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Foliage

adult backbone black and white dark

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Ever notice?

It means nothing to them?

those girls with peaches and cream, café au lait, peau de couleur foncée

their lush hair, plump calves, rosy cheeks

kiss us like they mean it with open mouth, little inquiring tongue

force of two coming together, chests heaving in sync

who knew straight girls could give so much in the heat of a moment?

unhooking bras, peeling underwear, knowing they’ll be kissed where

their boyfriends press with lack of ardor

for we girls are midnight foxes, we stay in places others only visit

fleetingly

complaining of neck pain, jaw pain, inability to know the ins and outs

oh we know the ins and outs, we know the inside curl and the convex

like a well drawn map

they pull their panties down for us so eagerly, we’d be fooled into thinking

they were of our same kind

save the removal of warmth, after all is reached and swept

beneath damp sheets for memory to play. Saying;

Goodbye, Bon Nuit. I must go now, it’s getting late, he will wonder why

I’m not at home with dry underwear

perhaps even opening herself to him, that very evening to atone

for her strung up, hidden outside pleasure

such is the girl who cannot love other girls and yet

finds only release in what they might know and give

surely one of the same mold knows, the key a little better

willing then, to bend and contort, stay for an hour in one position

without complaint

her breasts making dents of thin cotton, her fists curling like words out loud

the nape of her neck, slick and wet with her urge

she doesn’t reciprocate, her kind never will

she’s the impossible beauty, a girl who loves girls seeks

unattainable, disinterested, sinking to the floor in shame at

the concept of trading places

she’ll give you the time it takes to make her cry out

leave an imprint of her body against your mattress

the ink and glow of her skin a permanent reminder

she’ll never be one of you, nor wish

to lend you her heart

only her glorious body and all its angular expressions

only those afternoon moments

when he hasn’t pleased her or she

longs for your brand of deep caress, how you know

what to do to make her moan

fingers against fingers, thighs, hips, buttock

she is every shape of lovely from her arching neck

to the indent in her pelvis where she lets you stray

and play such secret music

things never to be admitted or spoken aloud

when you meet in public you are two women

buttoned up and indifferent like bleached wood

betraying nothing of her torn blouse or

the slide of her stockings from willing legs opening

how she pushes against you to enter her

fill with longing the bursting pulse within

you want to tell her you have loved her since

first meeting

when rain brought her to the library and shyly

you asked if she needed a towel and she replied

no I like to get wet, it never rains enough

her eyes grey and huge, like lamps in darkness

you think of teasing her hair from perpetual dampness

on her thin arms and how flung back they resemble

an instrument to be ravished

how you curl around her with your ardor and pressing

deeply fulfill your own needs against her loveliness

not shared, without return, a woman who will

pack herself away and leave by mail

like an unwritten postcard she is blank, unwilling

to be spoken

you stay in silence afterward

her breathing ragged, gasping you want to hear her

say I love you in every way, especially how you

set me alight with your touch and every time you

kiss me with your full lips I moan even more for

the core of your very heart

Lorsque tu résonne jusqu’à mon coeur

tu capture mon esprit pour le faire voyager

these things of torment

to a girl who loves other girls

and falls for a woman who is already

moving away

merely using your hands and your mouth

as if plucking leaves from a deciduous tree

to see if indeed they will

fall and stay

on the ground

 

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poetry, prosetry, Uncategorized

Former regard

adult black and white body female

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I am weary of giving you access to my heart

emptying and filling

milk turning to wine

dark to light

nipples hard to soft

your fingers across

my hungering skin

I audition

in the morning against

tempura and gold gilt

shivering for the slick hot movement

of you within me

time stands quivering

stars a little closer

cheeks reddened with warble

I hear languages I cannot decipher

we ache and release together

splitting atoms

my throat if it could

would act as flute

climbing keys

touch into touch into loss

I am weary of giving you access to my heart

if this is temporary and restless

we disconnect as you

reduce the moment

walking with your sharp shoes

beyond feeling

as we cool down and ardor

is replaced by greed

a starvation for control

I want to say

I am just a bird

you cannot cage me

I must see the light

in order to thrive in darkness

flames come hottest

in the fragmenting

of former regard

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life, poetry, prosetry, Uncategorized

Sunstroke

close up of couple holding hands

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Oh love

Your dispossessed erstwhile vowels

My clamoring for meaning

When we are both, slung over a giants shoulder

Soil carried to replace the old and build future

Timorously and then bold, holding bit between teeth, gritting and grinding down

Sensible molars, well protected in childhood

While voices of reason chime midday bell

We hear only the inside out sound of skin and bones
Our own scraped bare-faced challenge

Hot in the sun captured in bottles without secure tops

Ready to burst, I observe in the minutes lacing themselves forward

The steeped joy of owning this private glance into your fickle heart

Where many times it does not rain but still you never age, nor

Run out of the substance making you strong and bright

Like hammered silver bends only to the implement and wears its
bruises well

You are well. And I am well. Deep down. In the stir of our marrow.

Where we recognize that weather vein casting our fates together

Your pianists fingers crisscrossed against my loss of inhibition

Who am I kidding? I’m never absent from the purchase of passion

Long it has been the fiddle that gets my jig

And the moment is stretched long and elastic against mutual want

We breathe the same, dissimilarity leaving her clothes in the doorway

I cannot say after this long staring into you

Where we leave off being separate

The whisker and fall of our mutual song

Sprints ahead into unpaved road

And I am left with pictures

Of the young girl I was

And the woman I became

Beneath you and running through you

A river without dam

Claiming her hot land

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life, poetry, prosetry, Uncategorized

Indefinite

forgetting-Jef-Safi-FlickrOh fear

You who come unbidden at dark or dawn

And crawl with your hunger to devour

The sunrise of rational thought

How alluring your poison, when defenses are sluggish

The gris-gris of delirium and other exhaustions

Make abundance in quiet mist

I think of safety, it feels like a celebration for another person’s life

Not this chipped bail, not this sweat stained pillow

Where lately dreams have possessed fangs

And nightmares are not always caused by eating cheese

Many years ago, we sat you and I

In the mouth of my midnight kitchen

And like Sendak envisioned

I rose in morning dough, a naked thing of pink

Then, in the hours that believed themselves immortal

And a sinking feeling would be replaced by exuberance

The feeling of lying down in an antique store, in a fur rug

Imagine, imagine, nude swimming in milk, turning hands over tails

All shame evaporated, just the joy of unspoilt youth

A thousand dreams away from clammy hands and furtive secrets

How resplendent I’d be, lying beneath you without guile

Our limbs mirroring the other like a corridor of emotions

Responding in kind

Tender without history

Lay your heavy bag here

Come into my envelop

Where we can meet against the other, in eternal epitaph

Watching the crudeness of the outside world sigh and catch fire

Like plucked flowers must lose their breath

And dying comes as you hold your breath

Seamlessly we turn to each other and create

An oasis in the nectar

There it is

There among the aubergine desert

Taunting with its indefinite

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poetry, Uncategorized

mmmmmmm

I don’t remember her name
she was drunk

I was outside smoking a cigarette
cigarettes are keys to the outside

the outside of a house
the outside of a building
the outside of a conversation
the outside of everything

she found me outside and she said
“mmmmmmmmm”

and I said
“how was your night?”

