At least for one night

I blow hot and cold into the night.
All these shelves are full of cobweb covered photo albums.
I pull them down and rifle through my mind.
Fingernails properly groomed,
I empty my love into you.
For one night at least.

But I awake to find a different person
With veiled, shaded eyes.
Fingers reach out to greet you
And then retreat
out of what? Fear?

You walk so forlornly down narrow country roads,
Dragging your baggage along behind you.
Eyes fixed firmly on the sky
You tell me to stop following you.

I can’t help feeling
That if I could only stop feeling
Then this would all make
So much more sense to me.
But instead I scratch my head
And draw a line in the sand.
A line that will not be crossed.


A Lot Of Dreaming

Something is very wrong.
In my mind thoughts are clear
And lucidly float behind my eyes.
I can feel soft words,
Some of them for you,
Dangling from my fingertips,
Hiding in the drowned spaces
between my glistening teeth.

But up close this mirror
Is muddied and scratched
With fingernail marks and
Something closely resembling
My very own brand
Of unsettling bullshit.
My tongue drips sour,
The saliva frothing and bursting
And steadily becoming
More embittered and lonesome.
Suddenly there are things
That I can no longer impart,
Not nearly so readily at least.

These problems course
Through my arteries and veins,
Through the skin on the
Back of my hands,
Along the bloodlines
That feed my brain,
My arrow-filled mind.

They lead me to believe
That some creatures were designed
To break with natures bonds.
And perhaps we will always blame others
For what we refuse to believe.
Or hate ourselves
For what we know to be true.

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
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.

Self Strength.

Stand still
and straight
and perhaps even smile.

Because while disappointment
may be just around the corner,
and something unpleasant
might just spring on you
like a cat with claws and teeth and fear in its eyes
and you’ll find yourself a mouse,
you don’t want to give them the satisfaction.

Don’t rush ahead
or hesitate and hold out.
It’s a thin line,
I know.
But you can do it.
Someone believes in you.

a broken and a contrite heart.

Every time I leave
a room you’re in,
a little piece of me
gets left behind.

You’re running me through a net
and your net has lots of holes
but it’s still a net.

And I end up wandering
dark streets.
Looking for myself in the reflection of polished glass,
mirrored brown puddles,
oily slicks,
and my own troubled hands.

This is something I don’t say to anyone.
But if you look carefully
you can see it in the black behind my eyes,
in the creased folds when my face breaks
into smile,
on my furrowed brow when I am elsewhere,
in my slightly parted lips and breathless whisperings:

I still love you.

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
you don’t think they are.

that’s why i make sure to say to you
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.

I listened to a river red.

What did she do?
She was honest
She said she was sorry and that she loved me
but not in that way.
That’s all

And I can’t feel bad
it’s true.
And I can’t feel bad
that makes me feel

As I’ve said before
the unimportance of it is killing me.

Things mean too much too me.
I feel too much

It is not a bad thing to feel very passionate?
Oh it is.
It is bad for me.
It makes me hurt
and it blinds me to the most obvious loves.

What did I say in return?

I said
I said
I see.
I said.

I didn’t say
I didn’t mean that smile.

Beaded Desire

My pains are trivial.
I am as the slightest murmur in a whirling, turning cacophony of screams of sound.
Often are the times when I feel insignificant, undeserving, cruel.
More so do I see the fake. The forced.
Why cannot you be genuine?

Tell me.

I so badly need to hear and
tear away
at your pains.

My face shall thump hollow at this door
till there is nought left of my head
or nought of the door.

Blackened and caved in.
I am fully drained