It's strange to me how much the word love is thrown around, and how different it's definition seems to vary from person to person. My mother tells me her love is unconditional, but her 'unconditional love' only applies to her conception of a perfect daughter, and not the man inside. I found myself promising that I would only let those treasured words slip through the cracks when I meant it. When I felt it. Yet it has become a greeting I exchange more commonly than hello's. Kissing in the rain and chocolates and constant sweet nothings is the love I began to believe in, but it has not lasted. It has morphed from a feeling into a lifestyle, part of most everything I do. For if I don't act out of love, selfishness, hate, anger, might fill its place. Some forms more painful than others, unrequited, undying, have manifested within my brain, or my soul. The two are often confused, kissing in the rain does not equate to love, my soul tells me, but my head feeds into it either way. The brain is desperate for a form of love, holding onto whatever it can grasp because the fear of never finding another is too great of a risk for it to take. Loneliness, the ultimate opponent of the soul, and the push that sends the mind tumbling down. The purest form of love I have found is in the touch he places to my shaking arm as I struggle to understand it doesn't mean as much as I crave it to be. Standing in front of my mirror, conquering my denials, and he is always there, always touching. That is the love I have come to treasure most. The fertilizer to my seed of self love that has taken an achingly long time to sprout. I have also come to find that loving back, surprisingly enough, isn't in the kisses and sweet nothings. It is in accepting that your give wishes to be far more than theirs, and leveling with their take, despite everything. Unwavering hand always on their arm, through whatever turbulence that may come their way. What a shapeshifter you are, my love.
Every time it rains and I'm walking I
Step into a puddle, leaving my socks wet.
Every time this happens, I don't mind. I don't
Regret it, despite my feet being cold.
Even though it's not the greatest feeling, I'm
Happy to have stepped in this puddle. And
This time, my feet may never get dry.
So take it like a man, like Desperate Dan
creamcowpied up his stubbly ironbutt
on Brokeback Mountain
- on all fours first, then consent.
It's for the best I bookmark then bin
my Mills & Boon bucketlist,
won't bitterly tinker anymore of my own
crash & vanity published
anthologies of that same selfeffacing joke,
stalled into endlessly reinventive selfharm
like bumnote Bowie with chameleon's block.
Same same same punchline always a Borderline
love lyric bickering with Fate
who cannot keep a
r a i g
unfair. O Fate
raking your sour coal blaze of reopened grapes,
you've won, I'll suffer on & on & on stoically schtum,
but I just wannaknowhowcome
nothing should fall harsher
than a groan clown,
who's tried, goshknows,
to turn his look of the damned upsidedown,
but never been caught with his
Calvin Klown pants down,
unforgiving of his own
failure@playing the foolharder
in front of his witheringly notlooking
straightman, always a beautiful woman.
I find strength in the fact I will bend
like brownnoses on brownkneeses until I break
like a nirvana trump in the wilderness.
I find comfort in the knowledge
this state of mehvana promises
bathos that will detach my detached smile,
my teeth's tensegrity jerichoed
unto a lateritious tundra
of important life lessons
in eight noble kickings.
I find peace in the realisation
that the soughs & squalls of selfimprovement,
the right noises, will be squeezed out
by a Martian sandstorm
of depersonalising selffulfilling prophecy.
Snakedance in bits, supine in pieces,
I dree my weird as derobed yogi of debris,
And now, as tears subside,
may I say, not in a shy way,
more, much more than this,
I've learned the hardway
is always evertofall inlove.
Is my least favorite word in the English language.
And maybe I'm a little biased
And that's because it's been
Resounding in the back of my head
For at least 10 years.
In between the memories
Of bent book spines
About knights, magic, the stars
And Disney tapes dancing on the screen
I latched onto a promise.
"That there is truth and love is real"
(Or so a song told me)
I dreamed days away
In pure fantasy of the way
I thought it would one day be.
I have felt the burning tether of obsession
the thrumming fools gold bonds of infatuation
fought as many mental misconceptions
And false ideas as I can.
