Tag: lust

finders keepers

Climb a mountain, sink to the sea –

all in search of you.

I scratched my feet on rocks this morning –

didn’t see them with the sunlight shadow boxes over my toes.

Knowing where you hide and where to find you

not unlike nursing a rattlesnake – fingering it’s scales, wanting to pop them off one by one.

I have found I’ve lost myself as much as I’ve lost you

in this crushing love – barreled chest caving in from a thicket of silence –

and the lack of you.

Stains of you tarnish my eyes – that rattlesnake back on top of my brain, scoring it –

invisible weals inside my spirit cannot float.

Instead, they are pasted on like poorly mixed plaster.

The spirit should not be still,

while mine sits in quietude

in a garden where sticks lay split with inaffection.

And there you are, having kicked through brambles, rolled through

dried seeds and rotting fruit like that dying apple everyone has bitten into.

to fix things made of flesh

Swinging in the orchard, kissing in the shadows,

I want you to stay, but take yourself away

so I can forget you.

 

Our mouths, full of pink thunder smash together.

Lips, tongue, teeth – all fat full of throbbing promise

like spring, when a hare unfurls its ears,

pricking up like fast growing flowers in a field.

 

This is a love that’s itchy and broken and cold and worn.

No flux, no flow, no fucking –

just a mad monkey clawing at your back after you’ve ripped your guts off opiates

after a six-month relationship with the needle –

your tired body stinging like broken bottles under your heels.

You come apart at the seams and I piece you back together with affection

just as a grandmother would a tattered family quilt.

 

When I fall apart, you patch me up like a rag doll,

never sewing any clean seams –

just loose threads from where you’re never finished with me.

 

I’ve seen little girls with dolls they don’t want anymore.

I’m that floppy doll with the lopsided lips

from too much rough play.

When it’s time to fall apart again,

the only pill I’ll swallow is time

(some dying rattle in my belly)

the month of love, lust and craziness

Welcome to February – the month of love [insert pretty love heart here]. What’s not to love about love? My favourite dirty old man, Bukowski wrote grandly about love –

‘Love is all right for those who can handle the psychic overload. It’s like trying to carry a full garbage can on your back over a rushing river of piss.’

Hmmmmmm. True that, but we do it all the same … Here’s a prettier love quote from the evergreen Walt Whitman –

‘In the confusion we stay with each other, happy to be together, speaking without uttering a single word.’

The month of love and out-and-out lust means I’ll be hanging tags with little slices of love pencilled on them around Blackstar and writing love/lust haiku, haibun and other poetry That’s right – all pieces about love, lust, love you wish you’ve never had, the love you can’t have – the agony that is la douleur exquise; people you have to love from a distance, first love, stoned love, broken love and lust that leaves you broken, bleeding and bloodthirty.

Some people may identify themselves in these poems because I write about what I know, what I want and what I know I can’t have.

The jewel in the crown of love songs for me over the last little while is ‘Northern Wind’ by City and Colour. I’m ever so slightly obsessed with Dallas Green and am going to be his second wife.

Here, have a fap listen to Dallas …

‘how I am feeling’ haiku

I wish that you would

just fuck off with your fuck up

of an ego. Fuck.

*

you self-indulgent

wanker, go drown yourself in

your trite fuckery.

*

leaving you behind,

I sweep up Ganesha love –

where I need to be.

*

choking on the oil –

a slick of love; puffs of sound

pull me back from fear.

*

fat green frog – wide load

retreats into a thicket

of late night silence.