a vibrant note of a harpsichord flies in: a coloured bird, a richly feathered parrot. i feel alive; a spark travelling down a strip of litmus paper, exhuberantly coloured, incadescently moving.
such highs and lows of mine, such cirles in the eyes. infinity of life? π?
i hate mathematics, but i refuse to adore a man who does not love its obtuse, precisely measured form. i want a boy with a logical way of thinking, the kind who won’t leave you hanging by a word in the dark. i would rather compose the long silences myself, make them stem from the fullness of my mouth and the soft silk of my thighs.
lately, i have said too much about S. it is enough.
he is too cold, a firefly without the carnal fire. i should like to see him cultivating life.
Posted in chapters of my life
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heat is in me,
humidity clawing out:
torrential,
silent,
gushing;
the promise of london rain unspoken.
birds fail to chirp outside your window,
heat stifles life
and i
take up the whole of your bed;
and time.
Posted in excerpts
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yes, you are right, i should like to hide my head in the sand and pretend all that darkness is nothing but light shining through a filter tinted the colour of night. i should pretend last night never happened, i should pretend i am content here by your side in the leafy undergrowth of life where all i see are roots uprooted, dying in the sun. and would you blame me?
i could not sleep last night, thinking of the shining lights enveloping you, pillow over my head to drown out hurt. i wondered if i ought to watch a film, but that would be defeat. no, i would lay here and count your wrongs, my wrongs, the cracks in the ceiling of our hearts, thoughts, lives.
soon, soon, the artery would rupture and drown out the pain.
soon, soon.
i knew i couldn’t cut myself. what with? a knife? i could almost hear you saying don’t be silly in that tone of yours. and pills, what good would it do? only that i may die without salvation, without the knowledge of how to cling to love by the skin of your fingertips. or maybe i know that already.
and i can’t live with all that poison, not even just for tonight. i would fight but my limbs have gone to sleep and i am faced with a picture of you in the club, music pounding, drinks flowing, girls dancing.
and i realise i can’t say that there is anything missing. there is not.
Posted in chapters of my life
Tagged all, almost, already, and, anything, are, artery, be, blame, bring, by, can't, ceiling, cling, club, colour, content, could, couldn't, count, cracks, cut, dancing, darkness, defeat, die, do, don't, drinks, drown, dying, enveloping, even, faced, fight, film, filter, fingertips, flowing, girls, gone, good, happened, have, head, hear, hearts, here, hide, how, hurt, in, is, just, knew, knife, know, knowledge, last, lay, leafy, life, light, lights, like, limbs, live, lives, love, may, maybe, me, missing, music, my, myself, never, night, not, nothing, of, only, ought, our, out, over, pain, picture, pillow, pills, poison, pounding, pretend, realise, right, roots, rupture, salvation, sand, say, saying, see, shining, should, side, silly, skin, sleep, soon, sun, that, the, there, thinking, thoughts, through, tinted, to, tone, tonight, undergrowth, uprooted, watch, what, where, with, without, wondered, would, wrongs, yes, you, your, yours
you can have the whole of me in this field:
i pressed my soul into its loins
and beads of sweat still glisten
on the body learning to tango
in the outpour of rain.
i will surrender only here
so take care not to move even a strand of hair
from beneath the tree where i will lay through my whole life,
as if dying prematurely,
for this is home and i forbid you.
a day will come when spring will open me enough
for sun to shine
into the roots of the old cambridge tree
and open up
the rest of me.
—————————————————————-
i’ve been writing this poem for a while now and it feels forever unfinished. maybe that’s just me, always a word out, a syllable in. and then i give up and start something else. at the end of the day, however, i always come back to this. and the oldest tree in cambridge.
Posted in excerpts
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there was a line in streetcar named desire that i remember. it said it’s touching to notice them making their first discovery of love! As if nobody had ever known it before. it resonates, for now the time has come for the bud to be broken and flowers to bloom in the late-spring night air.
the risk is nothing. nothing, really. there are only the long sprawling afternoons this side of summer, when paper is scrunched up into tiny little balls and burnt with a magnifying glass or matches. whichever, the result is all that matters. words are nothing: this air requires action!
and there are trees, so beautiful this time of year. they remind me of walking to school in the summer and inhaling the scent of apple tree blossom with T. those were the days, eh?
but now, no now, those buds will open and blossom will scatter into the hands of a handsome young man that we choose. for me, this sweltering summer, it’ll be you. and, god willing (an expression i borrowed from an altogether more believing friend of mine), next summer also. for T (if we were boys, she’d be a brother from another mother) it will be someone else. Her new beau (a rather lovely Tenessee expression!). her very first. amazing stength and will and beauty.
so here we are, and isn’t it queer to think we shall be here always? in the arms of another, in the throes of spring, the coming summer alighting hopes in every single one of us, as if petards were thrown at the pavement before us, at our feet, at our willing young hearts?
and we can’t help this feeling hopeful. and we can’t pretend we didn’t want this life.
so every year, like clockwork, we will be discoving those cherry soda loves and shedding blossom in each other’s arms.
Posted in Uncategorized
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glittering soot on her eyelashes 