So if this is some punishment for those
I want to see my lawyer because I've served my nickel.
You could knit me a suit
Of conventional wisdom
(About being single, being lonely)
Spilt for my benefit.
And I still wouldn't know
Which is most accurate.
"There are plenty of fish in the sea"
"You have to love yourself before someone else can"
Well I admit I have bad self esteem
"Focus on yourself"
Ok but I'm not that kind of per-
"You'll find them when you're not looking"
"You'll miss being single"
I barely know what it's like not to be!
(But we don't talk about that)
I'm tired of the cycle.
It feels like I'm going in circles.
I'm tired of spending nights
Staring at the ceiling
Listening to someone
With more name recognition
Then I have, croon
About how they knew how it felt.
I try to say I shouldn't care.
The memories of a smaller me disagree.
I try to ignore it, and let it be.
My tedium of quiet sweat
A computer screen, and my hands should be enough.
The only problem is when the hormones
No longer strangle my higher orders of thought
I'm left with the minor sour taste
(Nothing experienced nothing learned
Nothing said nothing felt)
What am I doing wrong?
Do I lack testosterone?
Is it the history of mental disease?
Or is that same realization that I have
When I'm bleary eyed in
And I look in the mirror;
That maybe I'm just ugly.
That there is a kernel within me
Of anger, lust, and pride
And I can't tell if I'm worried
That no one will love me despite it
Or because of it I cannot love myself.
Is there foresight or fault in my construction?
Do I still have a finger to wear a ring, because I will, or should I remove them?
Do I have a tongue
So I can speak, converse
With a lover underneath the midnight moon
Or should I extract it?
(Always spoke best with my hands, I feel sometimes)
((Oh you old romantic fool))
How can I remind my heart
That's it's only supposed to pump blood
When all I remember is that it's meant to love.
Damn old outdated chivalry.
Damn the romantic masters who
Wove me hope in meter and verse.
This is what becomes
Of the boy dreamer staring at the window
Who's heart so often leapt
From his chest to his sleeve.
He becomes a man with a child's heart
Who is oblivious to romantic interest
And falls for those who care about him
More than he cares for himself.
I do not want to feel it again
(The warmth, the butterflies,
The shivers up my spine, the joy)
Unless it is real.
Otherwise I wish those feelings
Would die, die, die, die, die.
Eventually I'll be used to the yawning void
That has enveloped my chest.
But sometimes I hope
I chalk up stone and light candles
And pray to gods benevolent of planes unseen
That I'll understand
That I'll see
That I'll know: love.
I'll try and undo the damage
Of 20 years of making a want
Into my need
And knowing that if they were to fall
I'll pick them back up
Let them lean on me
Because that is whom I have chosen to be.
Love for them
But not for me.
I'm sorry but I just don't like you in that way.
Yes, I know you'd work like a Pole,
mortgage your soul,
shovel shit in cold bitter
as a Borderline love lyric
for me and my baby girl.
I know you'd keep the vampires from the door,
man up to the big bad wolf,
fling yourself full square
into the fangful furnace of a dragon
to buy my baby girl and I precious seconds.
I know you'd be our sacrificial
human bridge on a sinking ship,
subdue your sweat reflex
so we wouldn't slip.
I know'd you'd be a doormat,
I know you'd be a hard nut,
I know you'd hunt and gather,
I know you'd beg and borrow.
And I know
you'd listen to my every childhood fear,
that everything I've ever suffered
would move you to a poet's tears,
then you'd hunt down my abusers,
every last one, and give them a taste
of backstreet Cockney justice
in a lockup garage.
you'd pull yourself together forever,
renounce the sauce, the juice, the tabs, the gear,
all that diehard dieeasy despair at the bottom
of the battered heart of you.
And, mummified in nicotine patches,
buddy up to all mankind, be a crusader without rest
for a world that might even begin to be a beacon
of anything good enough to guide my baby girl
to eternal safety, just that I might enjoy peace
of mind whilst I live and after I die. I know
you'd go everywhere I've ever wanted to see,
anywhere I've ever wanted to be, no matter
how hard people are for you. I know
you'd become the world's foremost scholar
of the Karma Sutra, a
supple sinewy spidery suitor,
that my clitoris would be the pinkest pearl
in the least seedy, most respectful
sex museum ever opened.
