the crush. the absolute, inexplicable, positively heart wrenching crush of a man’s spirit when it’s tied to the choices of some other man’s life, and when he makes no choices, and is late to respond and you’re in love with nothing, oh just how quickly your heart can fall to your feet.
being absolutely irrational, one minute i’m at the height of happiness and then the bottom. just wish people would be open and say what they were thinking, i’d spill my heart into his hands if i thought it’d do some good but i suppose he doesn’t need to know i’m a mess. playing it ‘cool’ remember.
this is what I wanted
wasn’t?
for my heart to beat
to have someone
constant,
the same guy for
longer than a week
to be sure that I’m feeling
something, and to
be going somewhere
even if it does just beat
when he wants it to?
I make my way through a bunch of guys and never look at them twice, yet over the course of 3 weeks I’m an absolute mess for this one. I hope this works out.
my bed fills with
three gentlemen;
myself of course,
a charles bukowski,
and my newest lover,
leonard cohen.
i’m reading of how
they love, and i want
to fall into the pages,
surround myself in
every word.
i want to be able to
wake tomorrow,
with proof that i am trying.
i no longer want to
be incapable, i want
to write of happiness again.
i can’t promise
that i’ll love you,
or that i’ll stay
but i can promise,
that when we go to sleep
my heart will be with you,
even if it is not
when you wake.
there’s little besides
poetry, and food
and dick, that
i think of
and my impatience
often yearns for
the arms of my clock
to dance more quickly
and having approached
men in twenty four
different ways,
only to leave
loving two
i realised i was just
incapable,
but tonight i can think
of only you,
i couldn’t even finish
a very sad poem,
about my very sad
life, because it
felt untrue.
now my patience
is depending on
how quickly you
respond to my
texts.
darling, i do not love you
but i am thinking of
only you.
the people sat
flatly on the bus,
and i amongst
them.
a grey cloud,
another grey cloud
stretched out before
us, like the heads
of my dying orchid.
colourless and
sad.
and then, as if
god’s eyes or
my mother’s eyes
or his eyes,
had opened—
there was sun.
pure sun.
falling as heavy as
a rock onto me,
like the body of
a man after the
chase.
i have waited for the sun,
too long.
and the frowning,
middle aged lady across
from me
ceased to be ugly.
or, ceased to be
so ugly, she was
smiling now
at her slightly fat
friend who was
smiling too
and i thought
‘christ the sun
must feel good
if even the ugly
are feeling good’
and a gentler looking man,
as brave as the fox after winter,
stood up to press the bell.
and one by one, they piled
out into the street
and i died a little.
they didn’t know.
the sun maybe
yellow, but it’s the
fucking heater next to
my leg which is
keeping us warm
a bit of yellow light
wont do you no good
out there,
idiots.
yes. i have waited for the sun
too long—
and i am still waiting.
trauma,
has encased me like a second skin.
my motivation today has been the guarantee of Italian food and vodka tonight. although the fact that it’s a work meal is a little saddening.
sadness and sorrow,
they just keep
rolling on.
make sure to
grab a pen,
and tuck your
head between your legs.
ride the wave.
they say it’s global warming,
say there’s not enough
salt in the water
and that’s why
the rain
won’t
stop
and that’s why
the rain
won’t
come.
i’d like to know, please.
is there a storm coming?
will the winds pick
up?
will the tiles,
blow off my home?
shall i tell my friends
to pack up?
salvage what they
can and run the
other fucking way.
or am i due a drought?
months of sunshine,
like the summer of
eleven.
bring everyone over,
watch ‘em glow,
glow myself
i’d like to know.
how am i meant to live?
if i don’t know
when to plant
my seeds?
what happens if i
fall in love,
and the wind blows him
away?
i’d like to know.
there is such
beauty in the world
but they disregard it so,
the business men
and the politicians
and the teachers
and the shop owners,
and the bar managers,
even the god damn
elderly
and they disregard it,
they leave it out for me
on a cold doorstep,
to ravage from a dirty,
chipped plate.
like poison for the rats.
when I’m sad I eat,
when I feel guilty I write..
calories = poetry
