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Apr. 12th, 2004

07:43 pm - Language of Love

for bruised_easily

it's noon again,
the sun is a patient reminder as you let the screen door slam
and the grey-and-white
meiko-cat leaps gracefully past you, curling into a ball on the
thread-bare, patchwork sofa.

she is in the back room
sunshine steaming onto her face, like realisation through the dawn

she is composed as a badly written poem:
all innocence and imperfections

there are papers all around her

she turns,
you steal a sip of her cold tea;
sit on her lap in the crook of her elbows,
knees digging into the base of spine like a warning

kiss her raspberry mouth, feast on her tongue

she is indulgent, her mouth is slow and patient
you hurry -- dive into her kisses as your last survival
she likes to trace your celtic tattoo with her cold fingers.

you want to make her eyes close, but one stubborn blue eye refuses;
she laughs around your tongue, pulls away
rubs your neck with her nose

she is forever distracted --

her words are important to her
she murmers them in sleep,
you often awaken next to her while she dreams in poetry

you ask her often which language she speaks in her dreams
italian, of wine and leaning towers?
spanish, of passion and your fiery smile?
french, of love and that dark red beret you wear when you go out for coffee?

[ she laughs; and never answers but with a smile ]

-- and she takes photos of you constantly

your knees though your favourite jeans,
the ones with all the tears;
the soft dimple of skin on your hipbone
the politics in your eyes
the gentle slope of your mouth as you sit,
absorbed in your letters to all the people you once remembered

for her...

but as you fold yourself to her
listen to her breathe
[ she is the scent that you carry around with you ]

the sunshine disturbs you
makes you ache and flee from her bony lap like a breeze
kiss her jawline absently in parting gesture

she is hiding again in her papers,
not quite sure if you were ever there

until she hears the screen door slam shut,
scattering her papers like a storm

and she misses you.

Current Mood: accomplishedaccomplished

Nov. 8th, 2003

09:12 pm

There's a moment I can see: it sits on my shelf and winks at me when no one is looking... it's blue, the kind of blue that the horizon is when the sky meets the sea and it's so bright that it hurts your eyes as you squint hard trying to make out the possibilities of all that you hold for me.

And that moment, that brilliant moment, is monochromal and a rainbow all at the same time, it has a voice that makes music that is like a shiver, heavy and longing, down my spine of regret. It has words that make no sense and sentences that never end and looks a little bit like my sleepiness in the mirror as I scrub away the night and put on the day...

For Amalin.

Sep. 10th, 2003

07:15 am - 18 - [niche has gone away]

This is for niche, with much love: because she helped me write it without knowing.

niche can not find herself?

how sad:
like a leaf caught on an errant breeze

has stumbled
and i can not find her

she has flown away
through the storm clouds on her backdoor step,
that i can just see from my empty windowsill
where i lean out of to see the street

but niche is pivoting still
falling over her words because niche,
she is not herself,
today, or tomorrow,
or the day before

she is lost in her reflection:
she moves from room to room,
calling out for herself

'oh self? where are you hiding?'

her words fall on nothing but deaf ears

niche hears nothing
except the voices that make her sink,
dive deeper into herself,
niche and her flavoured-honey words

she falls into the bathtub,
curls her toes into the words that she
enscribes with such passion,
such conviction:
torn to shreds with sudden frustration

she sinks below the surface
of all the sentances that have gone before her
and all the dreams left to follow

niche has toes that curl
and deep pockets and hear
that breathes its own way

niche likes to curl her fingers into the wind
and kiss niche
while niche sleeps

she flicks a kiss before she flows away

catch it, catch it
reach up for it

today she follows her own path
and leaves you with yesterdays
to wander along,
but never really so

niche has dreamed herself from existence
a slump, really
only more dirty

she keeps scrubbing her hands in the washbasin
scrubbing, scratching, scraping, rasping:
the water's turning black from all the dirt
and yet she still doesn't feel clean

niche is hiding
a little broken
and niche dare not show her face

she's hiding in my toy closet,
peeping throught he slats of her tall,
tall folding doors

the doors creak with expectation
of her showing herself once more

niche can not find herself
niche can not find the words
to dream

she writes with her tongue
letting the melody slide off ehr tongue
smoothing its own rhythm into the world

