Losing Innocence to a Stranger
i remember:
when my clothes fell
to your bedroom floor
i felt alive.
i felt complete.
i felt the warmth of your arms around me,
the taste of your lips embraced with mine;
mouth meets neck, hipbone meets hipbone.
i remember:
retracing your curves as you squeezed
my lower libido. your tongue's texture:
new. exciting. slippery. the structure
of our anatomical collision: fast-paced.
i remember:
how your dirty mattress became
my new sanctuary. my fulfilment.
my release. my safety escape.
or how your curtains became my
protection from reality.
is this even real? a lucid dream, perchance?
impatient exchange. or imperfect romance?
a casual relief. fornication's dance?
am i in the wrong?
am i in your heart?
am i in love? lust?
or below the belt?
am i beneath the sheets you use with every other guest?
am i another fetish simply shoved amongst the rest?
an unreturnable gift,
an irreplacable wish.
a sticky situation of:
sweat, years, 'trust'
(over-expectations)
i think you should know
the scent of your cherry
body wash, the one we
said looked like blood, it
still lingers on my hands.
i think you should know
that lather rinse repeat
only matters to me if i'm
in your shower. in your
house. in your pants.
i think you should know i remember every detail.
i think you should know i don't regret one thing.
when my clothes fell
to your bedroom floor
i felt alive.
i felt complete.
i felt the warmth of your arms around me,
the taste of your lips embraced with mine;
mouth meets neck, hipbone meets hipbone.
i remember:
retracing your curves as you squeezed
my lower libido. your tongue's texture:
new. exciting. slippery. the structure
of our anatomical collision: fast-paced.
i remember:
how your dirty mattress became
my new sanctuary. my fulfilment.
my release. my safety escape.
or how your curtains became my
protection from reality.
is this even real? a lucid dream, perchance?
impatient exchange. or imperfect romance?
a casual relief. fornication's dance?
am i in the wrong?
am i in your heart?
am i in love? lust?
or below the belt?
am i beneath the sheets you use with every other guest?
am i another fetish simply shoved amongst the rest?
an unreturnable gift,
an irreplacable wish.
a sticky situation of:
sweat, years, 'trust'
(over-expectations)
i think you should know
the scent of your cherry
body wash, the one we
said looked like blood, it
still lingers on my hands.
i think you should know
that lather rinse repeat
only matters to me if i'm
in your shower. in your
house. in your pants.
i think you should know i remember every detail.
i think you should know i don't regret one thing.
Loss, in Five Acts
i. Return
Through a dark tunnel
of bent birch and cedar I walk.
Soft moss on cobblestone. Home.
The tilted bird bath drips with
tea coloured rain. Vines snake up
old walls even as the sandstone crumbles.
Decaying gutters sag with sad, welcoming
smiles, heavy with dead leaves
and the fallout of terracotta tiles.
ii. Memory
On her lap, in the evening, swinging
on the front porch chair. Humming
a lullaby, she whispers softly and
marks with a brush of her ringless finger,
magpie and minor, chicken and hen
and then, soft kisses on my cheek for bed.
At the bus stop, she is squinting and waving
and waiting. At hometime, she is feeding the
pigeons every last crumb from my lunchbox.
iii. Roses
The garden beds sit like unkept graves,
clutching the roots of dead roses. Row after row
of thorny crucifix. Anemic and budless.
Were they red or white or pink?
That memory is dim. Perhaps something
more obscure. Champagne or chartreuse.
A sudden notion. Todays black and grey
procession was as much for those roses
as for anyone. Colourless, flowerless burials.
iv. Home
From the splintered porch, the black-clad
grievers leave. Arms clasped loosely to backs.
Foreigners to me, they mourn a stranger.
Bobbing heads. Beaten brows.
They depart this scene like walking crows.
I do not recall them. I do not recall any of them.
A made-up apparition, a funeral thought. Her,
leaning, two handed on wicker cane,
smiling at the seriousness of the day.
v. Senses
My head reels with a million histories
of youth. Skin, goose-bumped with
nostalgia, eyes full with wet salt and
dead wishes. In the dusty kitchen a tin cup
smells of rosehip and butter. A rolling pin sits
still, old enough to be my father.
