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I’ve lost my eye for beauty

February 8, 2018

I’ve lost my eye for beauty.

God removed
it with a wooden spoon and fed it to
the dogs, who loved the taste of failure.

said, “Listen for the darkness, feel it fall
and form around you.”

But I cannot feel
a thing but pain, and only hear the sound
of blood drip tearing from my cheekbones.

death is in my blindness, only fear.

I’ve lost my eye for beauty.




November 6, 2017

Wind gusts in the ravines of my ears
but doesn’t stir the detritus in which I sit and dine
on disappointment, having forgotten the taste
and flavour of food and no longer longing
for it.

Whether store-bought or care-packaged this disappointment
tastes sour and sticks in my throat like sickness.

I’m not hungry.

Let me leave here, step from this stifled place,
let me linger for a moment in my own little restaurant,
let me sit on that barely serviceable bench,
and take sips of tap water.

There is no waiting list, no ream of reservations,
no one wants to be there but me,
where the comfort is careful,
the wind is calmed,
and the menu is mine,
let me.

My left and my right foot would let me;
my eyes permit me, gently;
my heart beats already in my ears, battling
the gusts and gales that do not stir the stripped glory of summer
but its reflection in my youth:
I needn’t ask my heart
to let me;
my hands, though, palms and fingers,
are buried beneath the bricks of elementary school,
locked under the lawns of the legislature,
and are found broken and scattered in the foundations of the shopping mall.

Handless, I am spoonfed,
and disappointment is the dish
that I do not ask for
but have no hand to refuse
while wind whistles
and hunger is only heaviness.


September 21, 2017

Pass by!
the tea-cart,
the doilies and the mints
(in their crystal bowl),
look down from!
the enormous china cabinet—

A cutthroat real estate mogul is on the cusp of a monopoly.

But then,
and then,

She serves the whole family dinner,
all the courses and dessert.

Her little frame
held a painting of such colour,

and that colour
is now dancing
beyond its corners.


September 14, 2017

Already the colourful strings
show on their napes,
tied in bows.

Plastic bag crinkling,
filled with a towel and old trunks:
pressed on the lap.

How do those windows open?

Wouldn’t it be funny if
“The wheels on the bus go round and

Just moving the red latch makes the buzzer sound.
(it wasnt me)

Eyes on the arms of the boys,
on what’s under their shirts.

Find a stall to change in


Breathe in and hold the ribs out,
cross arms.

Echoes, amplified.
Pitter patter on shining tiles.

Beautiful girls,
colour and skin,
miles of skin
to travel in the briefest look.

Better boys,
shrivelled boy in old trunks:
breathe in and hold the ribs out,
cross arms.

brown sticky benches
the smell of chlorine
On the way back.

Basement summer

August 1, 2017

Concrete ceiling shedding dust,
the upstairs neighbours old cigarette smoke.

Sun through three high panes shines weakly,
fills the room,
doesnt leave:
grime, glass, grime.

Broken thermostat in the (shared) laundry room,
landlords running the dryer without static guard.
vents in the back access:
the only moving air.

Basement summer:
a city of roommates exhaling hot air,

Alone Before the Doors of the Silent House

July 21, 2017

Mournful ukulele, dirge-like accordion, and song titles drawn from Tess of the D’Urbervilles are three of a multitude of unconventional aspects featured on my latest musical release, which also presents a number of previously published poems in a new, melodic format.

Resurrection is Hard Sometimes (Link)

April 24, 2017

Resurrection is Hard Sometimes Resurrection was easy for you: encounters in the garden, walking through walls, breaking bread, breakfast on the beach, a cruise on the clouds to go back where you came from. But what if going back where you came from was back to an alley full of dumpsters and rubble […]

via Easter Monday Reflections — gareth brandt