Howling Down Hallways – Matthew D. Eayre

Greedily this heart reaches
and none may sway its purpose
in pieces, or complete
a want becoming need
will sustain until the night feeds
burning hunger,
churning thunder,
turning and tearing asunder
what God has gifted

Pointed looks and double-entendre
hang heavily over the top of eyes
too honest, much too open,
no secrets will be kept

Voraciously this mind seeks to consume
hearts and hands and skinned knees
yes and now and yes, please
give and take and
oh goodness gracious, me

Memories of desires left unfulfilled
echo meaningfully in salacious reverberation,
if nothing else keeps the road vanishing then simple lust
might fill the tank

An older man,
but still a man.
The term ‘pervert’ has been used.

Perversion is a matter of perspective
and understanding of physical existence,
what is perverse to the fly
is commonplace to the spider
and the robin notices only in passing

Greedily this heart demands to be taken
stirred, handled, used, abused, shaken

time is a poor excuse for complacency

an old wolf,
but still a wolf

I’ll eat ya.


Matthew D Eayre is newly planted in Houston, Texas and hoping to grow roots. A lifelong lover of words and language, he writes every chance he gets when not delivering smiles or spending time with his loving wife and family. Matthew has only one rule in life and in writing; it has to be real. He writes from personal experience about life, love and loss. He bridges the light spectrum from darkness to light, hoping that somewhere out there he reaches those who need to be reached. You can find more of his brilliant work on his site, Uneven Streets Studios, and his Facebook page Poetry of Monsters

Out of My Hands – Matthew D. Eayre

The voices in my head
told me, today
they want to see other people
and I don’t know
if I should be jealous
or happy
because I have been wanting
to hear new voices
for quite a while.

For a thousand-thousand years
my hands have held tightly
holding weapons of self-destruction
or bouquets of hope
squeezing the cold and unresponsive hands of life lost too soon
clawing at dark and imaginary walls
prisoners of silent screams echoing through time.

My hands have caused pain,
and they’ve soothed wounds.
My hands have been instruments of wonder, building legends from mist and recording prophecies in stone.

My hands have been unwelcome guests in my own pockets, useless and despised.

Given a true purpose my hands become valuable, irreplaceable tools.

My hands had never touched a home
until the day my secrets poured through the gate they formed over my face, and into her endless eyes, trapped by her attention my mind was a formless void
and she spoke, and all was light.

Raw ingredients in the hands of a culinary master know the pleasure I felt that day, when she took my hands and my pain and transformed me into a work of beauty, a composition of cultured cohesion.

She had been waiting for my hands, my lifetime of a thousand centuries clinging desperately to secrets, lonely and aching.

She took me, her long-awaited love, and kissed my wounds out of my hands, away from my brutish touch and into the gentle garden of her care.

She lifted the veil of mortality from my eyes and revealed to me my personal divinity, and in my newfound godhood
she found her intentions and unspoken desires made alive by my hands.

And I try harder at this than anything else, because every heartbeat leaves an uncertain pause,
will this be the last?

How it feels to love another
more than you can explain to yourself
is a tiny taste of hope between breaths
lingering in the space where
nothing is permanent.

With ferocity and gentle administration
my hands have given what has never
been mine to keep, emptying thoughts and words, passing around plates of poetry, plenty for everyone,
take what you will.

I’ve lived this dream long enough
to have absolute knowledge
that the eyes in my heart will close
the love I live will end

and she breathes and I
take it personally
when she mumbles in her sleep
I am convinced it must be a dream of me, of my touch.

And I know the song I want to sing, on the day she leaves, I know the words I will say when she dies, because I know that our love has terms and conditions, there’s an unknown expiration date.

One day, one of us will leave the other,
too soon, too soon, it will always be too soon, if it was a million years away it would be too soon.

Until that day we enjoy what cannot last

We have fun. We laugh. We try. We give.
Honest and purposeful effort, all day every day. We put aside our individual
“Right now”
And we focus on collective
“long-term”
We wake each day and steer the ship toward bedtime, and we work on getting there together.

We have our problems, my hands are not the only ones full of the past.
We’ve both carried too much.

We don’t promise forever, we don’t know how long this universe will last, if it’s real at all, if anything is real.

But, I tell her, I will find you,
no matter where you go.
She answers, I will wait,
no matter how long.

I know this love story seems familiar, you’ve heard the tale a billion times and a part of your heart wants to believe and a part of your mind knows it cannot be true

It’s true.

