Poetry from Andrea DeAngelis

Darkened matter

When we left the earth
we left ourselves
a dark matter of our existence.

That dark matter exists
does not preclude me
from destroying myself
because if we are universes upon universes
what will explain eternity?

Will I be
this imploding shell forever
consuming myself?

Let’s pick up speed
and make a dash towards eternity
towards the ultimate boundary
the eternal mark.

You exude an obscure virility
that doesn’t quite capture me
but I will measure the immeasurable
as we scuffle and scuff the dark
wearing its edges away to gray.

Empty space foams with energy
enough power to blow away the stars
like leaves in a wind storm
nothing could live there
but nothing and nothing equals something.

“Of course, I remember you.”

What is worse?

I am always amazed
anyone even remembers me
I don’t even remember me.

Who needs more than one universe?
I miss the idea of the Big Bang
ripping our order asunder
I miss me
an unassailable closed circle.

The cost of space persists
even when you have removed yourself
from the equation.

Explode my memories
ignited by infinite perceptions
it only matters what others think of me.

I am only a universe of leaves wavering
before an intense storm to be shredded
I was swirling and upended even then
a perpetual nonentity.

I cannot live here
for there may be no secret within
no deep meaning
the vacuum is just that
empty, I am only
who you tell me I am.

For how do you chart
the astronomy of the invisible?

 

Andrea DeAngelis is at times a poet, writer, shutterbug and musician living in New York City. Her writing has recently appeared in Tin House, Angle and Poppy Road Review. (www.andreadeangelis.com) Andrea also sings and plays guitar in the indie rock band MAKAR (www.makarmusic.com)

Déjà vu

Some believe déjà vu is the memory of dreams
but dreams do not remember me
they misplace me
my narrative populated by people
I no longer speak to
they tell me where I should have been
instead of where I am now
all the parallel pathways avalanched
and trapped under dirty ice
and fossilized mistakes.

the second-raters

gray is the colorless color of my dreams
long in the mean of meaninglessness
suspect I am mediocre at best

subsist on listless density of days
it is far easier to feel nothing
than to feel threatened

the state of my mind
is the state of my eyes
turning in
and imperceivably going blind

 

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