after it all, sleepy lips collide for a kiss
coiled limbs like glutted snakes that have not had their fill
one day, our bodies will eat each other
you snap my legs as you would a wishbone
i suck your skin in through my thirsty lips
when you peel me open you will see that i have patterns after all,
embellished on my insides.
that is why you lay beside me, for you must have noticed them
swimming beneath sun-illuminated skin
and you wish to match these weaves and lines with your desires
it is a way you have of telling me that plainness
shall not ever fade
jan 20th. a walk in the snow
Rabbit tracks look like triangles leading back to the burrow
that I did not wish to disturb, though I was tempted to follow them
into the night, into the rabbit hole of nature.
My path was still to be walked, for you to see my tread
and know where in this world you may follow me.
I sense you like the sunshine on my back, though I cradle my heart
like a summer flower from the chill of January snow.
I did not feel the sleet ‘til I saw it illuminated ‘neath a street lamp,
and with droplets descending on my hair like many little kisses
it seemed like Saturday was being kept alive by the singers in the pub.
It was by then half past midnight, the hours turned over to Sunday
but my calm remained for I had learned to pray
so that a Sunday no longer did drearily crumble away.
In this moment of blessed resolve, a man, impatient with his wife,
hurled towards a taxi cab; a small carton tucked in my pocket,
of milk, swirling from my motions made
from returning to you.
because for the most part i enjoy keeping you secret - not concealed like a thing to be ashamed of - but stashed until i gauge the audience you deserve, and my cheeks would redden, yes, but not as i said for shame of exposure, but for the thrill of the audience’s confirmatory reaction that you are indeed a precious thing to be preserved in hiding. warm you are, between the layers of my clothes. some days i feel you close to the skin, to my breast. you’re like a pendant around my neck obscured by the fabric of a blouse or a scarf, and even i may be absent minded enough to notice you there as though for the first time when i peel off those layers later in the evening. and if some undesirable type should come snooping to enquire of thee, i will say,
“he is a robot with an infinite soul, and the morning bird to my night owl.”
M.L. (making love)
Is it possible to be your heart’s saviour with the way you desecrate my body? I am neither Madonna nor Whore. The dichotomy is false besides, but I do believe that elements of each reside in some more than others. Let us not reduce sexuality of the woman to a poison apart from the spirit, but yes, some sexual natures can be twisted whereas others are virtuous in their givings.
The act does not determine the nature of the individual. One does not become more or less pure from having engaged in sex. However, the sexual nature of the individual is characterised by that individual’s perceptions of the self and others, by principles, and by one’s conduct that follows from those principles. Thus, one can become pure by how they make the act - “make” being the important word here, for it refers to the creation of union by extraction of the spirit into physical symbolism. Hence, “making love” is not just a meaningless phrase one uses in vain to give the illusion of meaning. Incidentally, to say “It’s just X” to anything in life is to reduce “X” - in this case, the sexual act - to a bland mechanistic routine, and also implies that one’s will and feelings have no power to make it otherwise, but they can, and they do. With willpower, we can progress or regress. Choosing not to exert one’s will, will neutralise life into a non-judgemental and deindividuated existence comprised of a monotonous collection of sensations, and some among us contend that sex is always just that.
I disagree that it is always so. It does not make sense to celebrate having a colourful sexuality while operating on the view that sex in itself is “just sex”. The individual has the ability to transform an act or behaviour as they see fit, and so, when I am with you, what I am feeling, a most intense and fiery affection, I infuse it in my motions. I make those feelings to you, therefore I say “I want to make love to you”, and I mean it. Just as the Madonna-Whore dichotomy is misguided, so too is the idea that making love is less vicious than “fucking”, but what I feel is not docile and yet my intentions are pure. A good thing can be a wild thing, and I have felt the vibrancy of my spirit let loose all over my imagination. You can make me feel as beautiful as you say I am, even when it pleases you to pain me, and you must lick my wounds later, yes. Even then, when I am pained, I have no cares, for in those moments I am full of thee, and the body can never be as full as the spirit feels, so I edge you further inside as though to conjoin you to myself. For my mind is given over to you, and so follows the flesh.
november 8th, 6am
I reached for the light at 06:00 and thoughts of the dead girl by the foot of the bed returned to mind. At 05:20 the previous morning I had felt her there, and I wonder if her ghost exists inside those hours. If time validates existence somehow, then are we (and our ghosts) more “Time(s) of Day” than People? I believe we are features of Time in two main respects, the first being that on Earth, one’s and others’ routines, and timezones, has already dictated when you may or not share Time, and thus be a Time of Day with another. In the second respect our entire lives constitute a specific timeline within Time itself, in the universe, and thus Time takes precedence over existence for Time is an entity of its own. We can manipulate it only so far as cognitive processes create the illusion of experiencing Time in a different manner to how it truly is.