She overwhelms me with her truancy. I wonder
too late, if she knows my heart. I wonder if I am
her loss, like she is mine.
Through a dark tunnel
of bent birch and cedar I walk.
Soft moss on cobblestone. Home.
The tilted bird bath drips with
tea coloured rain. Vines snake up
old walls even as the sandstone crumbles.
Decaying gutters sag with sad, welcoming
smiles, heavy with dead leaves
and the fallout of terracotta tiles.
ii. Memory
On her lap, in the evening, swinging
on the front porch chair. Humming
a lullaby, she whispers softly and
marks with a brush of her ringless finger,
magpie and minor, chicken and hen
and then, soft kisses on my cheek for bed.
At the bus stop, she is squinting and waving
and waiting. At hometime, she is feeding the
pigeons every last crumb from my lunchbox.
iii. Roses
The garden beds sit like unkept graves,
clutching the roots of dead roses. Row after row
of thorny crucifix. Anemic and budless.
Were they red or white or pink?
That memory is dim. Perhaps something
more obscure. Champagne or chartreuse.
A sudden notion. Todays black and grey
procession was as much for those roses
as for anyone. Colourless, flowerless burials.
iv. Home
From the splintered porch, the black-clad
grievers leave. Arms clasped loosely to backs.
Foreigners to me, they mourn a stranger.
Bobbing heads. Beaten brows.
They depart this scene like walking crows.
I do not recall them. I do not recall any of them.
A made-up apparition, a funeral thought. Her,
leaning, two handed on wicker cane,
smiling at the seriousness of the day.
v. Senses
My head reels with a million histories
of youth. Skin, goose-bumped with
nostalgia, eyes full with wet salt and
dead wishes. In the dusty kitchen a tin cup
smells of rosehip and butter. A rolling pin sits
still, old enough to be my father.
She overwhelms me with her truancy. I wonder
too late, if she knows my heart. I wonder if I am
her loss, like she is mine.
Dear Mom
No poetry was written,
No fairytales were read.
As if it was forbidden,
By the monsters in her head.
And all they thought was silly,
Was quickly thrown away.
By a girl who had to grow up,
By a girl who couldn't play.
All her dreams and fantasies,
All her fears and hopes.
Thrown in a bag of garbage,
Balloons and skipping ropes.
The teddybears and puzzles,
All had to retreat.
For new puzzles in her head,
She never would complete.
No poetry was written,
No fairytales were told.
Her eyes spoke of a sad tale,
Her hands were always cold.
She thought of no white horses,
For she was no princess.
Her life was about papers,
And secret loneliness
All her dreams and fantasies,
Would never come true now.
For she had forsaken them,
Without knowing how.
Remember how happy she was.
She doesn't even know.
The little girl she used to be,
Was forgotten long ago.
I Sold my heart to a Physician
you smell like crystal meth overdoses.
(not that i know what that smells like)
this is more than your overthecounter
tylenol prescription. you're more than
a prescription (and i hate rhyming but)
you're an addiction, a malediction even.
a subscription to a magazine i wouldn't
read -- just stare at the pretty pictures.
stare at the pictures. become abducted
by jealousy. tear out my eyes. eat them.
tear out my mouth. eat it. realise that's
absurd. not care. care. not care. care.
not care. care not. carry your picture
in my wallet. the one where you're in
nothing but socks and shame. i won't
tell you this is my favourite (because i
lost my mouth to my stomach) but it is
(in my wallet for a reason.
you know how broke i am.
i've spent all my money on
pills i can't ingest. but you
know what? fuck my doctor
and my pharmacist and my
drugdealer. oh wait that's
you, my bad. no nevermind,
you're just the DRUG i used
to DEAL with life. whatever)
no, i'm not a crackhead.
i prefer the term addict.
i prefer the term desire.
i prefer the term in lust.
in lust is a phrase, dipshit
i prefer the phrase: "you're cured."
