3 words

I’ve tickled it into his naked back,
When he’s fucking me it spools around my tongue,
I devote myself with every playful smack –
And harder still when certain smacks have stung.

I never thought I’d fall for such a man,
Who smuggles love like drugs inside a coat,
I love loudly just because I can,
The words collect like songbirds in my throat –

Or three boats arranged into a fleet,
To sit behind a hesitating sky,
Sulking with the shyess of retreat,
Billowing with every loaded sigh.

(still not finished, needs work – written about my hesitation to say ‘I love you’ to someone who isn’t soppy enough to enjoy being told)

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They were married in a seaside town that Morrissey forgot to bomb. The groom, spot lit white, held his bride by the waist. Dee, the groom’s younger brother, grasped an empty wine glass warily by the stem, like a dangerous flower.
The band began to play ‘Blue Velvet.’
“Oh.” Dee said, with sudden fairies in his eyes. “I like this song.”
“You do?” I asked.
“Mmm, yes.” He replied, and the fairies were gone. The bride and groom swayed on the dancefloor. “Get me another drink, will you?” He asked, holding out his glass.  “And be quick about it before I change my mind.”

I was in Room 12.
The key-card blurred in my hand. Dee was falling over, laughing.
It was the first time I’d ever seen him drunk. As a rule, drinking was just another enemy – and in the same way that he pretended to drag from a cigarette, he would pretend to swig from a vodka bottle. He’d leave parties untouched, passing the alphabet test with colours. His lips would be wet, but he would never get pissed.
I always wanted to get him drunk. For selfish reasons, mostly. He didn’t know how to lose control. His discipline made a mockery of me.
When I was young I thought that willingly ‘misplacing’ yourself was the pinnacle of artistic freedom – that you could not be found until you had been lost. It’s a funny thing – I envied him his self-control and yet I undermined it constantly, because sometimes when the moon was right and the computer monitor shone like a nightlight, he would open his mouth and let me push my tongue in without a fight. I wanted this from him, always. It was such a feeling of conquest; like my germs had won. I didn’t want to be another cigarette, another bottle, I wanted him to put his lips on me and give in, get a lungful, get a mouthful, get a hit. I wanted to scupper all his plans.

He flopped onto the bed of Room 12. He was too drunk to get undressed. I began shrugging off my clothes, rooting through my travel bag for toothpaste.
“Art?”
“Yeah?”
“What are you doing?”
“Toothpaste. I can’t find my toothpaste.”
I looked over at him. He was smiling, very pissed and as blonde as hell.
“Aren’t you going to come over here and take advantage of me?” He asked, still smiling. He’d unpinned the flowers from his lapel and tucked them behind his ear. I let go of my bag and abandoned the toothpaste hunt.
‘Do you…want me to take advantage of you?”
He laughed without laughing, something that he was talented at.
“I don’t know. Do you want to take advantage of me?”
Of course I did, that was a stupid question and he knew it. When I first met him, I wrote in my journal that I had met a very serious angel. Angels can only fly because they take themselves lightly, and so very serious angels are stuck to the earth. That’s how I saw him, stuck to the earth and meant to be flying. I romanticized him of course, like I romanticize everything. And now on the bed, with his hands in his lap like doves sleeping off a magic trick, how could I say no?
“I don’t want to do anything you don’t want to do. You’re incredibly pissed.”
And I remember the way he smiled and closed his eyes and opened his arms, drunkenly embracing the air where I was meant to be, with the sheets creasing beneath him and his suit creasing too. The flowers behind his ear stayed put like they’d been painted in. I ambled over, half drunk, and I lowered myself onto his body. I kissed him. His mouth opened wide, he pulled me closer. My hands dislodged the flowers. My germs won just like the wine had won. I pinned an angel to the earth, and he was never meant to fly anyway, because for someone so light – he was far too heavy.

letter

In a Bluebird toffee tin
Are a hundred letters –
Most of them doodle-stamped and
Delivered by hand.
Unlike the letters I sent to him
They do not smell of spritzed cologne,
(A trick that I learned from Grease)
They are not messy
Or tea stained,
But perfect powder blue
And allowing for small extravagances –
The Cursive of the Obsessive,
Cursed by neatness and perfect hearts.

I pick one out at random,
A casually cruel one sent from Rome –
I imagine you blinking on a balcony
With dazzles on your collarbone,
A teeny tiny sugarless coffee
At your side,
And a pen tapping your knee.
“I’m not a prig at all –“ you wrote,
It’s only that you are gregarious
In the most DISGUSTING way.
That’s your problem not mine –
Your optimism won’t catch you.
Cynicism won’t catch you either,
But it has the courtesy not to throw you.
I’m stopping now,
By the time you get this
I’ll be back home.
What pointlessness we endure for one other.
I miss you as you say
‘ever so’ –
Bedtime here is a source of misery.”
And then you signed your name,
Tiny,
Small,
Impossibly graceful,
Just like yourself.

You were always nasty
When you missed me.

mistakes

We were just two children
Really,
Not knowing which way to
Turn the maps,
But finding our own way
Anyhow.

Our own strangeness
Propped us up
Until we were
Curling our fingers
Around a strange sky,
Two stars touching,
Neither hot enough to
Burn the other.

You learned how to cry quietly,
The same way that I learned,
Holding onto your stomach
Like a little bear that was worn out
And threadbare
From the wear and tear of a
Lonely childhood.
A tear slipped,
Like a boy on a wet slide,
Pooling at your nose.

“I keep making mistakes.”
You said.

And I told you

That I would delight in
Any mistake
you had ever made,
Or would ever make.

bottled water

You could hardly even walk
But you’d only been on bottled water.

I was drunk.

“Tell me then,” I said,
“Do I make you worse?”

You called me 
A whole litany of horrors 
And shambled away,
And didn’t call for two days.

(I was so vain back then,
I’m sorry for being so vain,
I’m sorry for assuming
You had stormed away
Because you couldn’t stand
Me blaming myself.

I now understand
That you were wounded 
By the word
‘Worse’.)

 

dreams of you

I dream of you –
My skull all draped in leather and
Badly lit,
And your hands punch
The tusk of my cranium
To get me started.

I dream of you
Skulking around a videogame,
Stealing trolleys.

I dream of you,
Talking in a language
That doesn’t translate,
You’re laughing at something I’ve said,
And I’m laughing back,
Because I don’t understand
That I don’t
Understand you.

I dream of you cooking a fry up and
saving me from
Spiders,
I dream of you
In all butterfly colours,
Stuck at one age,
Face changing,
Pixels smattering,
Digestive biscuit hair
Crumbling in the wake of
waking.

I dream of you playing dice in the corner,
Or running from bombs.
I dream that you are bigger than me,
Far bigger than you
Really are.

I dream of you,
Wet dreams of you,
Fucking me from behind
Like a gold shadow that I can’t touch,

And when I wake up,
I feel like I’ve done everything with you.

(I dream of my sister,
My father,
And you.
I dream of the healthiest people that I know.)