i am discovering this world, not unlike a newborn: scent by scent, piece by piece. and aren’t we all?
no questions plague me, no worries weigh me down and nothing seems to matter very much at all. estoy contento.
it’s all about times like this in life: when air grows warm and shallow and eyelids flutter, cascading downwards to close in a sort of tired midnight bliss.
it’s times like this. times where you sit by the radiator, mid-october, and listen to life happen outside your window, noise by noise, laugh by laugh, the voices merging with the wind and night.
and all you feel is warmth, a yearning for a hibernation.
as nights grow longer – a pressing need to forget all and sleep in; to snuggle up for that one moment more, underneath the covers vividly coloured with summer – oranges and fuscia pinks – and dream of snow.
i want the frigid maiden winter and all her hidden joys: falling flat on your face iceskating, hot chocolate held in cupped frozen hands, reading old classics under the covers, red noses, father christmas and the constant sparkle of magic in the air.
i want it all and yet estoy contento with all i have right now, right here: the oranges and reds, the windy mornings drizzling with rain of new beginnings.
i have it all, your fingers in my hair.
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
Tagged about, aethetics, against, all, are, attached, barely, book, breeze, brings, brushing, burning, but, can't, care, change, colour, consuming, contour, cradle, deep, erotica, every, eyes, feel, feeling, felt, fire, fly, form, from, funny, gently, got, hair, hands, heart, hide, him, hold, how, incarnate, it, itself, know, last, learn, like, lines, little, live, love, loving, makes, matter, me, mild, more, my, nape, neck, need, never, no, northerly, not, nothing, now, of, often, one, only, pain, palms, patience, piece, pores, prince, prose, ray, read, rejection, response, roses, s, sand, sandalwood, scab, see, seem, seemed, sense, sensual, seperate, shall, silence, silent, simple, skin, sleep, sleeping, slight, slumber, soft, sorry, straight, strangely, summer, sun, sunshine, taken, tangling, tanned, tenderness, that, think, thorny, through, to, told, too, true, try, urge, wants, warm, warmth, ways, we, well, were, when, which, wind, with, within, without, world, would, wrote, you, your
my span of wings in trepidation,
resembles the beat of African drums
heard from below
on a warm afternoon:
mid-may or mid-summer, among a circle of people
whose very lives to mine,
no more than tangents to the exponent of y.
and beating wildly with the rhythm of life,
i long to keep on rising,
rinsing out of water like venom rinses out of blood
because, whatever the reason to this life,
within these veins runs music,
slipping gently in and out of life.
Posted in excerpts
Tagged african, afternoon, among, beat, beating, because, below, blood, circle, drum, drums, exponent, gently, heard, in, keep, life, like, lives, living, long, may, mid, more, music, my, of, out, people, poem, poems, poetry, reason, resemble, rhythm, rinse, rinsing, run, slip, slipping, span, summer, tangent, this, thse, to, trepidation, veins, venom, very, warm, water, whatever, who, whose, wild, wildly, wing, wings, within, y
do you reckon we could make snow angels without snow? we could scrape ourselves against the ground, delirium of cold seeping through our pores. then, maybe then, our bodies would scrape away the frost from the pavement without drawing blood. maybe the ice will shatter somewhere inside of us. i’m cold tonight and nothing will warm me.
more than anything, i’d like for the sunset to come around again.
more violent this time, more primitive, innate; heat firing my synapses all at once with broken impulses. and i want it to smell of freshly brewed coffee in a little cafe on a little hidden street nobody knows but stumbles onto by chance. we must always roll the die of life. it’s in the eyes. always in the eyes.
yesterday i would have told you it never comes around, but silence came. and now i know true silence is that which lies in the inevitability of it being broken any moment now. suppose it’s like cutting a cake. don’t ask me why.
and when it comes around you can see it lurking like a shadow in the eyes. a vapid corner of pitch black dark. but we are burning embers in the shadows of the light.
come with me: it will be alright.
i have decided that i will be cold tonight.
but i will try to warm you up.
Posted in chapters of my life
Tagged again, against, all, alright, always, angels, any, anything, are, around, ask, at, away, being, black, blood, bodies, brewed, broken, burning, by, cafe, cake, came, chance, coffee, cold, come, comes, corner, could, cutting, dark, decided, delirium, dice, die, do, don't, drawing, embers, eyes, firing, freshly, frost, ground, heat, hidden, ice, impulses, inevitablity, innate, inside, it, know, knows, lies, life, light, like, little, lurking, make, maybe, me, moment, more, must, my, never, nobody, nothing, now, of, once, onto, our, pavement, pitch, pores, primitive, reckon, roll, scrape, see, seeping, shadow, shadows, shatter, silence, smell, snow, somewhere, street, stumbles, sunset, suppose, synapses, than, the, this, through, time, told, tonight, true, try, up, us, vapid, violent, want, warm, we, when, which, why, will, with, without, would, yesterday, you
when i was little i wanted to make magic, to pull the rabbit out of the hat and make things disappear before your very eyes. i got little magic kits for bithdays and watched magic shows on tv. i was an avid learner who learnt nothing at all, because now i know the real magic.
this is it.
and though it comes rarely, its arrival like a flight of a flock of swallows migrating south where warmth is surer, lustier, this is it. grass is always greener on the other side. bar this one. i’m not moving.
before you fly away, there’s always a rush of events whose sole purpose is to please me into oblivion until you are gone and the empty space forms where you ought to be. only this monday we found our song as we kissed in the middle of it, shakira singing for the crowd in which we were engulfed. that was your birthday present to me: shakira concert the day before the winter soltice.
today, it was your birthday: a small affair of our closest friends and family ties. but morning was ours. so absolutely ours.
magic is the feeling of being utterly in love. it is when you can’t help wondering qué haré si no te vuelvo a ver. it is melting in another’s arms like snow on warm day. it is falling in love and not knowing how to stop. not even wanting to stop.
and every time you go away, i wonder what will i do if i never see you return.
thank you for the magic.
Posted in chapters of my life
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what moved me yesterday was not the explosion after explosion in the sky, nor the coldness enveloping us in a tightly huddled mass of warm bodies. it was the way you looked at me, as if seeing me for the first time. or the last time. and i don’t know how much truth there is in the world, but so long you keep looking at me like that, my heart will long for yours.
yesterday was an annivesary in ways. 7 months, but more than that.
i was with X then, and with Y to an extent, but that night, a year ago, you held my hand in yours, warming it, holding me gently under the fireworks and the stars. a friend and no more, keeping me warm placidly yet wanting me wholly.
now i’m yours solely.
please burn for me still.
this was the poem i wrote for you a year ago. and now you know.
a drizzle of rain warms me up
like your hands on mine, polishing the silver
the ground not yet ready to settle, the sky – to erupt
and we are languishing in the middle
of the broken
I conceived with someone else
smiling in knowing
you’d carry my life on your shoulders if I let you
bequeathing me your last breath as a parting present
but how could I ever justify your love or lust
as we stand there under the unremitting gaze of stars
almost like an audience awaiting the typical finale
my heart so suddenly awake
wanting to take
all that you offer, grab it in handfuls
frigid hands clasping yours with the ferocity
that would make you bleed and leave crescent shapes
as a memory of my need
living signature of my greed
instead I leave you with a seed
Posted in chapters of my life
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