Never mind oral words or written letters,
I’ll read your smile and listen to your eyes.
Stories will spill out –
and for a moment I think I see
the sparkling outline
of your thoughts
The still surface of my shiraz
brought to mind red satin in the candelight.
Some sensual sensation
shudders through me.
Seasons are shifting now, you see,
and external change gives me a rush
and a gentle little push
to be who I am, to do what I do.
I’ll wrap myself up against the cold
in the warmth of you.
My lips itch with the desire
for kisses they haven’t felt yet.
It feels like so long ago
(though I know it was just days)
and I miss you.
I’m consumed by delicious memories
but cravings aren’t enough:
I’m hungry for the real thing.
I’m not complaining, though -
the waiting just makes dessert
so much sweeter.
death by art
Paint spills out from your neck
covering your chest in rainbows.
Now they’ll all see the beauty
in death, because we’ve
added in some pretty colours.
Sorry for the lack of updates, my head feels a bit fucked at the moment :( but don’t worry, all will be well.
Take me apart, then re-assemble me.
Your nimble hands just might do the trick.
Make a version of me, a doll perhaps,
that will always smile and never weep.
Make me whatever you want
because, whether I like it or not,
I’m all yours. I’m lost, now.
Take me apart. Throw away the pieces.
I won’t be angry. I’m yours to destroy.
The sun glares down in anger
but everything it touches is beautiful.
Sometimes it can be heard
asking for more anger
and I send it mine.
I am quietly watching
the greens getting greener,
the yellows growing golden
and I feel no more anger -
but something remains.
I wonder if the moon
might paint the night’s world
with my sadness?
"You don’t remember," he said, the ever-changing man. "They say your bones remember or your blood remembers, but that’s all bullshit. Your seventy-two year old bones aren’t old. Your grandfather’s bones may be dust but they’re not old either. It’s all bullshit, like I said. The dirt? Brand new, kid. You don’t have a clue. But me? I remember how the mud tasted when it was the first mud there ever fuckin’ was. I remember the way the wind felt before I even had flesh to feel it with. I remember the way the birds sounded before I had the ears to listen. I am this forsaken burnt-up husk of a planet. So yeah, son, like you asked - I’m ill. Really fuckin’ ill if you want to know. I’m dying, at long last. I’m dying from this cancerous fuckin’ race and no, I don’t want human pity, it’s my own fault for being born in the first place. Like they say about some folks nowadays… they oughta had me sterilised before I gave birth to anybody.”
And he kept grinning, his face of shifting seasons more lined than any I’d ever seen, and more weathered - in a completely literate sense. I felt like I’d just met someone I’d trampled all over as a kid and never said sorry to. I felt hollow.
"We have to upset him," someone said. "We’ve got another injury over here, needs healing fast."
So they made me suffer, until I gave them my tears.
It went on this way for centuries before someone pointed out something they had never considered, and that I had no voice to say:
"This is fucking barbaric," she said. "Haven’t you ever heard of tears of joy?"