and she took my hand
She took me to her DORM room

and I was so scared
that my penis wasn’t hard
like it was supposed to be

and she pulled me into bed on top of her
and she said
“mmmmmmmmm”

and I said
“I’ve only had sex twice”

because surely no one would want to have sex
with someone who had only had sex twice

and she said
“mmmmmmmmm”
and she fell asleep

thank god
I thought

before running to my room
to masturbate

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poetry

the safety of virgins

I don’t know if Daria Argento is guilty of sleeping with an underage boy

whether it was against his will, statutory rape

or both

but I know it is sad when a #metoo movement spokesperson lets everyone down

though is it the way of fallen heroes in this country, to redeem themselves

there is a hypocracy to thinking

if a man has sex

it can’t be against his will

I know that’s not true

my first boyfriend told me

a girl who sat on a window ledge

made him in her bed

and he felt fallow and diseased

as she at 22 and he 14, rode together

not long afterward

he turned Goth and slit his wrists

the bitchy girls at school taunted him

with cat-calls of ‘you cut the wrong direction fuck head’

and I dated him out of empathy or sympathy

or some kind of thy

because I couldn’t imagine wanting to die and being derided for my failure to succeed

I could feel the welt of scar tissue on his boy wrists

also I know

there is something safe

about virgin men

I liked the comfort of

being the first and not a bed notch

it occurred to me later

I may not have been searching for virgins

but a different gender altogether

though at the time it was a divided world

of normal and dykes, fags and queers

I did not fit into any category

so I played with boys who were untouched and so damn grateful

that’s where I learned what I like

is to be needed

even if the need

is fleeting and superficial

that was better than being

a girl shoved aside for the next

there is something grateful and tender

about boys who lose their virginity

and become men in your arms

I liked how they didn’t carry disease or pre conceptions

I liked how I knew I wouldn’t be their last

free to lend them the tenderness of one night

before pretending with day

nothing had transpired

we seek to be whole and inviolate

we want love and feel alienated

by the emptiness of our role

when love is unsafe we turn

to a time before where

young boys do not scold

(La Fin de Chéri)

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life, poetry, prosetry

This Doesn’t Count

Do I dare immortalise you?

No, I dare not write your name in ink.

If I turned everyone into a poem
I wouldn’t have time to drink,
And if I don’t drink then I have no excuse
To see you, no courage
To speak to you, no bottle,
No reason, no appeal, no point.

*

I’ve fallen before
For the married man,
The invisible man,
The dangerous man,
The man twice my age,
The man who didn’t want me,
The man that Papa told me not to.

I tick off the clichés as I collect them
And write their names in black
On the back page of my book
Like pressed flowers grown in fields of promiscuity.
(That way, I can clearly see the repeat offenders).

Do I dare immortalise her?
No, I dare not write her name in ink.
The barmaid at the Anti-Social Social Club?
No, surely not.

Another day, another cliché
Committed by a mess of a human
Who’s allergic to inertia,
Susceptible to flattery,
Game for a challenge:
The actions of someone who is fine to die tomorrow.

*

Stop the world, I wanna get off,” she said.
With you,” I said, too quickly.
IT’S A SONG!” I said, caring too much,
Dropping the Queen of Hearts
I had hidden up my sleeve.
She flashed that smile of hers,
The one that scares and thrills me
And walked away, knowing she was winning.

She’s cooler than me, sharper than me, harsher than me.
I can’t possibly have met my match, not here, not now.
Not her, surely?

*

When I see her I fluff my lines,
Avert my eyes, die a bit inside.
She gets me into trouble.
She hates my boyfriend and lets him know;
Oh, I thought you were single! You act single,
She announces, talking about me, loudly, to me, in front of him.
She enjoys watching me squirm.
She digs me out about shit I say when I’m drunk,
And I only ever remember our arguments
When she tells me about them the next day,
But I catch her staring at me between the taps
And she doesn’t ever need to remind me about that,
No matter how many “Basic Bitch” drinks she serves me.

*

Imagine my surprise to see her on The Other Side one night,
On my side of the bar, planted at my side, with her hand on my thigh.
No, I can’t turn her into a poem. Then she’s important. Then she’s real.
Do I dare immortalise her?
No, I dare not. Then she’s Someone.
I can’t turn her into Someone when, to her, I’m probably another No One.
No, I won’t write about her.
I daren’t immortalise her.
(This doesn’t count).

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