(but we both know that's absurd.)
i prefer the term: medicated.
you prefer the term: tricked.
(for a disease, you're pretty
cunning. or just pretty. who
knows? not me, obviously. i
ate my eyes. not the point.)
what they don't teach you
in rehab: what to do when
you run out of bottles. how
to handle a panic attack. or
the side effects of rejection.
(see: obsessions.
see: withdrawals.
see: your picture,
my wallet. oh you
know this already)
the cut-up magazine pictures
tell me to look in my medicine
cabinet. i do but reluctantly.
what the fuck am i supposed
to do when i find a note that
says: i lied; i'm no analgesic.
this is called the placebo effect,
though i prefer the term Deceit.
(not that i know what that smells like)
this is more than your overthecounter
tylenol prescription. you're more than
a prescription (and i hate rhyming but)
you're an addiction, a malediction even.
a subscription to a magazine i wouldn't
read -- just stare at the pretty pictures.
stare at the pictures. become abducted
by jealousy. tear out my eyes. eat them.
tear out my mouth. eat it. realise that's
absurd. not care. care. not care. care.
not care. care not. carry your picture
in my wallet. the one where you're in
nothing but socks and shame. i won't
tell you this is my favourite (because i
lost my mouth to my stomach) but it is
(in my wallet for a reason.
you know how broke i am.
i've spent all my money on
pills i can't ingest. but you
know what? fuck my doctor
and my pharmacist and my
drugdealer. oh wait that's
you, my bad. no nevermind,
you're just the DRUG i used
to DEAL with life. whatever)
no, i'm not a crackhead.
i prefer the term addict.
i prefer the term desire.
i prefer the term in lust.
in lust is a phrase, dipshit
i prefer the phrase: "you're cured."
(but we both know that's absurd.)
i prefer the term: medicated.
you prefer the term: tricked.
(for a disease, you're pretty
cunning. or just pretty. who
knows? not me, obviously. i
ate my eyes. not the point.)
what they don't teach you
in rehab: what to do when
you run out of bottles. how
to handle a panic attack. or
the side effects of rejection.
(see: obsessions.
see: withdrawals.
see: your picture,
my wallet. oh you
know this already)
the cut-up magazine pictures
tell me to look in my medicine
cabinet. i do but reluctantly.
what the fuck am i supposed
to do when i find a note that
says: i lied; i'm no analgesic.
this is called the placebo effect,
though i prefer the term Deceit.
The Offensive Uterus
"get intimate with my uterus," she says
and i'm slowly backing away towards the door,
"because it's really about You and Us;
it's true, there are no ifs, ands, or buts about it."
i can't believe she's actually saying this,
summoning post-feminist bumper-sticker wit,
trying to draw me in with cheap vaginal advertising.
she'd already knit a pink yarn uterus and airmailed it,
enclosed a hand-written card in the package -
"My heart pines for you,
my no-no place bleeds for you."
once a month, every month, usually around a full moon,
she tries to pull this silliness like a tampon string
and i'm repeatedly convinced she's crazy.
so i called her the next evening and said
"sorry, darling, but i'm not ready for this
sort of commitment, not to you or your Uterus,
so i guess it's just You, not Us, for now.
but i'm still willing to be friends."
-click-
What is Love?
What is love but a simple impulse
An electrical signal that comes from the brain.
What is love but a debilitating sickness
It weakens us utterly from the waves of pain.
To what do we owe the pleasure of love
Does it come from a matter of personal taste?
To what do we owe the pain of love
As though all of our efforts are put to waste...
Why do we seek to fall in love
Is it because we fear a death alone?
Or perhaps there is a darker reason
One for which we need to atone...
Rationalise carefully, your reason for love
Perhaps the truth is deeper than you think.
Is your partner a genuine object of affection
Or simply a piece of the missing link?
Love can be a wonderous anchor
It brings us down to the safety of sanity
But abuse it once, and you will suffer
Such is the gift of humanity...
"Yet even with these weighty words, I am still a slave to love..."
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