Skip to main content

a prequel

you have an air of October and the face of spring,
the smell of summer sticks like smooth caramel on your skin and you’re like an open book with flowers on every page,
everything untouched yet revealing as you trick the world into thinking they know everything about you whilst the truth is kept for only a privileged few
who are determined to see through your facade and the clothes you wear and the way you laugh at boys who aren’t funny
but you think are charming,
and you smile at them like they have something interesting to say when really you are the interesting one,
the girl who is always the muse,
his, hers, mine,
the girl who is loved by girls and by men
but cannot love back,
her heart does not allow it.
how I wish the touch of her fingers on my skin meant more than lust fueled by the desire to make art
with two bodies,
to her everything is art, and to be art is to be her everything,
she keeps me warm in the autumn, but is gone by the spring
as the cool April air sends her to big and better things,
I tried to read her pages yet April brings showers
and the thunder in my heart and the rain on the ink,
consumed everything we once had and washed away what I thought I knew
about her, and about us,
and even though I know the thought of being my muse amuses her,
I still analyse her like a painting,
in the V&A,
on those cold October days.



Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

to the daughters of builders who drive white vans

on the 6am train the men smell like my father; red bull, cigarettes, dried cement - they wake up like my father        i feel safe in this carriage, these men are my father, any man with a van and one arm out the window, sunburnt from the elbow down - the infamous builder’s tan - seats so dusty i can’t breathe and i have lungs like my father, full of second-hand smoke and concrete, a touch of asbestos, i should weep for my father        but  my pockets are healthy i am told by my father whose hands shake as he brings another beer to his lips at 10am on a saturday morning, this is coping for my father        these men cope - cope like my father - with the asbestos lungs, uneven tans, shaking hands, muscles in constant pain, water on the brain, the ever encroaching grasp of old age; with substances up the nose they unwind like my father         this kind of masculinity doesn’t last forever, you know...
Post a Comment
Read more

i can only write when i am thinking about God

 I can only write when I am thinking about God and sometimes God is God and he loves me, most of the time he does not the hand that feeds me overpowered by teeth that bite he visits me at night like a shark smells blood he smells lust,  guilt, and greed brought to my knees, voice hushed he picks apart my greed and my lust promising to forgive, to forget he will make me repent and regret, any pain or pleasure at his expense provided in selfless restoration a gift of his affections exchanged for endless loyalty  God is not always God, sometimes he is my lover he tells me he loves me,  most of the time he does not I can only write when I am thinking about God
Post a Comment
Read more

crisis of faith

  and when i meet god   i will ask him why he punished me on earth by denying me the pleasure of being known by anyone other than him intentionally, innately, irrevocably known in a way i could have remained silent forever   whilst always being heard  i will ask him why the world kept spinning as i screamed and spiralled into the sins he’d laid out for me  for me to fumble in my guilt on my knees, raw from repentance and retribution who is to beg for forgiveness now? and i will apologise to my mother  for carrying her burdens in my womb  it was her first time too, on earth longing for something she’d never known  please tell me i did it right, that i made you proud  please tell me i lived how you wanted me to give birth to me again and i’ll try harder would it heal you to see me leave, or would it hurt because you never did  will i see your face one day in the mirror and touch it to feel your skin and i will ask you if you could not love...
Post a Comment
Read more