My head itches with lice
that suck on my XY blood
and with each pierce of the scalp
anchor down the long strands of hair
that cascade down my back and fall
in my face and betray my boy-like
I watch you and how you know who you are,
as you talk of hormone therapy and chest binders
or bras and wigs and make-up and dresses, and I
begin to cry because you know who you are,
even if the rest of the world does not.
I want to cut my hair,
but I'm afraid my face is just too ugly
to have locks that fall to my ears,
that even short hair won't solve my problems,
won't have the cashier at the drug store call me
I'm scared of surgeries,
surgeries that would leave faint scars
beneath my nipples, and allow me to walk
down a beach in trunk and a bare toned chest.
I have my binder but I will never be completely flat.
I think the reason I am so scared
of cutting away the girl in me
is because I do not know
if there is really a boy inside.
All manner of people can be found in train stations, there character betrayed by attire to the more observational at least. The hard pressed city worker, walking ever walking, phone at hand, ever scanning emails and ensuring accessibility always, to control is too maintain is too succeed. Those who's steps seemingly shorter and more though out, are either here on some grand tour or some exotic soire as if silently noting surroundings, as the pass beneath the ornate decorations of their location. There care free folly the main indicator of intentions.From time to time a transport police officer shall pass, stern faced, seemingly compelled by some unknown mission others stand stationary a deterrent to would be criminals. From time to time the most beautiful facet of humanity is likely to appear, in the adoring stares of young lovers. It's this or the hold and don't let go grip, young lovers and train stations have long associated (In my mind at least) the point of departure is a grey area. Where displays of public affection normally reserved for movies and poems, reach the realm of social acceptability. Long deep kisses and well thought out speeches describing the grievances of an ever bleeding heart. There is one group I have failed to mention, who in there own way are entirely distinct from any of groups fore mentioned. They are the watchers, found normally at some quite looking coffee shop across the street, however this is not to imply they can not be any of the above. All of the above mix intermittently with interesting results, I shall for as long as I live never forget the passionate embrace of an on duty police officer and his wife. His eyes bright with surprise, at ease staring upon the one he so adores. I leave the station and head toward the embankment,
All manner of people pass me on their way to unknown offices, some holding hands and staring deeply. The rumble of unseen locomotive reassures me now of course I'm drawing closer, the winter winds once faint now felt as the once green leaves now all manner of colour are pulled by unseen gusts. This city must surely be the greatest in the world, from the industrial chimneys distant to the rolling ocean. Dockers smoke cigarettes and exchange raucous tales whilst foreign sailors stare intently. I always try my hardest to listen to as much as I could manage of these half spoken speeches. Im rewarded instantly with an image far more detailed and planned than anything the most creative minds could conceive. The wild waves create orators, there thoughts distilled be evenings spent alone. I've always found myself drawn to transient people, I feel like I've spend forever dreaming of someplace else Greenland Egypt Canada, you name the place and I've seen it in my dreams at least. It took me a while longer than I care to admit to truly get a feel for the place, at first like some timid child I avoided it. From the age of thirteen I've been locked in a battle with wanderlust, my urge to leave it all is simply overwhelming. In all my darkest fantasies, I leave this place at some point on some old ocean liner to arrive at unknown port. Too share a meal with mountain air as my ashtray overflows. I warm myself with images of ancient explorers sailing distant oceans, guided by starlight. Some people just elude me. I'd call myself stubborn but certain people melt me, I the eternal romantic a victim of my own high hopes. I'd often find myself alone, staring across the river and wondering. I always sit upon the same old bench carved with all manner of messages declarations of undying love, names, dates all carved into immortality. The steady movement of approaching footsteps is eternal, beyond the customs house solitary North Star shines, as if admiring its provincial estate. An unknown entity now serving as a subtle voice of reason in the darkness, occasionally couples pass, as if to cement my my longing. The starlight illuminates breaking waves, as boats sway easy tied up to subtle quayside. Ever reminded of my obligations I should really leave and go to sleep. However the pull of the darkness is tangible, that was something! oh something! Suddenly a gentle calm smothers all thought, as lights glimmer distant. Light! Oh brother light, I the eternal castaway home bound at last. My expectations were entwined with food and wine, and the comfort of my own bed.
