above human hearing:
sharp piercing sound – a blade –
lips come together,
in a brusque motion.
the slurmp of collision
runs through the body
and the rest is silence.
beneath the bones,
the scream solidifies
in the darkness of the soul.
time without writing is my form of liberation. it’s forgetting, losing oneself in death of silence. and every time i tell myself i shant succumb to the lustre of words, to their shine in the night, i do. and i drive a wedge between us.
one can’t help these things.
i learnt to sleep without turning, only to stay in your arms.
i learnt to entwine my legs around you, to hold you in my eyes; to speak english the way nobody else can, taking you on a magic roundabout with my mouth.
but my breath is free. it swirls like water in a glass; shakes with the weight of the world; breaks in spasms. it parts my lips warm and freezes. it cannot find nourishment in the cold, it loses its essence. like i.
and i cannot give you what i could have given you. or maybe i’m not enough. maybe i never was. only gods know what it is.
tragedy always happens around this time of year. maybe our stars are falling tonight. listen to them thump as they break the surface tension of the ocean. then wait until they surface.
if they ever do.
i’m not a magician, i’m only learning: that’s what my dad used to say to me all the time. he wasn’t the only one, but i remember him saying it most clearly. it laughed in the face of the world so simply!
i want that attitude right now.
i want a jagged piece of mind that tells me it’s ok, you tried your best, you’re only learning. but i can’t sleep and that is that.
levels of oestrogen are surging in this house. my periods refuse to come and their hostility refuses to die down. stress happens naturally here.
put six queen bees in a hive and try it for yourself. but then, you know.
there is no honeycomb, no honey; only a derivative of power and no matter what the variable is, the result is always positive and large.
i learn as i type.
i silence my buzzing.
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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no response. my heart is the silence of the world sleeping.
i barely wrote about him: he never seemed to matter. you are my prince, patience incarnate. often all i need is that little piece of silent tenderness: i am simple but i change with the northerly wind.
all i seem to do is read and sleep: summer brings deep slumber to my senses and burning sun only makes itself felt on the nape of your neck. when my eyes see it, the gently tanned skin colour of sandalwood, an urge from deep within me wants to cradle it with the palms of my hands, feel its warmth as if through it i shall hold a ray of sunshine, all warm and sensual, taken from a book of mild erotica.
funny how when i felt it last, rejection felt like a consuming fire in every which one of my pores. now, it is a slight breeze tangling up my hair, soft sand in my eyes, thorny roses brushing against a scab: strangely seperate from me.
you think i can’t see the pain in your eyes. true, you hide it well, but i know you and i know that i told you that he mattered in more ways than one would care to. i’m sorry.
S is nothing; i am love.
it’s about aesthetics, feeling, about loving contour and form and not it straight lines … and i got too attached to you, S. funny that, i try to live without feeling.
no response. so we learn to fly.
Posted in chapters of my life
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some days i realise
they wouldn’t be worth living
if i didn’t have you
pounding in my heart.
it sounds cliché,
somehow outdated, to say this here
and to say this now. almost
a long-distance call to atlanta
where skies flow like whisky down the throat,
and people, morning sunshine,
before receiver clicks in the ear
with mourning beep foreshadowing the silence
with a million shards of sounds
running like a movie in my eyes.
Posted in excerpts
Tagged almost, and, atlanta, be, beach, before, call, cliche, click, days, distance, down, ear, eyes, flow, foreshadow, have, heart, here, if, like, live, living, long, million, morning, mourn, mourning, movie, my, now, outdated, people, poems, poetry, pound, realise, reciever, run, running, say, shards, silence, skies, some, sounds, storm, sunshine, they, throat, where, whisky, with, worth, wouldn't