"practising" poems
593
I think I was enchanted
When first a sombre Girl—
I read that Foreign Lady—
The Dark—felt beautiful—
And whether it was noon at night—
Or only Heaven—at Noon—
For very Lunacy of Light
I had not power to tell—
The Bees—became as Butterflies—
The Butterflies—as Swans—
Approached—and spurned the narrow Grass—
And just the meanest Tunes
That Nature murmured to herself
To keep herself in Cheer—
I took for Giants—practising
Titanic Opera—
The Days—to Mighty Metres stept—
The Homeliest—adorned
As if unto a Jubilee
’Twere suddenly confirmed—
I could not have defined the change—
Conversion of the Mind
Like Sanctifying in the Soul—
Is witnessed—not explained—
’Twas a Divine Insanity—
The Danger to be Sane
Should I again experience—
’Tis Antidote to turn—
To Tomes of solid Witchcraft—
Magicians be asleep—
But Magic—hath an Element
Like Deity—to keep—
40.2k
From a distance,
the incessant chant of monsoon from south west,
sounds like an old witch practising her craft,
she is all evil and dark, one would think,
the overcast sky her sinister cloak.
But intruder under my umbrella, she is playful,
I watch this coy maiden, I desired from afar,
now she walks with me step to matching step,
tries to entice me with her soft tunes,
tender cool fingers, rubbing my cheeks,
her lover's touch unmistakable, passionate, eager
I shiver, she wants me to get in to her arms, cuddle.
I throw away my umbrella,
in boyish rumbunctiousness, run to her
her hands moving fast tickle me, pinch
then a sudden embrace, making me squirm
with deep pleasure I dreamt in wakeful nights.
The joy of life that the water and receptive earth evoke,
loud green glee around, in me creates goosebumps,
in my dreams she comes to me
and tells the secrets of
nights I long for my love and me alone.
Rain, the seductress, taught me
the passions of living and loving
she, awakened the spirit that seeps deep in to the
core of my being.
**When I lay awake in monsoon nights,
across my window she tangoes
in fierce passion with the wind,
that keeps me excited till I get absorbed
in to a dream that has love as its theme.**
Jun 9, 2013
Jun 9, 2013 at 12:45 PM UTC
.
And her arms enfold me,
I lay my cheek
against her breast.
The shaking starts,
the tears fall,
as sobs emerge unhindered.
Cries from way down deep,
and I hear her heart,
slow, steady, metronomic.
So I follow its rhythm
along a path richly bathed
in warm sunlight.
Through an archway
and across a threshold shrine,
the cemetery of the Ancients.
A hundred thousand names,
carved in marble,
adorned with statues and plinths.
Holding knowledge of old,
and the sound of silence,
like an abandoned library.
The shadow of love hovers close,
driving through midnight mists
and leading me on.
Practising narrative necromancy,
reanimating old words,
giving them life newly born,
upon the first carved marbles,
its names burnished with wisdom,
and the anonymity of obscurity.
There glows one name
in forgotten script
and I know my deepest identity,
the weight of the aeons
flows free into my mind,
histories of the millennia.
I know
my Forest Lady holds secrets
that belong to me.
And she gestates them all,
a coveted pregnancy.
A path-working, an etherical dream,
and her heart skips a beat,
as another part of me
crumbles and dies,
to mingle with the dust
of ancient knowledge.
© Pagan Paul (11/07/18)
Jul 12, 2018
Jul 12, 2018 at 2:51 PM UTC
Life in Duality and Non-Duality
Birth is the first gate.
Death is the second gate.
Between these two gates lies the path of life
travelled by all sentient beings.
All are born.
All will die.
Between death and rebirth lies the unameable state
where the next life is chosen, determined by the individual Isnesses
stockpile of accumulated Karmas,
Good and Bad.
All human beings,due to their accumulated Karmas,
both Good and Bad,
must pass through this unameable state
and be reborn into their next life.
All beings accumulated Karmas,Good and Bad,
are assessed in that state and that assessment determines the next life they are reborn into.
There are NO exceptions to this process ever.
Karmas,Good and Bad,are accumulated in each life.
Karmas ,Good and Bad,are the result of the morality
of each individuals actions.
Karma is of three types.
Good Karma which ties each individual
to the Wheel of Incarnated life,death and rebirth.
