Smudges and Trails

Sometimes

Times

I can’t admit

To even myself

I think of smudges

And you.

I think of deep red trails

My lips could leave

If I had the gumption

To cross over

And take, just take.

I think of smudges

Marking up

Borders and lines and territories

Precious order

That you love so much.

I think of wrecking

Red carnage on your skin.

Precious chaos

That I love so much.

I think

Of contrasts

And blood red lips

And the jut of a hip

The line of a back

And curve of a neck

An imprint of teeth

And red lipstick

Marking a temporary claim

I like such claims the best.

I think I could

Write an epic on you

Of you

With smudges and trails

And red, red lips. 

Dysfunctional

Once, just once

One time only

In this short life

I would like

To be in love

Dysfunctionally.

Once, just once
I would like

To be in love

Selfishly.

Once, just once

I would like

Very much like

To create a space

A world

A universe

Meant for two.

Just for two.

Me

And

You.

Once, just once
I’d like there to be

No space

No air

No nothing

For anyone else

Just a sacred

Hallowed

Part of time

Cut away

That is

Ours.

Just ours.

And no one intrudes.

I would will it

If I could

That I would be

All you see

All you dream

All you breathe

All you need.

Once, just once

Let’s shut the world out

Too loud, its too loud.

Let’s be in love.

Once, just once

Let’s be needy

Selfish

Co dependant

Stupid

Just a for a little time

Just a moment

One moment

Let me love you

Dysfunctionaly.

Hairspray Curls

If love came neatly
Done up in images
I would easily
Show you how I feel
Instead of all these
Fumbles and Tumbles
I put you through.


I would say-
'Ever since my blood
Leaked alphabet
On reams of paper
I have dreamt
Of a splash of black
Curls, On 1000 thread count
Sheets, White as light.
I have dreamt
Of shedding my
Worldly faces
After an evening
Of careful construction
And climbing in
Beside you
And your hairspray
Curls; The last remnants
Of the artifice
Of an artificial world.
I have dreamt
Of holding you tight
And murmuring,
How even hairspray curls
Smeared eye shadow
Smudged kohl
And washed out lip stick-
Building blocks
Of our worldly faces-
Look real and true
On you.'

That would be my
Image of love
For you
And your hairspray curls.

Endless Summer

Don't end just yet
O endless summer
Don't go just yet.

Wasn't it yesterday
That I settled back
In your rhythm?

Fleeting, flying summer
Don't run so fast
I barely caught you.

Thieving, scheming summer
Don't go stealing
My sun drenched dreams.

My country glimmers
In the rear view of
My sweetheart no more.

I will see Autumn bloom
Stranger in a stranger land
Caught looking back

At the decadence 
Of an Indian summer
That many will never know.

The Old Continent will maybe
Soothe, Your scorches
With a cool and cobbled tongue

But I am left
Without a home
And a summer love unsung.

You don't answer me,
O summer. Just shine
And blind and-

Run, Run and Run.

Break

It could, it would – almost, maybe, just about- kick you, fuck you, bend you over- if you let it.
Ink and paper/Paper and Ink have been guzzled down the drains of this cesspool of a thing- let’s call it humanity. And they all say it is love that will do it. They are lying.

Strong is just a word, patience is another. Here take Serenity and shove it alongside the others.

What gets you, shreds you into nothing you can ever imagine being- is despair. Do not mistake despair to be a child of love. Despair is the oldest thing that ever was. Despair is the creeping thing that abounds in night and day and sings a siren song. Despair begins and ends.

When it comes, it will break you, unmake you.

It lies in the ruins of a shattered mug. It smiles from the bloodied knuckles of your hand. It screams in your head as you try and fail to suffocate yourself in your bedclothes. Despair is the  root and the tip. Every time it rises, it rises in the urge to break, break, break, break. It is despair not anger, but it is human to confuse the two. Every broken face, every broken mirror reflects despair.

Break it all, break it now. Break everything. Hear the music shatter and crescendo out in the world. Break it all for the pleasure of seeing it break. For the pleasure of hearing it break. For the pleasure of...simply the pleasure of.

Break, break, break, break and then perhaps you will learn the language of despair.

It is something you were born to learn.

Don’t worry.

Photographs of My Mother

See now.
There are things
Easily understood
And some
That are
Beyond
Comprehension,
Human or otherwise.
Photographs
Of my mother
Fall into the
Former category.
My reaction
To them
Falls into the
Latter.
Is there a word
In any language
That combines
Pride, Bittersweet
Melancholy, Helpless Love
And a longing
Forever unfulfilled?
If there is,
Tell me
For I need
Words
To describe
How I feel
About
Photographs
Of my mother.
They catch
In her eyes
Serenity and Wildness
Together
A siren song
That isn't
My inheritance.
A pull, A magic
That alas!
Isn't mine
To inherit.
There is only
A Kindness
That was
Passed on
To me.
Perchance
It will be
Enough
But youth
Is greedy
For aesthetics
And so
I haven't
Words
To describe
My feelings
And my bleeding, torn
Adoring
Heart
That so loves
Photographs
Of my mother.

Domestic Love

This is the boring kind of love. This is the stable kind of love. This is the kind of love you might have seen your parents share. Or maybe not. This love is quiet. This love is simple. There are no grand gestures in this love. This love is ordinary. This love is suburbia exemplified. This love isn’t written about in books. This love will never be immortalized in poetry. This love is a common kind of love. This love is everywhere. This love is everyone.

This love starts when you stagger out of bed in the morning. You are a rumpled, creased mess of imperfections. Morning breath is stinky, but I’ll peck you anyway (on the cheek, mind you). Or maybe this love is the love that prompts you to buy me sunflowers. I keep them in a vase because they make everything bright and remind me of your smile. This love makes you shake your head with a fond smile when you find ink stains on the sheets – I always forget to cap the pen. This love is the cup of coffee I make for myself while watching the kettle for your tea. This love is the omelet you made, burnt to crisp, just the way I like it. This love is the scent of your aftershave that clings to my skin long after your arms have left. This love is the barely visible lipstick stain at the edge of your cheek. This love is my mocking laughter trailing your work day. This love is your kind eyes that get me through hell. This love is a text reminding you to pick up some milk. This love is a voice message telling me to do the fucking laundry already.  This love is a snicker that escapes me in a tutorial when I remember you weep like a baby over Nemo last night. This love is running into you at the Library. This love is fighting over the printer. This love is eating apple pie while listening to you proclaim your love for the latest pretentious fad in your life. This love is the roll of my eyes and the pursing of your lips.

This love is running late for the afternoon lectures, so very late because I waylaid you into a bookshop and we never wanted to leave. This love is waiting for you in the biting cold. This love is walking home, tripping over cobblestones, cursing the wind and your guffaws that draw curious stares. This love is dropping you off at that café. This love is picking up milk and your favorite cereal because essay season is coming. This love is opening the door to ‘our’ flat. This love is hoovering compulsively after your trail of crumbs. This love is starting the gas to put together dinner. This love is the smoke alarm going off because I was too engrossed in the book of poems you gifted me.  This love is feeding your fish even if they creep me out.  This love is catching up on sitcoms while I wait for you. This love is finishing a hot shower early to save hot water for you. This love is you stumbling through the front door and telling me I could almost pass for cute when my hair dry in damp waves and I wear my pink hippo pajamas. This love is dinner and discussing how to renew the lease agreement. This love is bills, plaster cracking in the kitchen and the mysterious sound the toilet makes. The love is complaining about the fogey old neighbours. This love is watching you do the dishes. This love is drying the dishes and putting them back and pretending not to notice when you smell my hair. This love is doing assigned readings while trying to push you off the sofa. This love is hiding behind you when the couple kisses onscreen and making barfing noises. This love is throwing another log in the fire because you are too cozy to move. This love is switching off all the lights and stroking your hair in the firelight. This love is setting alarms for the morning. This love is shaking you awake to put you to bed. This love is putting the covers on you and whispering good night. This love is watching your eyes go soft with unnamed things. This love is not saying I love you. This love is never having said it. This love is knowing your girlfriend is a sweetheart and never being able to do that to her. This love is you thinking my boyfriend is an idiot but making him your bro all the same. This love is duty, honour and all the silly things grown ups do. This love is sleeping in my bed, across the room from yours and knowing we are the 3D depiction of the Penrose Stairs- we could climb forever and never reach higher. This love is not a love after all. This love is a domestic kind of  love.