as curiosity
Breadth of interest concealing depth
‘That boy’s shallow’ they would say
And no one would dance
There’s no time for that
When was my last breath
I could chance it
Gamble my reservations in hopes that my place would be saved
To remain seated would allow me to hold my place
This indeterminate ill-defined location in space
Or was it indifference which defined me?
It doesn’t matter there is no difference
The thoughts keep me within the body
Ill-flavoured omens
Foul flavoured copper mouth
I should eat something
With no sustenance the body will feed on my substance
‘He’s shallow’ they would say ‘eaten away at himself’
Not carved nor hewn
Stripping flesh and sinew
The body was empty to fill
The singular instances of my existence bring shame
Doubts and pains
Aches from stagnation and the stench of rotting meat in my hands
Is it the same?
Would it have been had I not been?
This can never be so give thanks it never will
How empty this instance except for what I bring to it
I am alone at the beach
On a bench
Or was it a seat in my home
These streets unfamiliar
The world was all kittens and rainbows
Blood and cum
The sum of some great nothing
There’s people making love while others are fucking
Some wear makeup with their misery
Some loosen their belts and strangle theirs
Welt marks of the beaten cock
The baboon Red ass
Red hand grabs
Red in their shit and in their shot eyes
Red beads dripping from cavities
Red cunt Red cock Red Red
Everything was Red
Paint me a picture of Red
The other colours are not vigorous enough
They don’t blind or stop or force hands
They are not Red
They don’t fill your body with the embalming fluid of the River Styx
Come back to me Red
I am exhausted


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Joel Lester is a Musician, Composer, Poet and Writer from New Zealand. This blog is an online portfolio of his collected works. Joel is currently working on a book of poetry to be released next year, a novel, an album of original music, and several chamber ensemble pieces.

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