Bad Karma which ties each individual
to the Wheel of Incarnated life,death and rebirth.
Neutral Karma is the only way that each individual
to can free themselves from
the Wheel of Incarnated life,death and rebirth.
Both Good and Bad Karmas tie each and every human being
to the endless cycle of birth,life,death and rebirth as a human being.
Only Neutral Karma can free each individual from
the endless cycle of birth,life ,death and rebirth as a human being.
Neutral Karma is only realisable through the practise
of the Six Fundamental Yogas.
Neutral Karma is the only way to erase both Good and Bad Karmas.
The practise of the Six Fundamental Yogas increases the BrainBloodVolume to the level of that of Foetus in the Womb,which causes the Mind and Conditioned Identity
to dissolve,temporarily or permanently.
Those individuals,female and male equally,
whose practises of the Six Fundamental Yogas cause
the Mind and Conditioned Identity to dissolve temporarily or permanently will enter into union with the Isness of the Universe
as an equal,temporarily or permanently.
Those individual human beings who pass their lives accumulating Good and Bad Karmas are unable to escape from the endless cycle of birth,life,death and rebirth.
For the overwhelming majority of human beings who refuse to generate Neutral Karma,by practising the Six Fundamental Yogas,life can only be lived, in the state of
Mind created Duality and Non-Duality.
They are unable to enter into the state of union with the Isness of the Universe as an equal.
The permanent feature of such a life lived in either Duality or Non-Duality is the ceaseless deep suffering of being separated from the Isness of the Universe as an equal.
For those very few human beings who,through the practise of the Six Fundamental Yogas,have dissolved Mind and Conditioned Identity,permanently,life is lived in union with
the Isness of the Universe as an equal.
Life is lived in the state of Experiential Knowingness
which is called Separate and Merged.
They live out their last lives in this realm in union with Isness of the Universe as an equal.
www.thefournobletruthsrevised.co.uk
.
Sep 14, 2014
Sep 14, 2014 at 1:11 AM UTC
you can hear the echo via Zizek the Slovak,
well, attire me in slavic myths and
i'll be mumbling purrs in mud too
for a helium bubble to become a comedian,
i know a jittery ******* addiction
when i see one...
if one thing the catholic schooling system
taught me was how to avoid
sniffing glue and how to recognise
a Freudian apostle - still, with all
the hippy **** you'd think
sniffing glue was what Ukrainian existentialism
prescribed with paracetamol,
catholic education just said: no no.
**** me it's the late 90s and we're talking
post-Chernobyl antics...
but that's how i see the left, leftist politics,
the right
utilises prefixes and suffixes in the
old stance of simple pre- pro-
anti-
qua-
-so so...
the left? oh they're right in there...
their prefixes are
Marxist-
liberal-
Hegelian-
whatnot...
they don't
use abstract prefixes,
their prefixes
are concrete,
they want the porridge in their mouth
to ensure a slur that never comes,
among a range of onomatopoeias they argue
from the perspective of the hushed and ushered crowd,
via one observation: Stalin clapped after a speech
to enjoin with the crowd, a real big brother,
****** never clapped, a sitting-duck method;
i'm not advocating, but by a proxy placebo dynamo
experimenting, it's called experimenting with
thought rather than practising with will,
former no chance of footstep evaluation for
cult status imitable -
the left intellectual
has no rubric of thought concerning to and fro -
it has to be concrete layered and a shut off
perfect architecture without fault -
it can't be what it is -
con-
has to be conservative
pro-
has to be socialist
you once said legitimate
transparency - but you didn't say legislation -
well, the left understood it as legislation,
the right too wanted legitimate transparency -
the green party said we could have neither
but could have the replanting of a thousand
oak trees with a Robin Hood placard on the first
oak tree replanted in Sherwood Forest...
b. ~ d. ~... shot ~100 bent arrows into a bullseye -
hurrah! hurrah! maid marian lost her virginity
too! to a broomstick rather than maradona's
fingernail toothpick!
at an essex market the cockney shouts (out of
place): *** yer courgettes! *** yer courgettes!
ta fa a pudding! ta fa a pudding!
*** yer cucumbers! tooth firth 'un!
Apr 20, 2016
Apr 20, 2016 at 9:50 PM UTC
I am so sick of love.
Loyalty, honesty, dedication, compassion, compromise, for better or for worse (when it's always worse)!
I am so sick of love, and all the drama that accompanies it.
Most of all what makes me absolutely ill, in a brain and heart exploding in anger and disappointment respectively, kind of way,
are the Lies!
"You're all I want", "I need you", "I need a friend", "I still love you", "I will always love you", "Is there any chance?", "Can we get back together?",
all the attention seeking, melodramatic, time-consuming crap!
Followed by guilt. That nauseous feeling of, what if? What If? WHAT IF?
Was it the right thing? Will I find another? What about the broken heart?
The sleepless nights of pondering how to end things, the poems written and unpublished, the practising in front of the mirror, cigarettes to channel the guilt elsewhere...
For crying out loud!
After years of guiding me, I should have given way more credit to my instincts.
And now for the new chapter. Embracing an old art, new to me. Currently so underrated and misjudged by priests, mothers and newly-weds.
The philosophy of zero expectations to infinite pleasure and everything in between.
No regrets, no time wasted (and hell was my time wasted on you!#$#$#$).
Time to give up my soul to the darkness, (God, I hope you'll understand I still love and believe you, but I prayed and prayed. I can't wait any more!) and my body to the sailor boy!
Absolutely No Strings Attached.
No bull **** no promises, just *** (and cuddles), a lot of *** (and waking up next to him?)
Anyway, NO STRINGS ATTACHED! [Except for the invisible, really strong one. He is irresistible after all and I'm a dreamer who never, ever learns, and follows her instincts way too much!]
One thing's for sure.
I am so profoundly sick of love!
Oct 13, 2012
Oct 13, 2012 at 6:04 PM UTC
Was it worth 2 minutes of lustless ignominy
A misogynist practising polygamy
Years were hacked
Walls that were built with purpose
Everything said was fallacious and deluding
Pure gratification
Eating to feel full and drinking to get drunk
Heaven forbid I say you're just like the rest. The rest are just like you.
Mar 17, 2013
Mar 17, 2013 at 12:29 PM UTC
From everyone you talk to
you say you want the truth
yet when I demand it from you
you vehemently refuse.
Does the rule only apply
to others but not to you?
If so, why bother imposing
if you don’t follow it too?
How can there be order
if this is what you do?
If anything, it’s insane!
That, can’t you deduce?
If you really value truth
then you must be, yourself,
practising such honesty
in every story you tell.
Apr 26, 2015
Apr 26, 2015 at 11:34 PM UTC
Clearing ivy,
pulling up handfuls of
choking bindweed,
uncovering delicate
wildflowers in
neglected garden corners,
and there’s this
tiny bird
lying in the dirt.
Feathers sparkle
pretty and golden,
as fairytale light
falls through
parted vines.
Surely dead,
but then
- like Snow White
surfacing from
magic apple-induced
dormancy -
the bird moves,
woken by the kiss
of sunlight and
being witnessed,
and seems to breathe.
A gloved finger’s
exploratory, leathery ****
a moment to realise,
then disgust,
sharp recoil.
A wing lifts;
gleaming feathers
parting reveal the
crawling mechanics inside,
the writhing, parasitic mess
behind the sick illusion,
the briefly faked miracle
of something
like life.
Away over a fence,
Union bunting
***** erratic and jarring
in a neighbour’s garden.
In a stuffy town hall,
the town band is practising
God Save The Queen, but
still can’t keep time.
Our betters wave to us from
high palace balconies
and golden coaches, and we
cheer them for it.
There’s such hunger, such
pain and desperation out there,
you can feel it, if you
forget to stop yourself.
There’s so much tragedy and injustice,
you have to go numb or go crazy.
There’s no future we can see,
and the past has been rewritten
to reflect the views
of focus groups,
fascists and fantasists.
And there’s a bird
lying in the dirt,
garlanded by fragrant petals,
feathers flashing like jewels,
so dead
it looks like
it’s breathing.
