creating patterns

have tales for people.
the thighs and hips and sultry curves
of my far-fetched fragile recall and the
curt, hurtful sentences littered
with remnants of forsaken restraint are
nothing more than a jumbled mass
of remembrance and prediction.
this is the fog of one looking through
grated eye and withered synapse.

you sit, framing the room, providing
a preconditioned sexual urge
to this basic living. i glance upon your side,
upon your beautiful smooth flank,
the gentle barrier that
has barred the way
to emotional security.
baby,
you hide without saying,
you are too uptight and you are too welcoming
and you are too tolerant of aggression.

a horrific blankness hides any flaming passion
that resides within. this is smokescreen
and the light of estranging youth blinds
into the future months.
who are you?
a mis-titled player? a wild cathedral?
an injured spider, presumed dead,
rising to spin a web,
to catch the falling world?
i need a numerical confirmation,
a binary appraisal or something.

i love all that flows.

i ask the question that will
beyond all reason and doubt
justify my bruised dignity:
do you love me?
(i must be careful with my dignity.
it is my only one, and you don’t
get replacements these days.)

the deafening nothing of a repeated
and emphasised and repeated
no
is sitting in my lungs, squatting. all my roles,
the poet and the painter and the sculptor,
have begun to shift and very soon
will begin to drift away
into hyperextensible ideas,
a lie is a lie is a big lie, and all that.

my words are a sure catalyst for fury and i am keeping
one eye on your hyperactivity. i have ducked
inside that oft-used noun apology
and am wielding it above my head like an axe.
there is no real danger of course because
acceptance is a strange wedding
of thinking and doing and being,
like trying to swallow a pill
whilst lying on your stomach.

lying on my stomach, i urge myself,
to try my vocal chords out:
once you hear the emotion seep down
from your brain into your throat,
i tell myself
you won’t be able to stop.

i look at you across the room, and find that
the mirror into which you look does not
hang upon the wall but upon notions of
reflection and progression
and so i say through cracked lips
and over earnest tongue,
with absolute sincerity and hopeless truth,

i always knew this would happen.

Advertisements

3 Responses to “creating patterns”

  1. “..who are you? a mis-titled player? a wild cathedral…” the words sing…

  2. all that we could ever hope for is that our “bruised dignity” will remind us of why it happened in the first place, and all the while we knew.. nice writing

  3. “remnants of forsaken restraint” i love that line. nice to see more of your creativity.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: