Wringing

This small wooden boat,
A dark stained rosewood,
Rides this wave of doom,
Of rising guilt.

We are perched precariously aboard.
Every time I reach out to touch you
It is out of fear. But the bruises I leave
Are dark with infatuation.
It seeps into your skin
Leaving its discoloration
for a week or so.

But once again my feet are predictably growing cold.
Water seeps into the boat and we are sinking.
You are sobbing thick disconsolate tears.
I try my best. I take a hold of the oars and pull.
The wood comes away in my hands.

Finally though, after many years,
You take them in yours,
lean down and close your eyes.
I do the same and the world
is suddenly dark.
Quietly we survive.

Peisinoe clicks her tongue, dangles her feet and complains

I can’t say I haven’t considered it,
Your cold white thighs sliding open
as easily as a book falling to the floor.
A book of poems, of sketches of stretched contorted faces.

But I too often stride waste deep,
Or shoulder deep upon occasion,
Through the mists of impatience and lust.
Too often I fall victim to the
Siren’s song, the cuckoo’s call.

Not tonight quietless one.
Tonight I will not be drawn by any tacit cacophony.
Your woe filled lamentings fall upon ears
Deafened by emotion and
Stoppered up by the belief
That good things come to those who wait,
And those who wonder.

Settle for Love

Settle yourself and be still
even if all around you
the wind howls
cold and quick
and shrill.

Let your heart settle
for what you always knew
was the colour of it anyway,
the ‘less’ that is ‘more’,
and the uneasiness
that steadily rises in your throat,
with its greasy metallic tang,
may subside for a while at least.

Settle down now for a long wait.
Stare at your hands
and count the scars,
the callous calluses
of your existence up till now.
Breath deep and feel your
blood flow.

And if you can,
settle your head on their chest
and listen to their drumheart
beat,
settling to the
unremitting rhythm
the perpetual part
of their somatic self
and the rest.

And at night
when your mind spreads out
to find them in the darkness
do not fear so if you find
that you have to settle
for the stars.

Eyes like little holes in the world

Can’t you see all this love?
-Regina Spektor

Life is made up
of moments.
Specks of your life and mine
and his and hers
flying about like
dandelion seeds.

So take this one,
softly in the palm of your hand
and set it aside
saved up.

Take this one moment
and sit with me
aside the lit wick
of a new candle
and we’ll wait till it passes.

Motorbikes.

I think I know now
why I have always loved
a Portuguese night.

I had thought it may have been
the sweet lemon scent
that accompanies the darkness
after the heat of day.

Or that it was the returning
from some happy meal,
with wines and family
and warm smiles.

Perhaps, I mused, it is
that I remember sunny days
of sand and sea
and ice cream
as a child,
and I carry them with me.

But I think I know now.
It is as my eyes are on the brink
of closing to more pleasant dreams
and from some further distant street
twin engines roar
and then retreat.

Here at home
not enough people own
motorbikes.
Or at least,
they do not ride them
off into the night.

Slightly blinded.

I’m going to spend all day
with a stripey jumper
wrapped around my head.
Like some sort of clown shroud.

Warm and dark.
No pictures,
No views.
Just muffled voices
and comforting stripes.

And I might be shouted at
or called a fool.
I might hurt myself,
maybe brake some rules.

But I am still going to spend a whole day
with a stripey jumper
wrapped around my head.
Because this is your stripey jumper.
Because this is part of you.

limits. comforts.

I can see nothing more than the girl.

She sits.
cross-legged.
reading.
brow furrowed.
long hair hanging down.

she wears long sleeves.
which she pulls over her hands.
to keep them warm.
the allusion of safety.

i can tell she is a girl:
the delicacy of her fingers.
the sallow pink of her nails.
the scent.

and so i see her.
sitting.
reading.
breathing.
whether or not she feels, i do not know.

i have not read her book.

she is all i can see.
beyond her,
who knows?

It was a lonely night.

the other night
I cried myself to sleep.

I felt pretty miserable 
real lonely.

not your normal lonely.
the sort when it hurts
because you’re not around.

unexplainable pain and need and want.
ouch ouch ouch.

it’s the sort of pain where
you can’t do anything without them
and you have no idea if they’re thinking of you
but
you don’t think they are.

that’s why i make sure to say to you
‘remember,
someone is thinking of you’

I say that to reassure
so that you know
I’m thinking of you
and that’ll maybe make the night seem ever so slightly less dark,
this cage ever so slightly larger
and my love ever so slightly stronger.

And I am thinking of you
in one way or another
because I feel that if someone’s thinking of you
if even in the tiniest, littlest part
if even if it’s just next to nothing
it makes you feel better

like I matter a little to someone.
like I matter a little to you.

My apologies

for all the ‘her and me’ poems
but the subject is sort of consuming all my thoughts at the moment.

Maybe soon I’ll
sober up
calm down
and maybe grow up a little too.

And then I can get back to fighting all the injustice in the world
like the true superman I am.

B

(Note: The part about me being a ‘super’man is sarcastic. I’m not THAT egotistical.)

Easily iconic.

This is one of those ‘lie awake all night’ things
isn’t it?

Your face is small in the dark
of a thousand unlit street lamps.
Our coats couldn’t hold out the blusters
but our hands held
out the cold.
Your heart held out.
Your cigarette smoke hung on the air
and on your lips.

This is one of those lingering, quivering smiles
isn’t it?

Why won’t you let me sleep?
I’m waiting for you to explain.
And when you do
all my prayers will be answered.