Here’s a poem I wrote recently. It should clue you in, to some degree, on my life these days and my state of mind. It’s quite sad. My apologies in advance.
(Update: I’ve also written more explicitly about this shit here and here and I published a very different kind of poem here. If you’re looking for some life-philosophy I also penned my Theory Of Eight).
‘boxes’ by erik kain
soon, even the boxes will be gone the stacks of clothes the makeup bags and bottles of perfume and hair-dye all the necklaces and rings you never wear every bag and coat, every pair of boots the pink heart jacket we found in Toronto you wore that night in the hotel drunk and dancing while we made up some silly forgotten song the expensive French pants from Annecy you never put on homemade shelves and painted chairs roller skates every little trinket you adorned our home with lost in boxes I can’t wait to be rid of it all. you stuffed this house to the brim with ornaments of you with old vases and gold lamps that pillow with Frida Kahlo’s face the elephant statues vintage furniture crowding every wall cookbooks and alcohol ... soon, even the bed will be gone all the sheets and pillowcases erased but I’ll still find your hair on the tiles your scent in the closets your fingerprints on the plates I’ll still hear your voice in the kitchen and taste your salt on my tongue green eyes smiling under a hot sun and every beach and airport and cantina every corner of this goddamn house will echo and shudder and buckle with your ghost.
This is very moving, Erik
This is quite good. And i mean it. The image is well done, the rythm is perfect.