God! Bring me down a trail of violets
Bright violets for my love who drinks too much.
For there is no fault in evenings spent dancing to old songs -
writhing, primordial dancers, our shadows burnt onto the rocks behind by fire
the air gliding around us like water in a stream.
We are heavy things. Our bones are filled with blood
and when we grasp each other we rip the stems apart
And oily petals seep from underthings.
Red, thick hot oily petals
That weep for us and die for us as we lie
Clasped together like thorns
Too late to continue our travels together
I will come back and bury you, I promise.
The sex of a rose is fluid, and pertains to no one.
It curls, and pulls lucid around thorns and dark mahogany bark,
You may be blessed, and see her red face turned to face the sun -
or she may crawl in the undergrowth, shrugging off the pot you gave her and show her floral palms to the dark.
We all desire her velvet powder petals.
We all wish to do as we did as children, and take a hip
between our fingertips -
And crush the sweet, sticky sap from its vessel.
But leave her be, and let her petals rot where they fall
or next year she will not show her face at all.
Evening's over, feel alone.
Cold seeping in, through my bones.
Sunday morning, 10 o'clock, waking up
Heart racing, head hurting, throwing up.
Feeling empty, Monday morning,
how'd it go?
Posting pictures, looking awful, just for show
Still can't help myself, telling everyone -
I love nights like these, honestly, so much fun
Can't wait for the next one.
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.