March 28, 2011 § Leave a comment
I’m suddenly sad. I’m suddenly old. Seeing Adam? Yesterday I was sixteen, today I just am.
I don’t want to know know what love is. I don’t want you to show me.
What I do want is for everything to slow the slight down. I’d rather not see everything passing, I’d rather not. Yet because I have seen it once, I’ll ‘see’ it again, in spite of blindness.
And now he is not. I still am. We buried him.
It’s two AM. Really it’s one. Damn daylight saving time.
I don’t want to know what love is. I’m scared I’ll see the colours again, and then in time (like now) I will see everything that passed between.
I can’t write about this because it’s too hard. Everything flies. It does.
And I don’t want this.
September 14, 2010 § Leave a comment
When you mentioned ‘rambling on’ I wasn’t aware that the rain would become a blessing. Any excuse to stay indoors and look at your shoes.
And I can’t help but write about you who could help it who the hell? I’ve never felt so warm on such a cold day; what is this? A sickening for something? Whatever, I like this fever.
I turned down a dog and polkadot teacups for you.
I imagine someone turns Venetians a second later than I do and feels the same feeling, or a similar feeling; like all fools I can’t admit to being human.
Twists and turns of last night black street concrete football kids in shorts shivering and a man with an unlit cigarette, trembling. God help us.
Has anyone ever lived nearer the north?
Oh over and over again it comes and it’s coming this time, for sure it is, cap cocked to one side and a laugh bathing on blue lips. I’m not sure I asked for this; it’s like a prize for breathing or a train that rivals your own lateness. Yours.
Oh, me me me me me. What happened to she? She? Where is she? Has she disappeared beneath the waiting weight of her own feelings?
August 28, 2010 § Leave a comment
I would rather see I highlighted. When sad I’d rather see it, than Schubert my last desperate resort.
I don’t play anymore. Do you? Strings gather dust when left untouched, and I could meander into an awkwardly meaningful metaphor here, but I won’t. Leave it at that.
It overcame me over coffee. Not the transition, but the realisation of transition. It hit me like a song in the left lung. Who sings with their right?
I’ll write you a postcard.
One with a man in a kilt on a windy day. Or a Betty Boop-alike tucking into haggis.
Last year I was a character in a colder climate, part of ‘Portions for Foxes’, all of that attracted I. Had you not had a flashing sign above your head that read ‘Bad News’, I would have stayed away.
And out of sight.
Change means I am no longer tragically attracted to hurt. Only on occasion, and now I heal like a burns victim on acid. Invertedly.
Have you understood any of the above? Maybe. Slivers. But you certainly didn’t read between the fourth and fifth line, and you certainly
I forgave you before you squeezed out a sorry from your dog-eat-eat heart. Meant? Unheartfelt? I don’t know