Sludge and blood. The smell of deep red iron
filtering through the rocks and bodies bruised to the touch.
Grotesque collections of pills and broken skin;
infections and secretions and violent affections -
Spit stained fingers and dilated pupils at thoughts thick with resin.
Waking up with sickness in your stomach and bite marks on your neck
The pull of clutching hands at strands of hair and bitten lips and sweat
Pulling deeper, sharp inhale of self-done stitches
Ripped open insides and the moment his breath hitches -
aches forever. Pulsing, swollen, bleeding on the brain
Sweet and sickly, gorgeous and gorged veins
Momentary singularity in pain.
I feel much heavier these days
I sleep a lot, and I paint with browns
Light ochre and soft greys
You tell me that's what you've noticed, anyway.
I forget to do my nails, and leave my hair up
Let it grow out and longer than it suits me.
Sometimes you tell me things have changed and tightly hold my hands -
I laugh and pretend I don't understand.
I used to read a lot, read to you -
Anything I found, poetry and song lyrics
And books I'd bought, or old ones that i'd suddenly see anew
when I'm seeing you,
over the top of the pages
Sitting opposite me crossed legged
Mimicking my voice
Laughing till we're both lightheaded.
Years ago you used to replace the flowers in my bedroom every morning
I told you to stop and that lilies were getting boring.
Today I got up extra early and painted my nails fuschia-pink
And cut big handfuls of daisies for the vase above the kitchen sink
When you came down from bed I looked at you over the pages of my book and said
This day, as winter dies -
cold, and heartless, and exposed - a December which lingers
and feels no shame in subduing me.
It was in January that I was bad; slipping back to ghostly fingers
spectres in the eyes of him, me, you -
others around us that let their busy laughter sit on the roads like mist.
The lonely chattering of teeth under scarves, hot conversations wet with breath dew
Quick thoughts. Openly sad. Feelings persist.
A layer of sleep coated my fingers, my hair. My cold feet.
And beneath my gloved hands danced anothers' thoughts I struggled to know.
Slipping quietly into a slower body; sleeping under a layer of snow.
Soon, I promise, I will get better again. As winter dies.
I believe you've got to me.
You - lazy hands ! Struggling up in the morning
Sleepy eyes and half replies
Tired smile - you!
It appears you've got to me.
Months of haphazard hapless work on your behalf
Crept up on me like February
And suddenly daffodils are blooming too early.
What bulb did you plant in my heart, I'd love to know -
What plant can grow with so little watering!?
You, sleepy-head, always undercover
Accidental lover -
Better be asleep right now, either that or you're ignoring me but I'll allow-
Lazy kid. Always busy doing nothing
Always busy, but I find your twice-monthly concern touching.
Really fuckin got to me.
Get me a boat
And let me discard my shoes and float soundlessly away from loneliness.
Amidst these dark waters I do not believe I can capsize -
Because I ride this endless sea in search of half-remembered blue eyes.
I fall in love all at once, and much much too quickly.
I patrol the beaches, heart heavy with glances from strangers in dark rooms and corridors.
Get me this boat, and god, let me leave quietly, as the red Margate sun comes up.
I want to search for someone else to love -
I want so desperately to love !
If I find beneath the sea another boat of strangers waiting for me
Then I shall be on New Land again.
Populated with glances on trains, soft greetings, beginningless romances -
Rushed smiles and other couple's dances.
I am lost, lost, lost to this sea...
The silent sea, creaking mass of serenity -
Oh god - If only I weren't so in love with humanity.
Do not forsake me the need to ascend.
We, in our platinum form
Do not require mothers, teachers, peers to remind us that one day the red soils will be left bereft of us.
We don’t require reminding.
Look down at yourself and consider your own outline.
We are shaped just so our eyes can compile us as human –
but not so that we require shaping still.
In the end, you can simplify.
Simplify yourself down. Until you are just circles, squares.
What is special about your own edge?
A human line, a form so easily replicated
It can be done by children in crayon.
A human line.
Allow yourself to ascend to your platinum form.
Down, into the water, girls face, first
In the grey depths
twisted in still
shoulder hunched over, still -
Words. Perfectly poised
to but a few chairs, at tables
Empty some, clung to the edges by a few
small girls - a few.
Who else to watch? Nothing else to do
Bored though. Writing notes still
Women tell fables, tales and fables
Anecdotes of politics. As little as they're able
simplified for softer ears.
Shes beautiful. Quite. Well, she's not bad
sitting there, grey hair, clad
coat and perfume; sweet smelling politics.
Soft around the edges.
Don't stand up.
Feel cold. Inside. Lost hope
Utopia slipping through manicured fingertips like soap.