And that you would be its
Gollumesque curator, attentive
to an extreme, lickpolishing it even after you're spent.
so it ruddily radiates in evermore
innermore orgasmic strobe,
hard light of my sensuality in forever-1st-time-like
rush and flush of perfect play gentle and rough.
You would be my Gollum but with a better bottom,
in a crotchless deepsea diversuit were that my kink.
In bed, my Drop Dead Fred, my disgusting best friend.
Postcoitally, we'd strip down
to our inner children, you would remind me
laughter is the orgasm of the child.
to you my breasts would always be the perfect breasts,
however the autumn of the female form might fall,
that you'd squeeze them thru out the night from fitful
fear my glories won't be there cum morning. Or clasp
my little finger in your sleep like an instinctively
worshipful newborn. And
however stout and selfaccepting and Rubenesque
in domestic bliss I become, due to everyday Valentine's
pralines and your fussing, lifeextending homecooked
meals, I know you'll still stay trim, get down the gym,
splash on some aftershave, put on a nice shirt,
in case I desert you for the next Jackthelad. I know
there'd be so many trails of rosepetals to our boudoir,
so many silken rosepetals on the silk bedsheets
you'd be in hock to Harrods for, that the hooverbag
would be like a florist's returning from holiday.
that when you're ancient as Mummra and his spirits of evil,
you'd spend a pharaoh's ransom on Viagra
just to make me still feel attractive, run
your arthritic fingers with difficulty thru my blue rinse.
And if I know anything,
it's that you'd write me a poem everyday,
illustrate like a whitehot monk
all the fantasias for children I've ever
idly imagined a fulfilling moneyspinner.
I'd be a Gala to your Dali
without all the twisted shit. I know
we'd be the Broadland Brangelina,
that if it ever came to it, one phonecall
after twenty years and you'd fly to me
like an angel from back in the day,
adopt my Accrington Stanley
football team of other men's kids
and lead them up the leagues. I know
you'd lie for me, die for me,
change for me, stop being strange for me.
you'd lie for my baby girl, die for my baby girl,
change for my baby girl, stop being strange for my
baby girl. But
I'm sorry, I don't know what to say,
I just don't like you in that way.
i saw you again today
i was going to talk to you until she pulled you into a kiss
and so i left it to another day
i saw you again with her
but this time she was looking away
and you looking at her, and i wondered
what were you thinking about?
she wasnt with you today
so i sat next to you and you told me
you had an argument with her
so i gave my condolences and you said not to worry
you were by yourself again today but came to me
you seemed really down and so i offered you strawberry milk
you smiled, and thanked me
i know she hates strawberry milk
you were with her again today
smiling this time and laughing
she had a banana milk in her hand as did you
and so i left
i didnt see you today
i wondered where you were
as i sat on the bench
drinking my strawberry milk
she was screaming at you today and you screamed back
she stormed off leaving you alone
as you sat with head in your hands
and i drank my strawberry milk
i gave you another strawberry milk
and you thanked me with a small grin
and we sat there drinking
and enjoying eachothers company
you should smile more
it really suits you
its just a shame that today
you smiled because of her
there was a strawberry milk in your locker
and she said it was from her
and you accepted it and kissed her
forgetting she hated strawberry milk
its been 5 months since weve spoken
and i sit here every day wishing
and drinking my strawberry milk
as you smile together
i was going to talk to you,
but whats the point.
When I pack my bags and leave,
Dear, don't think I really want to go,
It's just hard for me to believe,
The love you speak but never show.
And if I go, would you ask me to stay,
And eventually learn how to love me?
I guess, you'd just watch me fade away,
Because for you, letting go is easy.
When I pack my bags and leave,
Dear, please remember that I tried,
But giving up is not just for the naive,
In love, even the strongest could get tired.