Jun 3, 2022
Jun 3, 2022 at 7:31 AM UTC
The sky split open
I'm ****** in a whirlpool
My body light as a feather
I am used as a tool
In another world or dimension
I not know the place
But it's too familiar
And I recognize that evil face
A demon of this world
A satanic being with filthy evil powers
Sapping my energy, draining
And this forces me to be awake for hours
Lying on my bed, praying hard
To prevail, evil forces from destroying my spirituality
Alas, I get pinned down most days
Like that of a nasty shaman practising ***** sexuality
Hitting on my chakras, stealing my energry
For somehow, I feel this person is attached to me
Please believe me, I am not insane
I feel his presence around me
And then I am left dealing with my pain
I am a spiritual person and used to feel my positive auras
Now that I am draining from my so called sickness
And feel my energy used by another for astral travel
A thief, in shadows, I can't even sketch coz of weakness
I wish to get well, I wish to live fully again
But seems, all my tries are going in vain
Hell, seems to be cracked open to let its beings out
To crawl and survive on the energies of high spirituals
Sometimes I wake up sweating with a shout
May be that's the time, this person performs the rituals
From another place unknown to me
Stealing from my meditation vault, my energies
And I am too blinded to believe and see
Coz I feel I'm in mercurial abyss, with some alienetic synergies...
Nov 2, 2017
Nov 2, 2017 at 8:30 PM UTC
I heard a man putting ladders up outside
Probably to clean the gutters
He suddenly appeared at my window
"Hello" he said
"I'm Father Christmas
I'm just practising"
Sep 5, 2016
Sep 5, 2016 at 6:33 AM UTC
Come, my love, let's sleep.
Not just for few hours,
Not for many hours,
Not even for some weeks,
And not even for merest months.
Let's sleep altogether for years,
Let's sleep for many centuries.
Come, my love, let's hibernate.
Not forgetting immortality,
Not practising immorality,
Not overlooking modesty,
And just sleep together holding tight.
Like we do when cold descends,
Let's go to our sleep mode.
Come, my love, let's snooze.
Not just for few more seconds,
Not just for some more minutes,
Not just for bit more hours,
And kindle the dream in the long night.
Like we did when curse worked,
Let's go to our carefree world.
Dec 18, 2016
Dec 18, 2016 at 8:12 PM UTC
Penguins painted pink,
peacefully practising pragmatic pebble placement.
Perfectly pointy piles, please!
Profoundly pious Pandas ponder pancreatic problems,
predict potential palsy.
Prognosis? Perilously poor.
Pale porpoises proudly plunge purple pools,
placidly pasturing petrified plankton.
Poor protozoans perish.
Portly, paunchy, plumpish, porcine, porky pigs
populate putrid puddles,
Pulverizing pumpkin pies.
Purposely Prickly porcupines pursue palatable plants,
pin-pointing precisely.
Puce petunias preferred.
Pill popping puppet people perpetuate planetary perdition,
pardon profuse pollution.
Pretentious ******
Sep 4, 2019
Sep 4, 2019 at 11:22 PM UTC
my shy, hesitant frame was first taken to obligatory ballet lessons when it was only 5 years old
the pale pink clinging leotards and scuffed leather slippers decorated with neat string bows would always outweigh the strain of my mothers scraping nails against my scalp in order to achieve the perfect ballerina bun seconds before each and every lesson in the vastly daunting and vacant room
where our innocent and wide-eyed little selves were our sole company in the face of the towering glass pane staring straight back at us
the sheen of the never-ending polished pole stretched right across the middle
and we strained to try and make ourselves grow taller than each other
to look like real dancers practising their pliés for hours upon hours
and I made my small body bear the unbearable
the strung out aching the myriad of assorted stretches lit in my weak limbs as I tried to train my fingers to kiss my tippy toes
like a desperate attempt at mimicking the distance between fingertips in The Creation of Adam
always almost within reach
but never meeting
soon enough the pink and the pretty and the pleasing image this form of dance appeared to me to be was no longer enough
and the sparkles and sequins and garish glitter costumes began to fade along with reflecting rainbow coloured stage lights and 4 years worth of overpriced Academy Lessons and Exams
I guess I gave up on touching my toes
Apr 25, 2016
Apr 25, 2016 at 6:16 PM UTC
Have been listening attentively
Have been practising all day long
Have been monitoring closely the movement of the fingers
But still, satisfaction has not yet been achieved
Perhaps, I need to work harder..
Nov 16, 2011
Nov 16, 2011 at 12:24 PM UTC
He was parked up a hundred yards from her house
imagining Louisa
not too picky, judging from the run-down old houses
several were boarded up.
