Verse

I like to make you watch me cry

I like to make you watch me cry.

I like to go somewhere unseeing, unhearing

of ‘darlings’, ‘tell me what’s wrongs’

and other sweet nothings

—a place so far that you can’t save me from drowning.

I like to go there and cry,

while you watch helpless

as salt mountains crumble

and roll down my cheeks.

 

I like to make you watch me cry

quietly in a sort of everyday horror

while we sit at the table in silence

as if what we’re eating is just dinner.

 

I like to make you watch me cry

because it takes out my pain and all its pieces,

lays them out in a live exhibition

that you have no choice but to comment on after.

 

I like to make you watch me cry,

because after that game we just played

where you take the things you love and tear them,

darling, I’m feeling cruelfaced.

                                   

Image—photography by Rosanna Jones http://www.rosannajones.co.uk

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Verse

How to leave a good man

How do you leave a good man who loves you? 

How do you leave when he doesn’t hurt 

but, you hurt nevertheless? 

—when he holds you 

but, you keep falling right through his chest? 

—when his words cradle 

but, don’t cause earthquakes? 

—when his promise is a fortress 

but, all you want is home with oceans and skies rushing in through doors and windows wide open? 

—when his love, only loves 

but, does not see. 

—when you know he will stay after breakfast 

but, he will never dwell your secret wells. 

—when he looks at you 

pleading, 

but, you remain a jagged mountain 

because embracing only makes things worse. 

And hope, is only as foolish as fear. 

 

So you stay hard, 

you stay ugly; 

and you let your life get blown along the currents of Venus and Mars 

while the rest of them throw rocks at your feet, hoping you will get back in line, 

or run. 

 

But, you stay still. 

 

You leave him. 

 

Because, if not, 

he’ll be the death of you 

and worse, 

you, of him.

                                                                                                                                            

Image—Lilith by Josh Brandao

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Sleeping love

You’ve fallen perfect

composed in my sight

like a monumental piece of grain

a beautiful sage.

Perfect.
 

In my wicked greed, I want you to stay asleep.
 

From every direction I see,

every way I turn you,

you’re something I wanted, something I begged for

some day, some time,

down the line.

Perfect.

 

I can dazzle all the world’s love your way, but you won’t stay.

You’ll awake.

 

I know,

I know, that the thing that binds my sight

to you is your glorious flight.

Your wake.

You looking right through me

at something far,

somewhere I don’t belong.

 

I know.

I fear.

I feel.
 

It’s the only way.

So, my beauty, without me,

go sail away.

                   
 

Image – The Sleeping Man of Oguri Kohei by Nemuru Otoko, 1996

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Kiss

A play,

a wrestle,

a battle of pink pillows;

little explosions of

hot melting cold

and cold melting hot;

hands caught just about-

and hearts left dazzled

where they dropped

on the ground;

wet, rough- wet, wet, rough.

in dream we’re bound to end up,

lo-ve is too easy to pronounce.

         

Image : Un Beso by Cabello/Carceller

Image : Un Beso by Cabello/Carceller

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Fuss

I don’t want to throw it in your face

so, I’d rather drink it myself

and let the red-hot go

hunting through my veins,

taking over.

I’d even lay down,

all prepared

for the grand finale;

but, you keep on scrolling…

Feeling pretty puerile,

I limp back glimpses –

around,

behind,

fleetingly on the side,

but, you keep scrolling.

Are you just as bored as I am, with this game?

But, I have a needle in my heart

and all the salt in the great big world, or my tear glands

couldn’t draw it out-

so, I’ll just wait until we’re in bed

and everything is heavy and damp with my cloud of rain,

and you have to ask.

          

nimbus-by-berndnaut-smilde-yatzer-1

Picture – Nimbus installation by Berndnaut Smilde

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Enough sweet nothings

Enough sweet nothings,

it’s lame.

Enough falling deep,

no one does it anymore.

No more fighting, it’s untame.

No more going strange places

or feeling new things

like complicates mixes-

emotions that are oxymorons.

It’s old,

no one is here.

Move on.  

    

Picture - Mikhael Subotzky

Picture – Mikhael Subotzky

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Hush word

Love,

I’m sorry,

you’re so tainted

with sex and lame teenage girls-

old fashioned.

Can we make it friendship?

It’s the worn grace of a seaside wall,

fluid, sexless and

just plain, damn gold;

like a Sunday morning with loud birds in the sky,

or a thing we can do together

while wearing linen shorts, rubber slippers and no watch;

easy to die.

Picture by Rick Short

Picture by Rick Short

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