Two Planets Are Fighting
i. A discourse about the way we hold hands
would involve particle physics
and matches that never got to light anything.
I pass you every day and all I see are the clouds on your surface, swirling over geographies I have not had the privilege to fall through.
The Hunter has come to keep us apart, you know.
To sheck and shull us from each other,
your glow and my gravity, pulled apart
by a love of pure.
And won't you miss me,
lover? Won't you miss the dark of you?
I know you love the purple pull
of deceit, a secret we kept,
like all that time we stole from right under
The Hunter's sensor.
The hull of her ship.
Her clone, born to us like
a new angel, scythe in hand, blue brow to new horizon;
some loves make for good stories.
Ours was made to be forgotten. To be erased. Baptized in each other,
We could never share alive,
like how I can imagine us fighting
over bed sheets in the dark.
Our children never saw the bigger point
in our mix- I wanted the bright and the black of us. The sharp and the lost.
This Hunter, she only brought the blinding
of you home to me. She stole the soft
of your mornings, the cliffs that reflected my shadows,
our Sanctuary of broken homes.
I had thought, for maybe just a few rips in space,
that you had loved the chaos of being ripped apart
alive and in love and ready to die.
ii. Let's get this straight. I never asked for you.
Some unholy martyr of an asteroid
told me I was supposed to be bruised to be in love
and I believed it. The Hunter told me she could take the pain away.
She told me she had weapons for your darkness
and that my children would never be silent for fear
of your violet rage again. She came here for her own kind,
and told me this tear in my chest was not the work of God,
so keep your talons to yourself.
I have no need of rushing
flight to the end of our jagged existence.
No.
I never asked for the clouds to cover
the shadows you left on my mountain ranges.
I only wanted to give my children the universe.
the Hunter offered
to at least give them a life back,
and the behemoth of your fear
that rose from your poisonous heart like a rusty blade removed
is no child of mine.
I will never forget the shreds of agony
you burst alive inside me for as long as I live.
Fuck your typhoon of black hope
and the wastes of dedications you etched in my name.
You will be unmade but my children will never stop.
They will warn eons of your lecherous burn, the way you told me you loved me.
Love means shit when you're blinded by yourself.
The Hunter gave you the real light of me. Did it hurt?
When she pulled out your firstborn through a bottle
filled with sun, did the twisted temple of your heart shudder?
You came to me like an earthquake with no aftershock
and The Hunter told me she could quell the trembling.
I never asked for all this wreckage.
What The West Said To The East
Show a different kind of lonely.
A sun meets no horizon, a forever
5 o’clock dry kiss to make lips bleed,
the kind of damp from a rain where every drop
is a night spent alone. Give the rise
and fall, peaks and shattered canyons, carved
pieces of self, sing own mountains to dust
if there's another voice to join.
The only songs are leftover
gusts and sighs from Atlantic lovers unknown;
pretend to hold hands through train tacks,
a long-distance kind of shared lonely
while land wakes between plain
and prairie palms, two small hours from
grey skies to gray skies- tragedy of a short-handed
distance cartographers will never understand.
Only a shared sense of space, a gap
in between what people call breaths.
All the empty-
hidden bloom, a Colorado cactus
small green of a coast-
would that a meeting occurs, earth shatter,
make width an island,
damn the lives in between:
Come where the sun waves goodbye
every night, follow glow of painted line
horizon until mountain fingers meet and crumble
to winded dust, crush cities,
forget about the duty
of two stolid geographies,
until coasts become a sandbar
and you can hear my voice underfoot-
where no compass can separate us.
___
Conor Harris is a Real Person living in Boise, Idaho. He is angry at the moon. He works in a running store.
i. A discourse about the way we hold hands
would involve particle physics
and matches that never got to light anything.
I pass you every day and all I see are the clouds on your surface, swirling over geographies I have not had the privilege to fall through.
The Hunter has come to keep us apart, you know.
To sheck and shull us from each other,
your glow and my gravity, pulled apart
by a love of pure.
And won't you miss me,
lover? Won't you miss the dark of you?
I know you love the purple pull
of deceit, a secret we kept,
like all that time we stole from right under
The Hunter's sensor.
The hull of her ship.
Her clone, born to us like
a new angel, scythe in hand, blue brow to new horizon;
some loves make for good stories.
Ours was made to be forgotten. To be erased. Baptized in each other,
We could never share alive,
like how I can imagine us fighting
over bed sheets in the dark.
Our children never saw the bigger point
in our mix- I wanted the bright and the black of us. The sharp and the lost.
This Hunter, she only brought the blinding
of you home to me. She stole the soft
of your mornings, the cliffs that reflected my shadows,
our Sanctuary of broken homes.
I had thought, for maybe just a few rips in space,
that you had loved the chaos of being ripped apart
alive and in love and ready to die.
ii. Let's get this straight. I never asked for you.
Some unholy martyr of an asteroid
told me I was supposed to be bruised to be in love
and I believed it. The Hunter told me she could take the pain away.
She told me she had weapons for your darkness
and that my children would never be silent for fear
of your violet rage again. She came here for her own kind,
and told me this tear in my chest was not the work of God,
so keep your talons to yourself.
I have no need of rushing
flight to the end of our jagged existence.
No.
I never asked for the clouds to cover
the shadows you left on my mountain ranges.
I only wanted to give my children the universe.
the Hunter offered
to at least give them a life back,
and the behemoth of your fear
that rose from your poisonous heart like a rusty blade removed
is no child of mine.
I will never forget the shreds of agony
you burst alive inside me for as long as I live.
Fuck your typhoon of black hope
and the wastes of dedications you etched in my name.
You will be unmade but my children will never stop.
They will warn eons of your lecherous burn, the way you told me you loved me.
Love means shit when you're blinded by yourself.
The Hunter gave you the real light of me. Did it hurt?
When she pulled out your firstborn through a bottle
filled with sun, did the twisted temple of your heart shudder?
You came to me like an earthquake with no aftershock
and The Hunter told me she could quell the trembling.
I never asked for all this wreckage.
What The West Said To The East
Show a different kind of lonely.
A sun meets no horizon, a forever
5 o’clock dry kiss to make lips bleed,
the kind of damp from a rain where every drop
is a night spent alone. Give the rise
and fall, peaks and shattered canyons, carved
pieces of self, sing own mountains to dust
if there's another voice to join.
The only songs are leftover
gusts and sighs from Atlantic lovers unknown;
pretend to hold hands through train tacks,
a long-distance kind of shared lonely
while land wakes between plain
and prairie palms, two small hours from
grey skies to gray skies- tragedy of a short-handed
distance cartographers will never understand.
Only a shared sense of space, a gap
in between what people call breaths.
All the empty-
hidden bloom, a Colorado cactus
small green of a coast-
would that a meeting occurs, earth shatter,
make width an island,
damn the lives in between:
Come where the sun waves goodbye
every night, follow glow of painted line
horizon until mountain fingers meet and crumble
to winded dust, crush cities,
forget about the duty
of two stolid geographies,
until coasts become a sandbar
and you can hear my voice underfoot-
where no compass can separate us.
___
Conor Harris is a Real Person living in Boise, Idaho. He is angry at the moon. He works in a running store.