The stars were still visible at 06:00. I gaped at them through the window, almost disbelieving their existence and their distance from the tiny square of carpet on which I stood. I wondered once more why I had been shaken, albeit gently from sleep at such an early hour for the third morning running. Naturally my thoughts drifted to thee. What do these hours mean for you? I never asked if you are a creature of strict habit, or if you permit your days to cohere like wispy clouds, like mine? Know that if you are calling, I am hearing and altering my mental state to listen, but by the time I am listening attentively, awake and upright in bed, I discern only the static of Silence, because Silence is the white noise between communication, and we are the frequencies that fuse to form a station. Perhaps I had sensed your frequency with better clarity in my dreams. When I woke my heart felt as though it had turned to liquid gold inside. I keep on melting for and because of thee. Eventually there’ll be nothing left of me for you to hold, so you shall have to drink me in, and I will swim within the mould of your soul, if you will but allow it.
I turned my eyes from the stars and my mind was still mulling on this matter of existence, and how life only seems to get sufficiently weirder the older one gets. Weirder in the sense that I believe the soul is ageless, and I am not confident I will be able to bear the dissonance of an eternal soul encased within a failing shell. Already it burdens me. Perhaps this is why I believe I will die young, because my soul is impatient and cannot tolerate physical failings. For it slows the soul’s journey, and I sense that my soul is attempting to arrive at a destination.
O, what sorrow, to estimate the time one is given. I think now that we pursue love as a means of extending our perceptions of our futures. Alone, life can be lovely, yes, and aching, and you might decide to depart alone and early, leaving a “Thank You” note to the corners of the Earth that had been kind. Yet with Love we perceive how the years of one’s life extend, and you no longer want to die alone, but live together - and depart together eventually, if the soul attunes its energy to the energy of one’s love, fusing the fabrics together, becoming pure energy, yes.
In the mornings is when existence is most confronting, and I can never tell if it terrifies me, or if I am at the mercy of the beauty of just being.
i think i left my mind in the sixth hour of the morning for all the hours that followed stretched out sluggishly; nothing would revive me, not even the sight of the moon still in the sky at nine a.m., and the frost stripped the trees bare, the leaves lay half frozen on whitened grass; i thought of the earth’s rotation - my distance from the sun causes me to sniffle from the cold whereas your proximity to the sun makes you sniffle from the ignition of pollen, and it was a melancholy moment in knowing that i will freeze while you burn. numbers and papers hadn’t my full attention today; i kept departing to wander the corridors, must have walked up all three floors of the library and back about four times as though i was searching, as though by the will that spurned my walk you’d materialise, somehow.
i dragged my body like a corpse back down the hill in the evening; fireworks are exploding as does mine within my breast; i contemplated being handed the responsibility of your body, your pleasure, and the way my mind screamed at my paralysed body, and tonight i noticed a few more strands of grey in my hair. i do not feel young. every time i wear this jumper i end up crying - not because of the jumper, but perhaps the jumper has something to do with it. and i was singing when i started to cry, and fell back on the bed as my tears rolled past my eyes and soaked my hair. maybe i will burn the jumper. but i am happy and i have faith. i wanted to pray. it’s just earlier i felt like i had flown the coop before i had finished building the nest, and by this i mean my studies, my poor, semi-neglected studies. but i want to flee, and ride, and ride, and ride ‘til i have forgotten the dimensions of this room and the reasons why i cried.
I promised thee a song ‘neath the moon, and who should greet me as I stepped outside, into the night, but mistress moon full and aglow. This night her eye was all-seeing and her moonray gaze pierced through the drifting fog. And a fog had descended, yes, so that the lake seemed a cauldron of steaming potion, and out of the brew arose the magic of night, which is Silence and clarity of the sky. For the stars had joined the moon in the cloudless sky, and their beauty was stark high above the lazily trailing fog. I spied Orion’s belt, and a red flickering dob that looked like a beating heart in the dark heavens. And I could sense the heavens for the gods were in the constellations.
The frost quickened the descent of autumn leaves and they made sounds like a trickling river as they rained to the ground. One leaf landed on my head and fluttered down my face, like a blown kiss from the tree that did send it. It was then I looked once more to the moon and sent your name inside a thought for the mistress to receive and know for whom the song I was poised to sing. “In the size of your eyes, is there a righteous prize?” Softly repeated “I met you’s” trailed behind me like ghosts as I sauntered through the chalet village.
The night was so beautiful, I wish you had been there to witness it with me, although you did in a sense for you are behind my eyes, in my mind, and to have felt it you will have, for there is a home in my heart and you are welcome to live there. I wondered if I was in heaven, I felt such a tremendous sense of existential elation. I permitted the frosty chill to possess me, yes, and felt my veins constrict, my blood freeze. When you come to claim me, melt me in the furnace of your flesh and my blood will flow into the current of your blood. I felt I almost did not deserve such wonder, so I paused to gaze at the sky once more to thank the Lord, and that’s when I turned the key in the lock and went inside.