Bright green bean bags
occupied with big-boned bastards
begin to strike faint resemblances
to mounds of porous gelatin
or sea cucumbers
but when I entered the room
and saw myself reflected in the temperament
I decided that my features could never be crushed
by a thing so simple as introspection.
With sweat dripping down my brow
and perspiration moistening the part of my shirt
that is encompassed by the pits of my arms
I stared at the grease-stained gluttony
of the year
and it became clear to me
that every frolicking pixie that never existed
would be envious or appalled
by the state of our TV dinners.
Before the paisley phantom swoops down
and slowly cleans its ears with a black Q-tip
we must make the mental preparations necessary
to start preparing for the deaths of our children
that don’t exist
because if we are ready for that
we would surely be ready for a person
to try to make us try to think about trying to
stoop higher than the jungle in an attempt to oversee.
ruby laid back into the scalding water
exhaled as she frowned at the wet remains
of what once was the most perfectly rolled joint
with well over an inch left
she'd set it too close to the edge
she watched it in slow motion
as it fell into the water
great, she thought sifting it out with her fingers
laying it more carefully onto the gray porcelain
a small puddle now forming around it
it will be days til it's dry enough to smoke
but she does like the transparency of the wet paper
and can imagine the crunchy skin glowing again
she's made the water unbearably hot
she slides down
until her head is under the water
thoughts flash by
too quickly to answer
one after the other
she wonders if she can still breathe underwater
like she did when she was a kid
a real mermaid
she knew she was one
images of the suns slow rising on the lone bay she drove to at seventeen
smoking a joint down pch at four thirty am
the waves drowning out everything bad in her world
she thinks about music
and her first boyfriend in seventh grade
he was a beautiful black haired
blue eyed boy of well over six feet
a lanky punk rock
who sweetly held her hand through the halls
and kissed her using tongue
she had once carved his name in her arm
he died of a heroin overdose at 18
what sound her brother's breath made
as it was escaping his lungs
as the truck crashed into him
she thinks of the billions of stars
the atoms in the universe
she thinks how easily we become dust
she thought of all the ways she's absorbed love out of the world
she pulls her head out of the water
black curls cling to her shoulders
she feels faint
slowly ruby stands
in the rooms candlelight glow
she catches glimpse of her body within the mirror
heavy swirls of steam rise off of her wet skin
she inhales deeply and wraps a towel
round her shoulders
and finally steps out of the bath
Here I lay
Oscillating around the milky way
Into a colourful display
Of swirling rainbow fireworks
Surrounded on both sides
By soft warm palettes
Peach apricot hues
On my left
A firefly's faint glowing light
Almost fading, one could tell
Like a bowl
Of hot creamy soup
On a frosty winter night
Emptied so quickly
But relished throughout
Of velvety warmth within
On my right
A goldfish's glistening scales
Almost blinds my sight
Its stunning beauty insulted
By the inverted dome-shaped
Of a bowl
By the ephemeral allure
Of love, and of us
By the ruse of creatures
Who corner us
With towering walls of Time
Using help from the impartial
Law of Equality
"You have revelled
in your joy,"
A voice from behind booms
"Now it's time
to pay the price."
beauty, represented by the goldfish, is bound by time.
...and sometimes it seems as if the troubles we go through are but payments for the happiness we previously received.
we wake up in sun-drenched rooms.
we sleep to faint, nocturnal tunes.
and we roll in glorious as the clouds
with a lullaby of sound -
the sound of the rain.
we wait in hope of brighter days,
as we watch the tree limbs sway,
and we're onto whatever hope we can find
that sleep under these blue-washed skies.
we fall soft like autumn leaves.
we're swept on by a tranquil breeze,
we land upon the puddles and streams,
and drift away to bigger seas
to the sound of the rain.
I was walking tonight,
When I stumbled, across
A bird with a broken wing,
Lying, twitching, on the ground.
I had travelled this path
Almost a hundred times,
Taking in the night air,
Listening to the sound of nothing.
Never had I thought to look
Down, down at my feet.
Where Man and Earth meet,
And fallen souls lay strewn across the ground.
Tonight began as most
Days and nights do,
Ambling along, with my usual
Ignorantly blind caprice.
Then, into my heart,
As if a whisper from the stars,
The melancholic song
Of a fragile soul did enter.