He was becoming quite absorbed with one of those.
A bad place. Soon to be notorious, a good house for a woman to be afraid in......
He had dug through all the Metal tapes in the vw.
Found Pride and Glory. Played Harvester of Pain over.
Till he was ready.
I'll show her hearts and love, god he was mad.
Hope Daisy gets to watch, wow that excited him.
The light came on early.
He waited until dusk, then walked around the back of her house.
Then in.
****
**** she had a cat.
Old as well, would it starve?
Then he saw her in the chair.
Jesus! Older than the cat.
And smiling at him.
He drove away an hour later.
Felt like hell inside. Forgetful old ***** thought he was her home help.
So he made her a coffee, fed the cat.
Sanctimonious cow gave him money.
Her husbands photograph was on the wall faded brown like she was.
Died in the war, drowned practising for D-Day.
So he spared her, for that and for the sake of the cat.
He stole an old bottle of whisky on his way out.
No sobriety test on the road to hell.
Six hours later he kicked a teenage ********** to death.
Dressed like that, you can't have a mother or a mirror.
Left the old ladies money on her corpse,this one's for Her.
Jan 29, 2011
Jan 29, 2011 at 1:13 AM UTC
Helen pushed
the second hand
doll’s pram
over the bombsite
off Meadow Row
Battered Betty her doll
was tossed
from side to side
there there
Helen said
can’t be helped
you walked beside her
practising drawing
your silver coloured gun
from the holster
your old man
had bought you
from the cheap shop
through the Square
you hit back
the hammer
one two three times
just like that
I can’t get her to sleep
Helen said
stopping by the ruins
of a bombed out house
she tucked the doll in
with the woollen blankets
her mother had knitted
Mum said to take Betty
for a walk in the pram
but she still won’t sleep
you put the gun back
in the holster
and pushed back
the black hat
your granddad
had given you
have to keep her quiet
around here
you said
there might be Injuns
and they scalp hair
off babes and kids
and such
Helen looked
around the bombsite
looks deserted to me
she said
pushing the pram away
from the bombed out house
you never can tell
you said
they hide
and when you’re least
expecting it
they come screaming
over the plains
Mum said you’d make
the best husband
for me
Helen said
coming to a halt
opposite the coal wharf
you drew out
your gun again
and fired shots
over your shoulder
that’s nice of her
you said
twirling the gun
over your finger
and then back
into the holster
Mum said
you would make
a good dad
one of the horse drawn
coal wagons moved away
from the coal wharf
and clip-clopped
along the side road
perhaps
you said
we could get our own
house on the prairie
or one of those houses
off St George’s Road
with the big gardens
Helen got
Battered Betty out
of the pram
and rocked her
over her shoulder
patting her back
and said
yes and I could milk
the cows and you
could hunt buffalo
and we could sleep
in one of those
big beds
with buffalo skins
over by the main road
a red number 78 bus
went by
and dark clouds
crowded
the less
than blue sky.
Jul 3, 2013
Jul 3, 2013 at 3:05 PM UTC
Monica watches
as Benedict and Jim
practise judo on the grass
off the path
to the farmhouse.
She cheers Benedict on
standing on the edge
clapping her hands excitedly.
Her other brother Pete
leans against the fence bored,
hands ******
in his jean’s pockets.
How long are you going to be
practising this judo ****
the film starts
in half an hour,
he says.
Benedict throws Jim
to the floor
in a quick movement,
Monica raises her hands
to the air.
Knew you could do it,
knew you could,
she says, patting
Benedict on the back
of his jacket.
Jim dusts off
his jeans
with his hands,
looks at Pete,
then at Monica.
Caught me off guard,
he says,
she put me off
with her yelling
and clapping.
Can we go now?
Pete says,
moving off the fence,
now you’ve done
your judo stuff?
Can I come?
Monica asks
looking at Benedict.
No way,
Jim says,
don’t want no girl
dragging us down.
I am not any girl,
I’m your sister,
she says, staring
at Benedict.
He looks at Jim
then at Monica.
I don’t mind if she comes,
he says.
I do,
Pete says.
Monica pouts
and folds her arms
over her small *******
The farmhouse door opens
and their mother comes out.