she dreams her protege into being,
sculpting and weaving,
smoothing out all of her perfections
creasing her dress when she falls into bed:

niche likes to swirl her skirt in the street
her dress in creases from her kness, up:
the people stand back and watch niche
watch her freedom with me

she dances for strangers in the street
while i hang out my window above her,
itching to be down there,
clapping hands with all the laughing people watching her

coins glint in the sunlight
leaves falling from their branches
with their own type of applause
in heavy shivers

even though niche is gone
she knows there is beauty in crowds
like their is beauty in the rain
and ribbons and purple night clouds

and all she wants to do
is drink beer with her half-related self

she sits,
her legs wrapped in a bar stool,
and i find myself caught up with her stories
as we fly together
through our imaginations

but niche has has flown away now:
i can not find her

she's in rome
amongst the many temples
and my dreams

i will return her to you
when i'm done.

Sep. 3rd, 2003

09:49 pm - 17 [corner of claire and jennings]

Corner of Claire & Jennings

The blind boy on the corner of Claire and Jennings
says my eyes feel very old;
I laugh. He's always made my soul smile.

The clatter of the passing street
lingers heavily;
with all of it's worn potency.

It presses itself against my ribs
a heated; brimming force
lips against lips; panting tongue.

The neon lights flicker uncertainly
a growl from parked cars; teeth bared
hungry for their meaty want and fatty pleasure.

Them, with their rusty door handles;
their lost, adored, hourglass ways.
I laugh again. They do not frighten me.

Aug. 30th, 2003

05:28 pm - 16 [of light houses and ghost ships]

it's all the uncertain things you
dream of
-- you talk to me of
i listen to you about

but if this is love, why do i feel so

empty? like a pathetic, inferior
dreamer with no shore

i often called you my lighthouse
your patient gaze drawing me
through my many, stormy nights

but one day, the light flickered for
no good reason, died with my tongue
in your bloody mouth

i am a ship -- a ghost ship --
stolen for many nonsensical things
and how you look in my arms --
my heart beating in your chest

but my heart stopped, and my many
calico children and cloud castles
faded with your last breath

Aug. 25th, 2003

10:27 pm - 15 [pavillion]

down at the pavillion
on the sunny waterfront
they laugh
threaten to push each other
into cool harbour waters

eat lunch,
lay on wood-and-metal seats
with closed eyes
drinking in the sun
and company
before they age too [ quickly ]

before they have a chance to move away
get new jobs
make new friends
buy cars, houses
new lamp-shades for their dining room

all with the honest abandonment
of youth
and forgotten recklessness
that comes with
almost growing up
and sunny afternoons

10:25 pm - 14 [longing & gone - for iris]

. longing .

like a vague innocence from
teaching song and light and air
that dances with
a forgotten Sunday afternoon

that dreams intself

[ somewhere else ]

from where we are
to where we long to be

. gone .

if forgotten
i will remember

if sung
i will breathe to it

if lost
i will call
like a haunted memory
on the devoid sea
of yesterday's

if you look for me

[ i will be gone ]

as if never there at all

For irisiolani.

10:18 pm - 13 [dreaming & heights]

. dreaming .

with state and heart
and infinite tongue

with a crossing guard
for all the lonely lovers
stepping, drifting

basking in the loss of day
in lovely moonlight fading --
-- fading like a violet blossoming

[ dreaming ]

a lonely sentance walks
without a tongue

an absent minded lover
back once more

. heights .

dazzling heights
of molten honesty
and rippling words
down rivers breaking lines

absent lines
of focused lost

like light
like lineless light
and eye and hair and mouth
bruised, blackened

[ b r o k e n ]

where one there was me
now there's nothing

but just a light

[ extinguished ]

10:10 pm - 12 [isobel]

bruised_easily talked me into posting this. Originally posted for her eyes only, I'm sharing it with the rest of you here.

Isobel -- OriginalCollapse )

09:55 pm - 11 [blank page]

blank page
white line
with all intents and purposes for travelling
on an beyond
a narrow doubt.

i stare, a silent murmur
of false confidence
and night wraps its humid hand
tugging and drawing
all the warriors to come into the fire
so thick with justice:
ever pressing tongue

these words mean Nothing
can't you imagine? see? forget?

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