Dinnertime

Dinnertime

You are not my story to tell.
Daddy just hit mommy at the dinner table
and now we’re all scrambling
for anything at all to say
to break this silence.
Action…reaction.
You slide the green beans off your plate,
I watch the dog swallow them whole.
We’ll be coughing up blood
for years to come.

Galaxy

Galaxy

Here on the bridge of uncertainty
in the very spiraling center of the universe,
you are three stars to the right
and I am living in a galaxy full,
of my fears of rejection.
Pull the swinging step,
a ladder of broken windowpanes
leading straight to Saturn,
where I will paint your eyes a million times over
to show you that I would be devoted,
for devotion does exist.
Swirling sunlight stings my bare arms,
leaving me raw as hamburger,
raw as my tender, beating heart.

Specifically – You

Specifically – You

The way her hair fell in her eyes,
fragments of a deep pupil and iris
peeking through delicate, dark curtains.
His fingers, rough-padded,
but soft upon her lily-white skin,
swirled across her cheeks,
forming the permanent blush
that lives there even now.
Electric currents between them:
they are two points on a continuous line
with no eyes but those for one another.
Arms curl around curved backs,
rounded legs and stomachs,
holding tightly to every thread of life.
Her eyes, his eyes,
they part and meet and fuse –
every motion slows.
The world turns and they
are the single spinning point
of the universe.

Falling in Love

Falling in Love


Why do they call it falling? I understand why it would come to mind when one is stumbling, crashing, tripping, fumbling into love with someone when it’s unrequited. When it hurts. When it’s wrong. When it’s ignored and left to crumble into nothingness in the cold, unfeeling Winter wind. When it’s crushed under an uncaring heel, and all you’re left with is shreds of your heart and dignity. But what of love when it’s grand? Returned. Right. Wonderful. When it’s taken in and lifted up and held close to the other’s heart and caressed tenderly by loving hands? Falling does not apply then. Floating. Flying. Soaring. Rollercoaster, excited riders bursting for the thrill. Seagulls circling, lofty upon the breeze, lighting upon the white capped ocean waves. Twirling. Spinning. All light and stars and deep-ocean-blue, golden sunshine and molten sunsets, flowers blooming from between your fingertips.

I have tasted that love, that feeling, once. Yet now, I fear it is gone forever.

Equus

Equus

Bright-eyed foal
I scratch onto ancient parchment,
hind legs kicked up,
head thrown back merrily.
This is my foal.
I’ll sketch my bridle round its nose,
take the reins into my hands to control him.
Yet, he will remain,
long after I am dust within the ground,
dark back twisted in the air,
legs thrown out towards the sky.
The white patch between his eyes
glows in the darkness.

Sweetness

Sweetness

Caught, like the mosquitoes of old
struggling in amber
til it encased them,
whole and perfect.
We are sinners in the night’s dark embrace,
fumbling with zippers and buckles,
fingers and lips and thighs.
Don’t liken sex to dinosaurs hunting –
velicoraptors stalking in their merry band
with deadly claws unsheathed and waiting,
ready to leap upon their prey.
My opinions on you
aren’t worth much more
than a child’s indecipherable scribbling
on otherwise pristine walls.
Decipher my loops, my lightning bolts,
they really mean one thing –
devotion.

Ebola

Ebola

Pull together my shattered ribs,
the shreds of muscle laying within
still beat some morbid tattoo upon my skin.
Dig your fingers in deep enough
to reach straining lungs,
failing kidneys,
weeping organs, liquefying.
Don’t stay, don’t get too near,
the end is creeping up on me –
ready to bring forth the crimson tides
from every orifice,
jerking limbs,
mouth spraying,
drenching every wall crayola red.
Everyone within this room is doomed.
Every inch of my life’s blood
is bursting, bursting
with death and virus smarter
than our scientists could ever imagine.
The nurse who lifts her scarlet-stained hand
to her mouth, in disbelief,
the doctor who wipes his eyes
leaving a mask of ruby-red,
and you – standing watch over me,
with your face and arms covered
in my sweet vein-song.
You will all meet your untimely ends
just
like
me.

Here Lies the Bride

Here Lies the Bride

Ink-stained hands wrap
around sheared-off silk,
fastened into a makeshift wedding dress –
she’ll wander down the aisle alone,
searching for a groom.
Wilted flower bouquet lays abandoned
on the molten sidewalk,
next to a Polaroid of her veiled face.
With nowhere to hide,
nowhere to transform her longing
into something tangible,
she becomes the poem.

The Language Barrier

The Language Barrier

White face smudges
round my otherwise rosy lips,
a glove under my covers
or a striped scarf tied round my wrist.
The remnants of red lipstick on my pillowcase,
eyeliner smeared across my chest.
And every single morning I struggle
to release myself from this infernal
invisible box.
It’s not easy,
loving a mime.

Fingers Chasing Toes

Fingers Chasing Toes

I was seven.
My mother told me –
“swim towards the bottom,
I’ll do the rest”.
I gulped air into my lungs,
filling them to the point of bursting
and dove.
Eyes closed,
under water is a frightening place
where every second seems close to death,
at least when you’re that young.
Just when I thought I’d die for sure,
hands pushed against my back.
My eyes shot open just in time
to see the world flip,
and then I was above,
sputtering.