I thought you
were going to the cinema?
she says.
We are,
Jim says,
just going.
They won’t take me,
Monica says.
Of course they don’t
want you with them,
her mother says.
Anyway I have some chores
I need help with.
Monica pulls a face
and glares
at her brothers,
but looks at Benedict
pleadingly.
Maybe next time,
he says.
Not with us she don’t,
Pete says.
With me though, maybe,
Benedict says,
giving her a wink.
Come on in Monica,
leave the boys be,
the mother says.
Monica follows her mother
towards the farmhouse,
gesturing her middle digit
at her brothers
while her mother’s back
is turned.
Benedict smiles,
watches as she sways
her small hips,
blows him a kiss
from her open palm.
Jim shakes his head
and follows Pete
to the bikes
by the shed,
while Benedict,
takes a kiss
from his lips
and throws it
at Monica’s
departing back.
Her head turns
and her hands open
to catch the thrown kiss
moving slightly forward
so as not to miss.
Jun 5, 2013
Jun 5, 2013 at 5:07 PM UTC
“We play at paste,
Till qualified for pearl,
Then drop the paste,
And deem ourself a fool.
The shapes, though, were similar,
And our new hands
Learned gem-tactics
Practising sands.”
-Emily Dickinson.
Jul 9, 2020
Jul 9, 2020 at 1:35 AM UTC
the night
your mom walked out the door
in her paisley dress,
she brushed you off her shoulders so easily,
it made you wonder how long she had been practising.
you still think about how
you weren't the only thing that fell off
the peaks of her bony shoulders;
birthday cards, goodnight kisses, home-made banana bread,
these things lay dead on the staircase she walked down too.
so you try to be kinder;
wait for me to finish my sentences;
make me pasta dinners when I come home;
all messy hair and tired eyes,
so exhausted from trying to love myself.
but I want you to know
that you don't have to love me too hard;
don't have to shove love into my crevices,
to make up for the love your mama never gave you.
so be kind to yourself;
try to get out of bed at a decent time,
make yourself some hot cereal for breakfast.
stop waiting for me to come home;
for my voice to echo through the hall and fill up
the empty spaces in your heart;
the ones you always trip over.
put on a new shirt,
go outside,
and sit by the park bench;
you can always go back
to writing poems,
like you used to.
stop waiting for me to come home;
stop waiting around for someone to love,
you can fill yourself up first;
and rip out the weeds that lace your lungs;
I'll be right beside you,
armed with metaphorical shears
and tangible kisses,
but you've got to promise me,
that you'll learn how to love yourself first.
Jun 16, 2015
Jun 16, 2015 at 12:02 AM UTC
I water the cabbages
the dog runs about mad
as I walk back and forth to the blue barrels
filling Gran’s grey watering can.
In college I learnt how to depreciate …
I wouldn’t dare do such a thing.
The caterpillars squatting on the cabbages coil
as the water rains down upon them,
followed by my thumb.
(I keep meaning to write that poem.)
19th of June; 9:45pm —
I have one more job to do
and I will do it practising a few reels.
My fingers do not need my eyes
so make myself a ****** be
in the woods where they can’t see me —
the snakes.
Years and years and years
of cleats traversing the field below
have to left pairs of ungelating snakes
slithering towards the four gates in the field.
Soon I pan to install a 5th
and this worries me,
never having hung one before; plus
what if the snakes bite me. Or worse
I succeed.
For now I fret, leering towards the bull,
I want to see him *** —
#414, she’s still not in calf.
If she repeats again, it’s goodbye for him.
But the ****** just grazing. Swishing at flies,
periodically ****** and poops.
Is my playing distracting him?
I suppose … we’re all entitled
to a night off.
Sep 8, 2010
Sep 8, 2010 at 2:06 AM UTC
Monica watched Benedict
practise Judo
with her brothers
on the grass
by the fence.
She watched
from her bedroom window.
She had parted
the drawn curtains
with her fingers
enough to see
without being seen.
She cheered him on
in an urgent voice.
She would have gone down
and cheered him on
from the sidelines,
but she was still
in her nightwear
and by the time
she had a wash
and dressed
they would be gone.
Watching him
made her excited;
it was a physical thing,
something she could
almost point to,
sense and touch
with her fingers.
She stared down at him,
watched his every move.
