You say, ‘It’s over.’
And I think you might be talking to the fire
As it sighs and curls, and falls asleep,
In the cradle of charcoal and tender ashes
And I try hard not to notice  
How roughly you kick your boot
Through the soggy, amber leaves
And the clagging mustard of rot
And the flat, leather mushrooms
And the beaded cobwebs
And the forgotten acorns
And the ring of pale feathers
And the cruelty of moonlight
And the meaningless sorrow of tiny bones
And the relentless smell of mildew
And the misery of all the crawling things
And all the sticks and all the stones…
And in the car park
You drive away too quickly
And don’t wait for me 
Or the unexpected fox
Caught too long in the headlights.

You dance like Brendon Urie

Once, I found the truth in Kafka. Now you’re all I can think about. It feels like it’s gonna rain again. Rooftop to gutter. River to ocean. Currents don’t care about the colours of individuality. They take everything with them. But when I close my eyes, the plastic is always orange. And I thought. I hoped. That if I fell into that same oblivion. I would end up on a trash island with you. Tangled up in the six pack nooses. Our clarity mistaken for jellyfish. Somewhere else.

I felt the ripping of your absence before I met you. When we kiss, I know what it feels like to die. Turns out the sea was always the important bit. And when we’re alone you dance like Brendon Urie.

© 2017 jac forsyth


A pocket full of indigo

24-waysThere are four and twenty ways to cry. I know them like I know my own skin. Still, this thinking, it scratches me awake. Softness has a way of seeking out the weak places, the fault lines. The errands of departure. What would life be without the loss of it? A platitude, nothing more. And so I take a hammer to the nails of my mind and beat the song back to melody. Colours to white. Glass to sand. Blood to iron. The carcass of it dragged helpless while I break the rocks of absent dreaming. There are four and twenty ways to cry, but for all my tears, I can find only one way to love.

© Jac Forsyth 2017


What would you tell me about love?


Would you build me a stained glass tapestry?

Would you cut out rainbow colours

And fix them with the lead of your sweet rhetoric?


Would you sing me a house of cards?

Would you weave me a thousand symphonies

Out of that bitter-sweet thread?


Would you drown me in your dark passion?

Would you raise a kite to twist and turn inside my mind

Blown on the winds of that treasure paradox?


Would you fashion me sonnets out of price tags?

Would you hand me fear in a gilded box

Bound with amber ribbons of tenure?


Would you have me believe in angels?

Would you measure my light on broken scales

And talk to me of the commodity of love?


Would you?