Friday, 3 August 2012

No.36

Bodies pushed so closely together
your ear dovetails my eye socket.
It's downy softness
and underlying spring of bouncy cartilage quite sensual.
I want to melt into you
meld our skin, our sinews,
our bones
into one
so that I lose track of what is yours, and
what is mine.
I knit my fingers into the delicately curled hairs on your chest
and wish I could keep one hand there,
on your chest,
always,
undertaking the mundane tasks of life with the other,
cursed hand.
Oh how jealous that hand would be.

Tuesday, 24 May 2011

No.19

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Monday, 9 May 2011

No.35

Fill my ears
and scrub out my eyes
blunt my thoughts 
with those not mine


Fence off my mind
and bury my soul
cook up my heart 
and consume it whole


Build up a wall
of the greatest defences
and leave those untried
of the greatest offences


Swallow disappointment
and prepare for regret
armageddon is coming
and I'm going to get wet.

No.34

It looks like life as I know it is over.
Which must mean I won't know anything anymore.
A single element
But central so,
that while all the other plates may well keep spinning;
the trick is devoid of wonder.
-A spectacle perhaps,
but most probably not a good one.

Following the law of diminishing returns, I have invested everything
And yet seemingly yield no reward: I leave with nothing.

How very fucking funny, universe. 

Tuesday, 8 March 2011

No.33

You're a lost boy. Man, rather.
Forever 40-ish
always a vague memory with only certain happenings remaining in focus.
Not a legend
Not a myth
Simply someone,
something,
that used to exist but appears to no longer.
In fact we no longer inhabit the same world-
you are not a part of mine, anyhow.
I'd like it if someone had written a biography of you
so I could read it
find insight into all my unanswered questions,
without disturbing the seismic balance.

No.32

How beautifully you light the scene.
An enviable luminescence, inimitable.
Even the shadows you create are light, somehow,
and the truly dark is felt only in your absence.
You conjure magic where there was none.
And when you withhold your illumination, there is only blackness,
and I cannot see the path ahead.

Wednesday, 5 January 2011

No.31

That girl hangs under the water.
Waxy pallor simultaneously shiny and matte.
If you sit on the bank and look across the water
you won't see her.
But stand and cast your eyes over the scene
And there she'll be.
Just hanging under the water.
A pre-raphaelite figure,
minus the romance.

Mostly, in death, there is little romance.
It's not like the stories of star cross'd lovers.
It is loss, grief, abandonment and anger.

Who is angry with that girl?
There's someone, somewhere,
for whom her peaceful countenance
leaves them livid with rage.

But still, she hovers,
as still as only a corpse can be,
not even rippling the surface.

Wednesday, 20 October 2010

No.30

It seems as though I can't resist his tarnished glow.
An autumn sunlight is his style.
Not bright and blinding of summer;
Not sharp and awakening of spring.
It pervades every membrane of my oh-so human body
And warms it from within.

Saturday, 2 October 2010

No.29

I can feel you returning to me
from a place I don't know.
I kept your side of the bed warm.
Slowly, slowly,
We will collect the fragments
scattered all around
And toss them back into the sky,
where they belong.

Tuesday, 27 July 2010

No.28

An ancient moon sits atop the sky,
throwing light as brightly as the day it was born.
Close by, stars cluster,
eager to add their glimmer.
Silhouettes of palms
and banana trees
work like shadow puppets,
illustrating the foreignness of the scene.
A chorus of insects and frogs
and the low voices of mandinka conversation
are punctuated by distant drumming.
Still the heat clings to the earth.
But a soft night-time breeze
- barely flowing over your skin like silk -
eases away the travails of the day.