And when I say she’s different from anything you know,
I’m trying to make you understand that I’ve seen life, I’ve searched the universe
She’s nothing you’ve seen, she’s nothing you will ever see, a unique and private bit of magic, made only for me.
In her love I become everything.
I am only for her, nothing without her, incapable of losing with her by my side.

When I say we have something special
I mean we have something that has never existed, in this life or any other, in any time or place, what we have has no common ground with any fairytale or legend, what we have is insanely solitary.

This is not rhetoric.
This is real, as real as my hands, as real as her hair wrapped in my hand, as real as her voice whispering fiercely in my ear, as real as I have never been away from her.

What I’m saying is that my past, my life, my damage, my hands and the hurt they hold are sacred in her love.

I’m telling you that I can die
right now, happy
blessed beyond belief

because she
because we

I’m saying
This life is perfect.

[Matthew D Eayre is newly planted in Houston, Texas and hoping to grow roots. A lifelong lover of words and language, he writes every chance he gets when not delivering smiles or spending time with his loving wife and family. Matthew has only one rule in life and in writing; it has to be real. He writes from personal experience about life, love and loss. He bridges the light spectrum from darkness to light, hoping that somewhere out there he reaches those who need to be reached. You can find more of his brilliant work on his site and his Facebook page Poetry of Monsters ]

Intentional Amnesia – Matthew D Eayre

I keep having dreams with a recurring theme, different places and situations but one thing is the same
I’m sitting with my sister, the one that died 19 months ago, and I’m telling her how sad I’ve been about my sister dying.
She tells me things like,
she’s still with you
and
you’ll never really lose her
and all the while, we skip right past the part where I’m discussing the death of my sister, with my dead sister,
we never talk about the fact that my sister is sitting with me and holding my arm and comforting me while I’m crying about her dying

Once we were in a house that felt like home, even though I didn’t recognize it, and she sat next to me and rested her head on my shoulder while all of my deceased friends and family members walked by and smiled at us
I’m not a religious person but I am fond of symbols and symmetrical concepts
One time we were at a jungle resort and my dead sister was talking to my dead grandmother while they sat on either side of me, each holding my hand

I’ve tried so hard to let go of all of my selfishness, but the weight of these metaphorical chains has been fused to my imaginary bones

I don’t need a $400 an hour therapist to hold my hand and walk me across the street to the realization that survivor’s guilt is truly a matter of selfishness
I wanted them to be alive, for me
Loving someone, or a lot of people, comes with a sense of permanence, but nothing could stray farther from reality
We have our moments, we have our days and sometimes we have our years, but the cold hard truth is that life is not permanent, not one of the people you love will be around forever, you and all the people you know will pass from this dream like a snowflake falling in Houston

I have a deeply embedded program in my mind that reminds me constantly that I’m sad about the days gone by, my favorite dead people ended on that day, and that day, and that day and the calendar is littered with morbid anniversaries and I count from one to the next like some demented accountant, a scribe recording the passage of time measured in unresolved guilt and I can’t seem to sleep without sixteen dead people visiting me

I’ve been told that you only die once and that certainly feels accurate but I can tell you without any doubt that after you die the people that love you,
If they’re like me,
Will feel like you died every damn day
They’ll walk around their lives and they’ll pretend to heal and they’ll even find new ways to laugh and enjoy life but every time they dream of their sister or mother or nephew or brother telling them
Assuring them in a dream-like fashion that they still exist, that love hasn’t ever died and never will
Every time your people wake up after you die, you will have died all over again.
Every day will be spent choosing to push aside the memories of your funeral or the unspoken words that will not reach your ears

Your people will choose to forget, while they’re awake

They say that they’re choosing to focus on the here-and-now, trying to live for what is coming, trying to let go and let God, trying to adapt to the new reality

But if they’re like me

They’ll be lying
They’ll be dying your death in their head every time ‘that’ song comes on
They’ll be wishing for a brain injury that causes permanent amnesia, just to get to a life that doesn’t feel like death
They’ll be trying to move forward with both hands and feet tied to the anchors of yesterday’s ships

If they’re like me


[Matthew D Eayre is newly planted in Houston, Texas and hoping to grow roots. A lifelong lover of words and language, he writes every chance he gets when not delivering smiles or spending time with his loving wife and family. Matthew has only one rule in life and in writing; it has to be real. He writes from personal experience about life, love and loss. He bridges the light spectrum from darkness to light, hoping that somewhere out there he reaches those who need to be reached. You can find more of his brilliant work on his site and his Facebook page Poetry of Monsters ]