(no subject)
BIKESHED NOSTALGIA
I would like
at least a yearful of
his first kisses.
A few months of speculation;
will his lips be full?
will his hands flutter?
will he kiss me back?
There is nothing I am so fond of remembering
as my head on his stomach in the dark, and
the slow, shaky trip I made
to find his mouth with mine. And how nicely
it fitted, just there.
WOMB.TXT
I'd like to leave
my skin on the
floor with my
socks, to slip my
soul into his body.
His muscles catching
between my fingers
and veins winding
around me. Is that
not just the safest
you can imagine
being?
(Since the womb, at least .. )
SIMILE
i am like
heavily-scented wrists &
the sidesweep of your hair.
i am superficial,
calculated,
arbitrary.
I AM WEARY OF THE START OF THINGS
A new love,
or lust if you will,
& thus a new face, a new voice, a new body.
My skin under the pads of his fingertips is supple, soft & reborn.
With no memories he pulls me
swift from the womb,
still warm & throbbing in his cupped hands
like a heart torn from a live beast.
This beast might be his growling in my ear
or his teeth on my neck,
this beast might be the bruises I find
when out at lunch the next day,
or his name
slipped unconsciously into conversation.
BELLY (A POEM)
A belly.
Some surprising convex curve,
when all else has been sharp and linear.
I love the feel of his hands upon my stomach;
cradling our future as a wombful of life,
waiting for a kick?
"We like hipbones against hipbones"
- we say so at dinner parties
when we're holding hands to face the world.
THAT’S JUST MY BROKEN PARTS COMING THROUGH THE SURFACE
Some pretence obsession,
where clinging
to arms & legs seems
all we can do, &
every mouth that opens speaks
his name or mine.
How mutual,
how comfortable when
years have been spent pawing
at the unrequited.
But, already,
I can feel it cracking & breaking.
I am bored.
A SNAPSHOT OF OUR LAST MOMENT..
Your words are right where you left them, lounging in my ear. And please forgive me
for not having taken
them out and sent them back to you (all lovingly bound in brown paper and string). My
heart is not on the
floor, where you expect it, but tied to my spine with wire so you will never break it.
There is still some
scent of you, lingering in the bedclothes, and of course my sweet there is still a
plum-coloured bruise
where your furious look smacked me around the face.
22ND FEBRUARY 2004
I cannot win at Solitaire today.
My words don’t come out straight, but at a slant.
No CD tracks fit with my mood, today,
but everything just sulks and says it can't.
No waking up at eight o’clock today,
just squatting in my bed where you had been.
I cannot keep my mind off you, today,
but (next to yours) there is a thought of Him.
I think that I might melt away today,
and slip through earth like rain does through the air.
And find myself somewhere but here, today,
until I find that I’m also bored there.
The first was for Ollie. Perhaps the only one he will ever inspire me to write, or perhaps not.