Sometimes, I feel sorry for dogs.
Twelve thousand years of domestication
has bent them away from lupine root
as they walk on blunted points
tippy toed like a geisha in submission.
Me, I’m more of a cat girl.
Give me soft dense hair and condescension,
watch me stretch back bent from the hip
with fingers spread
as I slant my eyes and lick my lips.
Woosh !
-
The other night my girls went to watch the Mighty Boosh.
” The Boosh were great ” they laughed as they tumbled back in, cold past midnight, autumn air following them, faces flushed from the walk down the lane, their eyes sparkling gladful. When I see them together like this I get the biggest surge. A primeval wiring that thrills my blood and underscores a massive part of-who-I-am.
One with her nose pierced in conformity, the other kohl-eyed, black-nailed and sixitiesfied. Their youth is thrilling, compelling and contagious. A sharp-sour squeezing fit to burst like limes and crushed oranges. Oblivious in their freshness they love portraying me as the Innocent. To stand above me in door frame inches and cradle my head against their milky skin makes them shriek. I play up to their mocking, with commas in my texts and a mispronunciation of obscure bands. ( I mean, c’mon, the Scratch Perverts? ) But with all their zest and faked cynicism they make me feel innocent. ” Pass the sick bucket “, they’d finger motion mouth to throat if they could see the ribbons of my sentiments unfurling deep inside; but when I see them absorbed in their lives, apart and grown, almost flown, I play word games in my head.
It’s a Mighty Woosh and makes me want to dance and sing.
Outinside. Today was red
pushing to pump vermilion.
When bud and fibre thrust scarlet
I see it all pink hued and throbbing.
Insides lurid, fulsome
with silent screams as
Post Office queues assemble,
crimson people bead and thread
under overhead lighting,
its harshglares making second glance
a carmine glow while folk shuffle
away from fallen leaves and Samhain burning.
Too-day is too-much,
is in my veins as autumn spills
and caring cloys, congeals
with bloody confusion and clotted living.
A thrombosis of emotion
where each sight grates
and tears tear as I cry
To Be. Leached-bled-dry
until Today is emptied
of red and carnage
dilutes to commonplace.
hole
-
I wonder how long you’ll last ? Inside my head. The memories of you. Of fingertips over and inside. Making me, pulling me, sending me. Until I become beyond words. My chin is still a little red from hard kisses and the scratch of your face. I want it to stay. I want those marks on me so I can see where you’ve been. A preponderance of light-heavy until I am dappled with you. I visit your house every morning, I slip in beside you, mattress on the floor and darkness at the window. While you’re away I put flowers in the window ledge and wash up cups. I can smell you on the sheets and towels and I want to roll in them, like a dog making a bed. The hole in your jumper, on your left shoulder, I remember the wool-you smell as my head pressed chest down , I’ll take a thick steel needle and lick strands to thread and mend. Let me take you whole and capture you with my sighs because this empty space you left, invisible to the world, is so big I fear I might fall inside it and never get out.
And if that’s true
I shall be doomed over and forever
spun dizzy with my badness
swallowed by leaden waves and
drowned in watery skies.
He brought me gifts from all four corners
a pebble as white as a piece of the moon
it might be all I have left of him
and soon in order to remember
like insects trapped in amber
the bubble of our time together
I’ll have to roll its hardness
cold over my breasts
just flesh and rib and lifetimes
away from my heart.
Sometimes, when I see your face, it makes me cry
How is it
I like to read
sharp edged words ?
Oh-so-clever-concise snaps,
a pointfull hard framing
in images
A capturing of fears
and a setting of lust, a
wiring of moments in time
as this , and this and this ?
When what I crave is
belly-soft acceptance,
a full cupping of curves
in rounded scents mingled,
curling to make the same perfume
as legs scissor and
join without cutting,
a softening of words
into thick blunted caring.
Yes, sometimes, when
I see your face
it makes me cry
And I wish I had known
you for the whole of
my life which means nearly
All of yours.