Though faint at first
Its mournful seed did grow,
Until the aching muscle could
No further onward go.
Down my gaze fell
Resting beautifully on her broken wing.
But a pain like none before
I saw deep in her eyes,
She, a flightless bird
In human guise.
Placing her gently
In my soft palm,
So there I did heal
Her fragile arm.
And together we sang
throughout the night,
Wishing our harmony
Would the morning fight.
But knowing all too well,
That men dwell on Earth
And birds soar the Heavens,
We shared one last embrace.
As stars began to fade
The shades to recede
So forth the light
And then to the morning sky she returned,
But here, in our breasts, was Love now confirmed.
When you left,
My heart turned cold,
It grew distressed,
I became frustrated
My best was not good enough,
So that made me feel worthless,
My love was not enough for you to stay,
So I ran from myself as well, as if I were a plague to everyone,
Even to myself.
When you left,
I let the world make me hard,
I stopped caring,
Let myself fall deeper and deeper into the cracks of despair each day,
But with each day to the people around me,
I got better and better.
When you left,
I swallowed my pride,
I tried so hard to pick myself up,
To not care with the same validity that you had,
I tried to stop thinking about you like you never seemed to think about me,
When you left,
The memories followed me even into subconsciousness,
So I stopped sleeping,
At least awake I had some control over what occurred in my mind,
When I was asleep, you could touch me, kiss me, trace my skin with your fingertips,
You could whisper in my ear, lips brushing gently against my skin,
I could hear your voice, triumphantly exclaim your love for me,
Proud of what it could survive and what we had passed.
When you left,
I felt the agony of someone giving up on me,
When the weeks passed, and you didn't say anything,
I felt the pain of you forgetting fill my veins,
When I realized what I would have done for you,
I became enraged with myself,
Pounding myself for being so stupid to be willing to do so much,
And realizing that I would still do it today,
For a person who couldn't fight just a little bit harder.
When you left,
I felt our world crumble,
Leaving behind dust and rubble,
Faint outlines of once majestic castles.
When you left,
I picked myself up,
You are the only person in this world that I love,
But, I feel so small and worthless,
I'm giving up on you.
What shall I compare thee to Fluttershy?
A bird does not do thee justice or truth.
You are more beautiful than a blue sky.
A pegasus whose love I wish to sleuth.
A mare of soft voice and wide pleasant eyes
Who if looked but once on me I would faint
But a smile from you would bring me to rise
Who could ever look at you and speak plaint?
To look at you is better than flying,
When I see you my heart soars to new heights.
Anyone who says otherwise is lying.
You are more to me then a pretty sight.
I know that you are short of words and shy.
But I love you more than I can say why.
Her blue eyes say what mine cannot.
When it comes to us, we are the muffled silence on rocky sunrises,
hushes the morning with a faint orange feeling.
Two of the same, but we fit together like jigsaw pieces.
We are not different in the way we sit, oh, but when she walks,
poised, i know she is elevated far above me.
Unobtainable, boys sneer words they don't understand towards us as if
their words are venom flicking from their tongues to kill.
Oh, and she, she talks her broken words and I could listen for ages, sinfully indulging in what I cannot have.
By standard definition, is it aesthetic or platonic or am I falling for her?
People talk against the beauty we form together
when our two hearts merge into one, constant
and rocking like tidal waves constantly lapping the surface of our cheeks.
And they say we are abominations: we, together, are abnormal.
As they push us down and say they are saving their love
that is soggy like tomato juice bleeding through the sides of a sandwich
and broken, abused, but we are the abnormality while our love is
punctured only by night and new like stardust every morning.
How can our love be wrong when it becomes an art form?
I want her to imprint her faded red lipstick on my bare lips through the silence.
They do little else but talk and talk and their words are spit, filled with hate, while we,
we whisper promises in each other's ears as the sun rises on the rocks and pillows in our dreams.
All they do is hate and hate so blindly.
Their words scrape the sides of concrete condemnation,
but what we plead is love that fills up novels.
They don't know passion unless they're smearing freedoms we can't have in front of our faces.
Our lines aren't fed to us from a book
and I guess that's why when she touches me I know she exists.
Why would anyone hate us?
We love and love and it is so breathtaking and, oh my God,
how can you hate our love if it's become an art form?
Her blue eyes say what mine cannot.