Sometimes he would
take on both boys
at a time and defeat
them both, other times
he took them
one at a time
and they would end up
on their backs
on the grass.
Wish he would put me
on the grass, she whispered
to the pane of glass,
touch me
as he does them.
She couldn’t describe
how he made her feel.
Whom could she ask?
Her mother would
scorn her
for even asking
such a question.
She wished she had
a sister to ask,
but all she had
was three brothers.
There was cheering
from outside, Benedict
had fallen. He had
miscalculated a move
and fallen on his back.
There was laughter
as he rose and dusted
himself off.
Oh, she murmured.
She put a hand
to her lips.
His head turned
towards the window;
she backed away.
Had he seen her?
Heard her voice?
She moved back
to the window
and peered out.
They were practising again.
But this time
it was karate,
they were breaking
pieces of wood
with the side
of their hands.
She wished
she could be out there.
Near him,
sensing him close to her.
He came most Saturdays
to be with her brothers.
They worked in the week
at the nurseries
half mile away.
Sometimes she was up early
and caught him
before her brothers were out
and she talked with him.
Once he took her
to see the peacocks,
riding on their bikes
to get there.
She had wanted him
to kiss her, but he hadn’t.
So near to her,
yet she daren’t
reach out
and touch him, that day.
She stood at the window
and stared at him.
He had taken off
his jacket and was
in tee shirt and jeans.
They fought each other now,
their blows barely touching,
the karate touches
merely skimming the skin.
Odd this sensation
flowing through me,
she said, this expanding
desire within.
Jun 27, 2013
Jun 27, 2013 at 1:46 AM UTC
give your cap a tilt,
and try not to grin,
I see it playing, hiding
between your jaw and chin.
give your cap a tilt,
and I'll give mine a flip.
it lands safe on my head
(I've been practising quite a bit).
give your cap a tilt,
pretend to look aside,
when I turn away,
leave the ground,
and fly.
Mar 17, 2011
Mar 17, 2011 at 8:24 AM UTC
your lip jutting out is like a shard of broken glass
and I know you’d just stitch me back up if I tried but
I don’t think you’re very amenable to being kissed;
not now, anyway.
not here, you’d say.
all I've ever wanted was to put my mouth on you, baby,
taste the salt of your skin like natural protection against
your demons and mine
and all the others in between.
you think you've seen them all but believe me,
I'm older, I'm wiser, handsomer too but you don’t see me bragging about it
and I've seen what’s down there. I tried
to protect you for as long as I could but
we have seen the end of night
in the complete dark
together.
I almost miss that dark, the obscurity where you’d admit you didn't always have to be so **** conscious
and we slipped back to raw instinct and raw feeling
and I've still got the feel of your skin under my fingertips
and between my palms
and my hands have been covered with you for years, now.
I don’t dare to breathe on them lest the last of your DNA
slip through my fingers -
but it was probably too good for me, anyway.
your genes and your jeans fit you beautifully and I'm like a ****** hopped up on the memory of when
I raked my nails down your back and
though the lines have faded
I will always reopen those wounds.
I will never leave you more whole than I.
we have broken every rule and we have broken
each other, and I wonder why anyone
would settle for any less than this;
because an empty passengers seat is the loneliest place I've seen in the continental united states
and that’s counting the grand canyon, baby.
I have stood above that yawning tear in the ground and tossed my voice into it, practising idiocy and ventriloquism and other interchangeable words like that
and like a man carved from stone I stood there, watching, listening, waiting with a patience borne of desperation,
but after a few thousand lungfuls of broken glass there was no reply and I
left.
I pulled your favourite move and I
left,
alone.
so what do we have now? a car, the change in our pockets and each other?
it sounds romantic as **** but you've always been the poet here.
I'm just the guy who sits behind this frozen wheel and drives
because it’s easier than warming my hands
and when I tear your heart out the cold
numbs your chest so you can’t even feel it.
have you ever felt anything? have you felt me, baby?
has this whole ******* existence of mine been in vain?
because your lip jutting out is like a shard of broken glass and I've got
the oddest premonition that it can slice me to ribbons
if you would just move your head and look at me.
baby, please. look at me.
let me know I'm alive so I can die for you.
Jan 17, 2013
Jan 17, 2013 at 7:03 PM UTC