The pen is poised, impatient for inspiration to strike.

Wednesday, November 25, 2009

Wishing the whistling from the next room would hit
As red light, give way to nodding. My feet
feel lonely with only each other and my eyes flit
Through the darkness, owl-like. 'I am body heat,'

I say. 'I can do this, radiate alone.'
I ignite my pride and roll onto my back.
I can still smoke up there on my throne,
But for once I'd like to kick back and relax.
Down here I can be, just part of the night.
Free to sit still, to smoke and to cry.

.Strawberry Constellations.

No dreaming on a bed of flowers.
Eyes, smooth as pearls, are agape but
Do not blink. Silent and blind, horses
Flitter by, their wings flashing midnight,
Hooves scratching milky ribs, the skin
Turning glitter-rough and heartbeat red.
There are strawberries littering my palms
Like constellations I can't make out.

I know what this is, I can feel it:
The hoping eyes, the twitching mouth,
The breast sighing like a wave, heavy
With desire. I know what this is, and
Then shards of an Apple strike me like bullets;
I grow tight as my hands grope for a way out.

Saturday, November 21, 2009

.Sunglasses In Bed.

Grasshopper glances are not fair so early in the morning
When the footprints of my dreams have not yet faded.
My smile is still fresh,
My palms outstretched,
and I forget, again,
to wear sunglasses.

At night I say, 'You can stay here all day,
tangling your breath with mine. I promise you
coffee, gollywog black,
and arctic showers,
Just as long as you leave me
More broken lemon tree branches,
And don't mind if I wear
sunglasses in bed.'

.Midnight Reflection.

Bed, and instead of sleep, my
Reflection, messy and merciless, milky
in its faded glow.

And how the silence tolls,
tickling the corners
while I, tutu pink and clam-grey pale,

in non-morse code;
bat-like, battling the light.

Still secrets swim, suspicious and sore and
Much too smart for fishermen.

.It's Nothing.

I feel you squirming in my belly,
A silly urban smile fluttering like breath.

Then I realise that it's just the flush of wine
Sinking deep inside me.
My mouth is agape, unfulfillable hopes
Floating; forgotten before they are remembered.

Sometimes I feel you in me still,
As if you didn't fall out like a silent dream.

You were nothing before you were something
And now I'm making something out of nothing...
Though I suppose that's the way you began.

.Beats Me.

Beats me, the colour of his eyes.
I remember only flocatti,
Dirty, spiking me like thistles
So that I blew my marble dust
out and over
his skin.

Beats me, the number of branches
On the lemon tree outside.
I remember the neck was not familiar,
And how the seconds rattled by,
boulders in the sands of time.

And it struck me like a tomahawk
That I was getting blurry round the edges,
That my fingers were thickening,
That my life no longer rhymed.

.Morning After Chill.

Shaking, marble grey, as the restlessness of having
nothing to itch hits seven years late. Skin is tight,
S t r e t c h e d like a smile
Under hands that are hungry and weak.

There is laughter between my legs
As I reach for something I do not understand.

Morning lips find me, draping like ivy but I
wince, coffee bitter, though I should be
open to this, since it’s been
a while since I’ve had a spoonful of

.I Do.

As if there's a piano on your skin.

Fingers banging naughty notes
That shouldn't make sense.

But I do.

Stripes of bruises glow
Black on your thigh,
Eight kisses deep,
Each chased by a sigh.

The key to your smile changes, but your laughter is cheap;
its bitterness pounds off the glass ceiling.
When I point at
it, it thins
bubble-thick, and
I catch 22 mirrors on my tongue.

Tick, tock,
Tick, tock.
I count white lies to seduce sleep.
I don't want to dream.

But I do.

The Library

Le Petit Biographie

My photo
I laugh, I live, I think, I write (not necessarily in that order)... padam, padam indeed, Ms. Piaf. This poetry is almost always spontaneous and almost rarely edited.