whIte

i wanted to write about my favourite colour and how it was nothing. but i couldn't write a favourite without considering why. and i am a fool for not seeing it before, but this poem, at least, does.

I wanted it white.

White light, open fright,

Like the nursery rhymes.

I wanted all blank,

Gaping-abyss thighs growling

Bear's hunger into the open mouth of the cave.

It was to be white,

White-green, too mean,

So they say. Make it white

Let it be, so that it can

Continue into the 26th 

Century after Christ.

So it will perpetuate

Nothing, like you and I have done

Since yawning our calls to God.

Pregnant light-weight,

They call that white, because

It's there when it's only not.

Orphaned mother,

They call that white because there's

Nothing left to call it.

Wife-in-law. They call her white,

Because she's round and simple,

But isn't a word.

Everything that isn't there -

White light, white fright.

It remains. 

There's a word they do not 

Allow to pass through the

Spectrum of their colours.

B***h. Bollocks. No. Another?

It goes the same. It goes real,

But it's not a word. Just a shame.

They call white the pure brother.

The redeemed thief. They call it's sister

Wronged. Damned. In the fishes gills.

In water, it's okay. But we are so.

We strangle air with our lung packs.

They suffer the emissions. Say a word or not.

White light, white fright.

They say, it's funny for the two

To coexist, open fright. It's daunting.

It's daunting because it's real.

Because it can really feel.

It goes. Like maximum dead-reel.