Ocho Rios

Ocho Rios

She draws with charcoal
on long sheets of oblivion (obsidian),
long-winged butterflies
above willowy grasses
blowing in the breeze.
Her hands move faster
than when they spin reeds into baskets
sold at the market for the lowest price
haggled for by sunburnt tourists.
When she turns her burnt face to the sun,
there is nothing but clouds,
ganja is thick in the air
from where the men sit carving elephants,
turtles, horses,
out of balsa wood.

In Loving Memorandum

In Loving Memorandum

Flesh withers as if summer flora
killed
by Autumn’s first chill.
She was the breeze on sultry days
and all of what we shaped from clay
could not compare to her form.
Lips like bees with their constant buzzing,
eyes like caves sunken
in contrast to the marks
like ants,
crawling over the powdery blue veins
at the insides of her elbows.
When they found her
she was curled inside the bathtub
in the alleyway between Main and 43rd.
Hands like birds crashed into glass
and legs like toothpicks snapped in half
her pale visage told her tale.
We wept.
Her head we found pillowed
amid shattered TV sets,
emptied bottles clutched in deadened hands,
remnants of her last supper –
razor sharp broken needle tips,
the plunger.
When we lowered her into the earth,
her mother cried, we laughed in mirth
for never had one dead looked so at peace.
Her eyes would ever more gaze
upon the lost sun’s rays
of which she will continue to outshine.

And to dust shall we return.

A Sonnet on Death

A Sonnet on Death

I dreamt I had died in a stranger’s place
where nobody knew my name.
There wasn’t among them a familiar face,
yet they treated me just the same
as they would have one of their own,
though stranger was I to them.
They took my body into their home,
made ready the coffin then.
In lace and silk they dressed me clean,
combed my hair and smoothed my face.
Then sat they to eat a dinner so lean,
before laying me in my place.
The gravedigger dug his hole, six feet deep,
to embrace me in my eternal sleep.

Written for the Storm During Literary Studies

Written for the Storm During Literary Studies

Raindrops caress parched dirt
where every blade of grass
yearns upwards, sighing
in the sudden onslaught of moisture.
I sit, trapped, behind fluorescent bars,
longing for the freedom storms bring.
Lightning dance ‘cross my eyelids,
like a pelican skimming ocean waves.
Outside thunder roars,
inside my mind turns to Yeats,
word definitions,
discord of booming professor’s voice,
student feedback.
My heart numbs but every beat screams for you.

Fakes

Fakes

Let’s raise our glasses,
a solemn toast to mediocrity
no vintage glamour glitter rock star
here.
Leather cracks, hairlines recede,
and all your records fall into obscurity.
How much would you dish out
for your fabled fifteen minutes of fame?
Sacrifice vocal chords, eyesight,
bone structure,
and all the love ever known.
Become that vision of lust and longing,
poster-pinup child material
for a teeny-bopper’s photo wall.
False perfection.

Chasm

Chasm

I cannot breathe as deep as the Grand Canyon
with all its valleys and hidden places,
that age-old wound
watching with its heavy-lidded eyes
ancient in its silence.
This between us is no blank canvas –
bloodied fingers, buckled legs, cold eyes
and you refuse to see past.
Paint-winged butterflies carried on the breeze
go by like carnival-coloured clouds
but every inch of sky is gray, gray, gray.
My lungs collapse.
I cannot breathe as deep as the Grand Canyon,
for never have I tried.

Developing

Developing

I can write you no sonnet,
my thoughts don’t lend themselves
to easy rhyming.
Ink-stained hands leave
charcoal-colored smudges
across this blank expanse of paper,
turning words into monochrome butterflies
chained to this pen of mine.
When it all comes down to it,
“I love you” just doesn’t cut it
it never really did.
My feelings for you are too fierce
to put down on paper –
they would shatter cave walls
destroying all art that’s come before,
leaving dust in their path.
And to dust shall we always return.

Flying

Flying

The rhythm in your skin
drowns out all reason.
“Why are we here?” it screams.
Resisting all bonds
all locks and chains,
you cannot be captured.
There is nothing left to lose
save for your plush velvet eyes,
lengthy limbs and tumultuous vocals.
Can we learn to fly without wings?

Breaking

Breaking

This is an ending, not a beginning.
You will write each poem off as just another fancy,
and I will continue furtively sending
crumpled scraps of poetry to every newspaper in town,
in my desperate attempts to finally strike gold.
I am a sunset in vivid fuchsia and turquoise,
streaking neon bright across the sky
but you, with your cracked ribs, vacant unblinking eyes,
blinding-white teeth, you are nothing.
When we fall it will be in pieces,
like a child’s puzzle torn apart.

Devour

Devour

darkness brings
raking fingernails,
bruising lips and hungry eyes
teeth that sink into pale, ivory expanses
of snow-covered hills and valleys.
When eyesight fails,
trust the rhythm of hips and heartbeats.
hands that long have dreamed on touch
find purchase, grasping folds of flesh
scorching every spot with their torrid touch.
in the night, everyone is a sinner,
slave to heaving breasts and tremulous fingers
pressing into the delicate places
between stomach and hips and thighs.
bodies arch and quiver
fingertips gliding over the smooth surfaces of skin
each shiver, each breath drawn inward by a lover with a gasp
rings divine off their forms
as they dissolve into nothingness, spent.