"uncrosses" poems
Tania slurps her cheap beer and uncrosses her legs,
exposing fresh bruises from the soup factory.
She outlines them in marker and draws
a smiley face on one located on her right thigh.
*These bruises tell me that my life is composed
almost entirely of bad decisions*, she says,
replacing the cap on the marker. I ask how
a decision could form such a perfect,
purple circle. Between swallowing
beer and peering into the rain,
she burps. *I can't say, but--
I mean, do you want
to have *** Later on
I drive her to the
hospital and I visit
a therapist. For
a few months.
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 3:47 AM UTC
Her eyes glance across the room
That look of loving no other has
The hair tossed as she turns to face me
She crosses and uncrosses her legs in anticipation
I go to stand up and she is upon me
Her tongue wet and on my face
Ok Ok I'll get your lead and take you walkies
Feb 9, 2013
Feb 9, 2013 at 2:54 PM UTC
I could slit the thin knife
along the inside of my arm
get the right artery
and SPLATTER
blood like some
Biblical flood,
Yiska says.
I sit beside her
in the locked
ward's lounge.
It's warm, cosy
and she's toying
with an idea
but no knife thin
or otherwise.
Just her thin
red painted
fingernail
moving down
the inside
of her arm.
I watch intently.
Will she scratch
herself a slit?
I muse.
Her pink nightgown
sans belt
opens up as she
uncrosses her legs.
Glimpse thigh
pass my eye.
Slowly slit it,
she says,
open up like
a red flower.
The red fingernail
makes an indentation,
but no slit.
Her other arm,
bandaged,
has a recent attempt
of slitting-
some guy
from the male ward's
razor blade borrowed-
should have seen it spurt,
she says,
as I gaze
at the bandaged arm,
shot across the room
like a line of red,
**** you, the guy said.
Yiska fingernails
a line deep as she can,
pressing down hard.
Slit you ******* nail, slit,
she says.
Through a gap
in her nightgown's fold,
and legs moving
here and there,
I spy a sight of ***** hair.
I look away;
see the emptiness
of her deep eyes,
where a soul
or mind is wounded
and silently cries.
May 14, 2015
May 14, 2015 at 2:46 AM UTC
She crosses her legs,
one leg over the other,
dividing the dressing gown,
her foot dangling,
the pink slipper,
half hanging there.
The ward light
has no shade,
the light is naked
and bare and bright.
She gazes
at her reflection
in the window pane;
outside the darkness
of late evening.
I sit beside her;
we are both
in the frame
of the window pane.
I heard of your
latest drama,
she says,
had the nurses
rushing around
like headless hens.
You know
how it gets you.
There's always
a different door,
the quack told me.
What's he know,
except what he's ******
from books?
These
are my dumb medals.
She shows me
her scars;
they are like bracelets
around her wrists
and along her arm.
Where'd you get
the cord?
she asks.
Framer had one
on his dressing gown;
they never
checked him.
Heads will roll.
Almost did it,
I say,
looking at the guy
looking at me.
So I thought
when I sliced
into my flesh
last time;
matter of time
I told the quack;
he wasn’t impressed.
I take her hand
and run a finger
along the scars.
Smooth, soft,
pinkie-white,
whiter than the rest.
She uncrosses her legs,
then crosses them again,
different leg over,
foot dangling,
slipper stained by blood
hanging half off.
Who are they?
Yiska asks
pointing to
the two reflected images
gazing back at us,
male and female.
Poor sods,
like Dante's souls
in the Second Circle,
I say.
She turns her head;
the female image
before us
turns away.
Jan 9, 2015
Jan 9, 2015 at 2:17 PM UTC
Lena sits and waits. The artist has
Wandered off, gone to the john or
To a bar or to have a quickie with
The local **** she doesn’t know.
She’s been here before, the same
Being left behind, the silent studio
Situation, smell of paint, oils and
Other artist’s tools and useful stuff.
She has modelled for others and
They’ve always been the same, being
Lost in another world, stinking of
Turpentine, paint, *** and all the rest.
She crosses her legs. Sniffs the air.
Wearing the green dress he wanted
Her to wear, her well brushed hair.
She recalls the artist’s antics the night
Before, the want of *** the fumbling
In the dark, the creaky bed, the banging
Away, all those images left in her head.
She uncrosses her legs. Other paintings
Lay around, some leaning against walls,
Some framed, some not, some sold,
Some recent, all modern, some old.
She wonders if she will be like these,
Left aside, used, done with, her oils dried,
Sitting waiting, her youth has died,
And she waits with the ticking of the
Clock, the moving hand, the hour glass
And the slow running out of life and sand.
May 2, 2012
May 2, 2012 at 3:09 AM UTC
the demon ***** a child in the dream of yours where it first appeared
the mother gets less and less attention for being born
the baby uncrosses its eyes
at a lone ****** I lose hours to the handstand
the occupiers
of my city
worship
proof a mosquito in the gravedigger’s ear
Aug 3, 2016
Aug 3, 2016 at 3:06 PM UTC
Sonya says
the Dostoevsky book
I’m reading
is a depressing read.
Read something
more joyful,
she says,
something less dark.
She's laying on the bed
in the Parisian hotel;
her blonde hair spread
on the pillow;
her hands holding
a book;
her legs crossed
at the ankles.
I look at her book cover:
Either/ Or.
What's that book?
Philosophy book;
by Kierkegaard.
Is that any more cheerful?
Depends on what
you mean
by cheerful;
it's not
a bundle of laughs.
She closes the book
and place sit
on the small table
by the bed.
Come lay here;
forget the book.
I put my book
on the dressing-table
by the window
and lay on the bed.
She uncrosses her legs
and turns to face me.
You need to lighten up;
life is too short
to spend time brooding
on the dark elements.
I look into
her icy blue eyes;
there's a new world there.
Kiss me;
hold me.
I kiss her
and hold her close;
I sense her breathing
on my cheek;
her ******* nudging
my chest;
her hands running
along my spine.
How are you feeling?
Fine,
I say,
feeling along
her thighs,
moving her skirt
as I go.
What do you feel?
Excitement and warm.
This is life;
this is living;
taking hold of the now
and holding on to it.
I sense my pecker stir;
my eyes widen;
I see her lips
readying
to kiss again.
She kisses;
no more words;
no more lectures
on life or living;
just a time
of taking
and giving.
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 1:39 PM UTC
Netanya
sits crossed legged
in the bar
(Irish bar
off Whitehall)
her red dress
above knees
the black shoes
pointy toes
and flat heels
I sit there
beside her
loud speakers
easing out
the music
of Ireland
what a night
she utters
never had
such a night
I sip beer
she sips wine
did you count?
I ask her
studying
her features
the slightly
broken nose
now mended
the green eyes
holding me
5 or 6
times it was
she tells me
feels like it
I tell her
she takes out
cigarettes
and offers
one to me
then herself
and lights up
and inhales
I’m 40
she tells me
but I feel
years younger
she looks it
her dark hair
set down loose
and you are?
she asks me
28
I reply
she smiles now
not thinking
about her
bald husband
miles away
we had ***
in the small
hotel bed
many times
seemingly
almost one
big session
then she moves
uncrosses
her fine legs
glimpse briefly
Eve's Eden
paradise
sight of thigh
paradise
ease a sigh.
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 2:50 PM UTC