Polite Plea

Come and be human with me

eat nothing that means us both leaving the house

sit on the floor in strange places

and sleep in familiar beds

 

I will make art, not for, but about you

speak truths while you’re sleeping and wake you with hands

we will dive deeply into one another

and stay out of our own weary heads

 

We will argue in glorious fireworks

I will throw words, you will break my guitar

remind ourselves that it’s something worth burning

and be all the better for making up

 

Come and eat cereal late at night

in silence, undressed on the kitchen floor

be far too tired for tomorrow’s long stroll

in love, just enough for the waking up

 

come in your own time, and human be

 

yours politely,

lonely me

K. Henson

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Look forward to all the chances to get hurt again

K.H.

“move on,
hearts will inevitably break as they are wont to do,
you can stay away from love if you think it will help, but people will leave, and die, and betray
write it down. draw a picture. sing a song.
or do the english thing and go get laughed at by those that remain.
all manner of brainly ills can be cured with cups of tea, a particularly strong breeze,
or the words “i’m still here” even if the word that echoes is “still”
dwelling is the deadliest addiction of all. dwelling is sweet from the dwelling place, but remember it projects outwardly as bitterness.

move on. watch trees and count leaves,
if no one surrounds you, wait for the words “i’m your friend”
you’ll find them in familiar smelling houses and unclean mouths, sweet from morning pastries, don’t let that put you off

i have dwelled, people i don’t know, know me through two albums worth of my dwelling place. I have turned the things that burned me into product, and sold it with ribbons of cardboard, they’re not so scary then.

if your dwelling place has locked you in, look at the sky as the day is ending, it is filthy and orange and pink,
the sky is streaked with the sins of the day just been,
spattered and scrawled with car fumes and electric lights from another day of humankind’s inevitable folly.
go to sleep. all is well there

wake early,
look again,
you’ll notice the world is now blue, the sky has recovered and smells of wet grass, no longer spilled beer and words not meant,
breathe it in. its another chance, and it happens daily. just for you.
go out and swim in the mornings fresh start,
as the cars rev their engines and begin to undo it all again.
don’t pay them mind, they need to take their owners to work,
this morning’s for you
move on, into its mystery.

why do we listen to albums like mine? why do i revel in poems meant for funerals?
because others dwellings are a comfortable fix, methadone for the weary soul,
like serial killers who’ve been dead for hundreds of years, and strangers houses
other peoples pain is always more beautiful than our own
count it, rub your hands on your face, check it’s still there, still looks like you
and move on

she still exists, i see her on trains, what a wonderful thing

move on,
you will get hurt
make beauty from your dwelling place
and look forward to all the chances to get hurt again”

gloaming henson

3:26 a.m

There’s pain in the heartbreak
Or in the mind’s overtake.
But how beautiful is it to find
All your pieces on the ground
Waiting for you to pick them up
As high as the great Sun God,
To construct another version
Of everything you are as a person.
The hability to create new
To forget all the used.
We are humans made of particules
Or we are told so anyway
And in every possible way
Without destroying we can’t create.
So we live our lives like we’re unique
And maybe we all are but not like this
It is not the need for attention
Or the battles with our great ego,
It’s the kindness, the free mind,
The soul within our tired eyes
That makes us different somehow.
Stop looking for groups to join
And listen to your own thoughts
That’s the one with the truth
That’s the one you cannot lose.
Do you feel the breeze ?
Do you see the peace?
Running from your lungs
Into the chamber of your soul?
That’s you, the real you
Asking for a truce.
Sweetlips you broke me,
Everything I hoped to be
Vanished with your hips
When you said not to fight thee.
Nowadays I don’t feel anything
But peace and love in me,
No hate no anger, just this
And the memory of us happy
Like I never hoped to feel.
And I forgive you
And I forgive me
After all it is not our fault
That life is so wrong
And society kills our prose.
I’ll ask you one more time
To take my love back
Just to feel your chest
Growing into the thin space
Of the melody we forever create.

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If I were to die tonight

If I were to die tonight
Will you write about I ?
If I ever become the man
You never thought I was,
Will you draw me on your hand?
If the art just goes
And I can’t find home,
Will you stay close?
If there weren’t ages
And people were crazy,
Would it be so messy?
If I ever hurt your soul
And do everything wrong
Will you accept my fault
And love me when I’m old?
Will you hold my hand
Late in the dark night
When silence surrounds us
And we left all behind?
Time is never right
And I’m still a child,
Denying the fact
That the world ends up.
So if we ever cease to talk
Will you still hold my home?
For I am too much of a traveler
To ever be left alone so long.

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Leave it behind

Tonight I will think about nothing
For once I shall empty my head
But if I’m to spend my life rhyming
Will you rhyme for me when I am dead?

Will you sing to the trees I existed,
Tell the rivers they’re wasting their time?
If I stay here a couple more weeks love
Will you tell the whole world I was fine?

If I build up a workload to leave here
Will you make sure it’s read when I go?
If there’s no one to love me while living
Who’s there to let them all know?

Will you write out my name on a banner
And parade it and yell in the streets
That someone on earth once existed
That none of them ever will meet?

If they don’t care please play them my songs love
Perhaps then at least they can hear
That even if scores are not mourning the loss
Perhaps I once had a good hear

So it’s 3 o’clock in the morning
And I still haven’t emptied my mind
And this poem is not quite a masterpiece
But at least I can leave it behind

(‘Idiot Verse’, Keaton Henson)