March 2012
8 posts
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things are great and terrible at once and i’m unsure of where i’m going but it’s sunny outside and i have great friends. my only enemy is myself.
And in the dark,
where the voices whisper,
we kiss away the
heartache,
pretend were not ourselves,
And in the dark
of our hearts
this is right—
Second best
will satisfy
tonight.
love me for who
i want
need///
to
be,
&forgive me,
for what i am.
bad habits
when the bars empty,
when the beds empty,
when the cigarette
dies out &
the streelights
flicker,
everyone is a poet—
but there’s no poetry
in the failure
of a love,
there’s no great
meaning when
the kisses
stop.
when something
doesn’t work out,
when you’re
besotted,
and then
you’re not.
you can’t look
for something greater,
the only absolution
is the facts.
when you well up,
with a great, numb
pain
and you wait
desperately,
for the significance
to pour
you will find none.
we are not the stars,
we are not the rose.
we are here,
we will go there,
falling into bad men
like bad habits,
and then we’re here
again.
we are not poets.
February 2012
13 posts
“In the middle of the night, when we get up
after making love, we look at each other
in total friendship, we know so fully
what the other has been doing. Bound to each other like
soldiers coming out of a battle,
bound with the tie of the birth-room, we
wander down the hall to the bathroom, I can
hardly walk, we weave through the dark
soft air, I know where you are
with my eyes closed, we are bound to each other with the
huge invisible threads of sex, though out
sexes themselves are muted, dark and
exhausted and delicately crushed, the whole
body is a sex—surely this
is the most blessed time of life,
the children deep asleep in their beds like a
vein of coal and a vein of gold
not discovered yet. I sit on the
toilet in the dark, you are somewhere in the room, I
open the window and the snow has fallen in a
deep drift against the pane, I
look up into it, a
world of cold crystals, silent and
glistening so I call out to you and you
come and hold my hand and I say
I cannot see beyond it! I cannot see beyond it!” —Sharon Olds - True Love (via lightandplanetary)
after making love, we look at each other
in total friendship, we know so fully
what the other has been doing. Bound to each other like
soldiers coming out of a battle,
bound with the tie of the birth-room, we
wander down the hall to the bathroom, I can
hardly walk, we weave through the dark
soft air, I know where you are
with my eyes closed, we are bound to each other with the
huge invisible threads of sex, though out
sexes themselves are muted, dark and
exhausted and delicately crushed, the whole
body is a sex—surely this
is the most blessed time of life,
the children deep asleep in their beds like a
vein of coal and a vein of gold
not discovered yet. I sit on the
toilet in the dark, you are somewhere in the room, I
open the window and the snow has fallen in a
deep drift against the pane, I
look up into it, a
world of cold crystals, silent and
glistening so I call out to you and you
come and hold my hand and I say
I cannot see beyond it! I cannot see beyond it!” —Sharon Olds - True Love (via lightandplanetary)
Too much food not enough cigarettes
the morning after
the clock read
6:04 a.m,
but it wasn’t,
it wasn’t.
she slept like
a bad burden,
he slept like
the tasteless
first kiss
after a
cigarette—
I was craving,
craving.
she to my right,
he to my left,
I slipped a
hand down
down
down,
and teased him.
he stirred,
I knew that
slight smirk,
like the slight
promise of day light
at 6:04 a.m.
she to my right,
and he on top,
she asleep
and he on
my dick.
‘let’s take this to
the floor,
it’s only
6:04 a.m’
we had all day,
to crave.
McDonalds car park
I lay in his car,
cramped like a
child in his mother’s
arms.
staring out of the window,
as he played with
the headlights—
‘look’, he said
and the bright
yellow glow drew
nearer.
closer to us,
and our embrace.
closer to us,
and our 1 a.m chats.
closer to us,
and the many days
we may
or won’t have
and the black
followed, came closer
behind the light.
so he shut off
the engine,
and we didn’t speak
for a while.
Olives
wash away on frayed
red bed sheets,
wash away on his
back seat,
wash away on all
the cigarettes,
on all the booze,
on all the olives
a man can be.
temper like a mad man,
obsessed like a mad man,
lost like a mad man,
straight outta the
big house.
blue darks,
grey lights,
rolling on stray
winds till some
stray arms
catch.
see what he has to say,
if he will say,
what you
wish he
would
say.
wash away the things,
I love too much,
and leave me a
new and washed
heart,
that is red with Rose blossoms,
like the heat I feel
in his arms.
yes, wash away, wash away
these pleasures I cling to,
so that I may make
a better start.
wash away.
February the sixth.
February the sixth,
I have just read
a short, final piece
by Bukowski.
I am counting,
how many times he makes sense,
I am counting,
how many times I can relate,
and I am counting
how many cigarettes I have left.
it is February the sixth,
and it is open season again.
my dove of hearts,
has flew away, a sort of
farewell to
Gavin,
the man who
I will
always
adore.
the White, the decency
and the little care
has flown from
my hands.
I offered her to him,
beak tied,
no protest,
wings tied,
no escape,
I offered her to him,
waving my White palm
as a sign of surrender.
six months of
destroying my soul,
I wanted the war to
be over
but she has flown away,
you’ll spot her easily,
her feathers rifled from
where the dogs pawed,
her body stained from
where the cats clawed.
but the cage she has left
behind is beautiful
and my home
can always
grow.
I have something to offer
them in the mean time,
my smile and my
eyes, the touch of
my lips.
I am seventeen,
and I am defiant,
breakable,
I can have the world.
lose the weight,
trim the talk,
I’ll have them
queuing to step
inside.
it is February the sixth,
I am counting how many
bites of this toast I
have left,
I am counting how long
it will be before my
heart comes back to me.
I am wondering how long
it will be before I go
horribly mad
and search for
love.
dick doesn’t fill,
and my chest is
caving.
