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:
the promise of london rain unspoken.
birds fail to chirp outside your window,
heat stifles life
take up the whole of your bed;
Posted in excerpts
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yes, i remember
the blue sky with no horizon,
the trampled road we trod though
one april morning following another.
and the time was not stopping
but starting anew:
in me and in you,
even in those black eyes and hands
which longed for the other on these marshes.
we feared no ending: it would not come; not to us
who knew of life lived simply,
of lukewarm soup and truth before bedtime.
yes, i remember
and it will be alright.
Posted in excerpts
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will anybody tell me if i’m missing out on life?
will anyone write me a letter just so i know?
and everybody seems to be making a film, a compilation of their thoughts right here, right now. irony is, i’m wasting my words on the wind, across the telephone wires that stretch inside my head. and when i am brave enough to speak my words out, they are spoken to you alone. what about the rest of the world? how will they ever know?
you made a film with your friends. i guess that’s what you do in youth.
me? i used to leave my colouring books blank for fear of spoiling them. funny me.
and whenever creativity came to me, i wrote the words, drew the pictures on scraps of paper. i still have some of them. little pieces of my mind written in quickhand.
and though none of them relate to you, all that i remember of X is there: they are silent exultations, utterances of pain and dreams. they are free.
sometimes, i still wish i coloured those pictures in.
and sometimes i know there’s no use wishing: it’s all too late now. i’ve sketched my life out in this morning sunshine. whatever happens now was always meant to be.
Posted in Uncategorized
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