poetry

55

You counted my bruises — fifty-five —
and I cried because I hate the number five —
three + seven + nine are fine but not 5, no, not 5.

You placed your thumb over one on my thigh
+ your lips on the shiner around my eye —
for me, you made it fifty-three, but I didn’t deserve any.

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poetry, prosetry

Oh, Man

I don’t need you to kill any spiders. I can buy my own flowers.
I prefer to sleep alone. I have books for company.
No, you can’t read my poetry. No, I don’t write about you.

I am hard work and the end result may or may not be worth the effort but that’s down to your inflated expectations, not mine (I have enough of my own to deal with, thanks). / Rather than my favourite yellow roses, that I sit and watch die over a period of less than 72 hours, The One For Me would buy me a cactus: indestructible, quiet, steadfast, pretty ugly, unkillable. / The only thing that takes my breath away is a panic attack. / I cry over spilt milk and have a phobia of tomato seeds: concluding that I have issues with my mother, shoving coke up your nose and trying to get me to lie down on your sofa does not make you Freud.

I can’t afford to cook for two.
I will never be eating for two.
You will never know who I really am or what I really do.
I only bother to shave my legs for you.
I will break one or more of the following: Your…
a) heart b) nose c) bank d) spirit.

I wear my father’s old clothes: it’s too easy to conjure up his ghost, because I am him and he is me: I am dead to me: I refuse to live for you. / The Man of My Dreams is a man who reads: books, not The Racing Post. / I don’t agree when you call me pretty – luckily you say that rarely. / If you’re going to catcall, do it properly: your weak whistle succeeds only in eliciting further pity from me. / I can play Wonderwall on the guitar better than you can, even with my impractically long, elaborately decorated false nails. / Fancy cars will never impress me: walking is free.

I am wasting your time, just as you are wasting mine.
All these years and you still don’t know how I take my tea.
I dread every aspect of sex, though I talk about it frankly and frequently.
I never actually gave you permission to touch me.
Stop pestering me – needy isn’t sexy.
If you cared about me, you’d leave me be.

I’ve smoked JPS Silver for a decade. / John Player Special: John = what I call every man because a lot of the time, that’s his name, and because they always respond, because they’re all the same: / Player – Special = what every man thinks he is: / Jean-Paul Sartre = the man, the thinker, who I actually think about. / Silver, because it’s the only time a man ever comes second.

You think, by meeting me, you’ve won the lottery
but soon, all you’ll have left are rusty pennies (…you’ll see).
I will always have Bukowski.
I am happier by the sea but you won’t take me.
I don’t want your money.
I didn’t ask you to love me.
You are not a necessity:
I can turn you into a memory.

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poetry

Things We Have In Common

Alcohol abuse
Arsenal F.C
Broken hearts
Broken knuckles
Dead parents
Disproportionate reactions
Drug abuse
“Eating is cheating”
Extensive (to the point of being alarming) knowledge of serial killers and their crimes
Emotional/psychological instability
Feeling stuck: in relationships, in this town, in our pasts
Fiercely loyal
Giving The Best Hugs™
Guilt
Main source of others’ entertainment
Professional troublemakers
“Rehab is for quitters”
Skilled in the art of self destruction
“Sleep is for the weak”
So much guilt
Uncontrollable rage
Both love me
Both hate me

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life, poetry, prosetry, Uncategorized

Wordless & Spoken

1516979922624549-Helmut-newton-8

I looked for you

as my eyes squinted into fog

I saw your luminescence

a beacon lighting way forward

unwittingly becoming life raft

I tried not to cling to the wreckage

but swim deeply through water unafraid

did it matter what direction or where

I would end up?

without you there is a drowned map of the world

made of hide and slick with oil

if you look carefully you can see the outline

of where you drew your location

like a red circle with closed eyes I can

feel the pulse

drawing us ever closer and ever apart

a wave upon wave in an ocean of sadness

there was a time when I believed

we were separated only by

our will

and if we so desired

nothing could really keep us separate

a chain of silver running through water

linking us irrevocably

it helped to feel less alone with you at the end of myself

as if we were bound and raffiaed like Viennese masks

waiting for wearing to bring them alive

you possessed the key to my firmament

you lit beneath my intransigence a fire

through your eyes I was alive

my skin burning for your touch

driving fast down empty roads

your fingers playing splendor beneath my skirts

the bruise of hours

ellipsing sense

you my patchouli girl

rendering me senseless with your unexpected strength

painting our together with shades of unfolding passion

as if we were Bedouin and all we have is the tent of us and our journey

deeper into the delta of the other

where secret streams convey a woman’s urge

wordless and spoken

lying beneath the way to heaven

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