Wednesday, 30 March 2011
I had my books and my poetry to protect me. Had.
Thursday, 8 July 2010
Some things make me so sad I can’t help but cry. Fran always says that I cry at everything. Old men in old suits, with old glasses standing under the neon glare of a supermarket aisle, for example. Wrinkled faces contorted into expressions of confusion, of sadness, of a deep and irrevocable far away-ness. Sad strawberries in a trolly. Eyes in the past, the eyes of someone so utterly isolated within themselves, that they seem to be existing behind a layer of glass. Perhaps a bell jar. God, it kills me to think about.
And then there’s me. I’m a slot machine with symbols that don’t match, no matter how many times you try me. I’m rigged. I’m wired wrong. I’m in love one minute and sick with disgust the next.
Tuesday, 6 July 2010
-Milan Kundera, The Unbearable Lightness of Being.
I've been meaning to look this passage up for weeks after that Jenny Owen Youngs lyric reminded me 'no better way that I can see to spend all the time while you're asleep than holding your hands inside of mine'
Let’s fall asleep together soon. Let’s become tangled in cotton and dreams that glide and skim on the oceans of our minds like fish making their way in the dark hush before dawn. Let me hold your hand, let me keep you close while we lie in the silence, just two more slowed heartbeats in the town held in the palm of a great warm hush, a collective inhale. Let’s breathe the same air; breathe in each other. Molecules of you would tumble through my lungs, finer than dust, and infinitely more potent. The blood in our veins would make its dull aching journey. The pulse in my thumb would throb slowly where it met your hand; they’d grip each other as they hung off the side of the bed; two mountaineers clinging together above a precipice.
It could be this way, we could lie entwined as the pale dawn fades into the sky, filling the room with blue, submerged in the depths of the inescapable new day. As the wires that hold everything in place make the earth groan towards the sun, we could be there, together, quietly sharing this bemusing existence. The first rays that peer over the horizon like tentative deer would illuminate my hair, weaving it through with golden silk. The hum of the summer night would sharpen into the early morning music of birds as they flex their fragile wings, and surf on the breeze of the rising morning. Dew drops would glisten on the soft purple spikes of grass, tears soon to be forgotten by the kiss of the sun. And slowly, as the sun brings colour back into a world hidden in shadow for what seemed like eternity, we could drift, off the edges of the earth of our minds, and fade into reality again.
Monday, 31 May 2010
two distant stars, though once
separated by infinity, now hurled
with all the power of this earth
against the other. matter and it’s mate
with bared teeth and hungry eyes
and fierce minds and empty hands
created a crescent moon, blood red
that kissed his skin and wept,
sunk deep into his heart and scarred it too,
her milk pulsed into his veins
as she gifted him with love’s wound,
to match her own scars.
galaxies stretched between
but a fading half moon marked him
as hers, his pen drew from his heart
three words: ‘i am here’
(she believed he’d always be)
magnetism bound their paths,
gravity held and fate spun until
their orbits passed once more
and with violent fire eclipsed,
burned so bright it blinded
two scarred stars with light enough
to reflect the other.
Wednesday, 12 August 2009
Wednesday, 5 August 2009
Feel the edges of your consciousness slowly ebb into focus. Your breathing picks up as you drift into the waking world; you feel the sun burning red into your closed lids. Your head is full of flickers of words and colours and faces of the dream that you are leaving behind. Your thoughts align themselves and you realise you are awake. You also realise that you are thinking of him. You fire a round of curses at your subconscious for letting him be the first thing you think of when you wake up. Because you know, you KNOW that you are probably the furthest thing from his mind right now. Roll over in the soft white sheets. One is tangled around your ankle. Looks like you had a restless night. Sit up. Slowly. Tucking the hair that hangs across your flushed cheek behind your ear. Your bare legs are covered in imprints, red creases across your skin from the bed sheets. The light that is shining onto you through the smeared window panes is coming from an odd place in the sky. Ah. A glance at the clock tells you it is 5am. You get up anyway. Your hot bare feet leave marks on the floor and then evaporate. The view from your window is lovely, the world is hardly stirring. You open it and lean out, breathing in the breeze which stirs over the light warmth of the day ahead. You can’t help your eyes glance across the street and wash over his apartment building, resting on his window. A shot of adrenaline surges into your heart and creeps through your veins. He is there, like you, leaning out of his window, surveying the early morning city. Your eyes meet. Your heart yearns to reach out across the meters that interrupt you and touch him. You’re wishing for the impossible. He turns away from the window, and a tear rolls down your cheek.
Feel the edges of your consciousness slowly ebb into focus. You groan. Still half wrapped in dreams. You roll over, disorientated, and land on the floor. Awake now for certain. Great, you think. The first time in weeks you manage to get anywhere near a decent night’s sleep and you end up on the floor. You sit up, and without really meaning to, think two thoughts. You wonder what the time is, and if she is awake yet. You groan again, mad at yourself for letting her be the first thing you think of when you wake up. It’s never going to happen. She is too beautiful, too fascinating. You stand up, rubbing the crystals of sleep from your red eyes, as you stare into the rays of light shining through your dirty window. A glance at the clock tells you its 5am. Though the warm, empty bed is tempting, you make your way to the window, curiosity over ruling laziness. You walk to the window, shoving aside piles of dirty clothes with your foot as you go. You open it and lean out into the morning air. The city is stirring with movement, understated and quiet. A few people walk the street below. Taxis take the early morning news reporters to work. A man unlocks his newspaper kiosk. The sun is warm, but the breeze is cool on your skin. If you were home, there would be dew on the grass, you think with a sigh, gazing at the world below you for a few minutes. You’re kidding yourself though, if you thought the reason for coming to the window was to look at the street. Your unwilling eyes wander up the building opposite, and rest on her window. A shot of adrenaline surges into your heart and creeps through your veins. She is standing there, so beautiful it almost hurts, hair ruffled with sleep, face bare. Your eyes meet. You long to climb onto the sill of the window and jump across the meters that separate you, to hold her in your arms. You’re wishing for the impossible. She’s probably wondering why you’re staring at her, thinking you’re some kind of freak, you realise. Your heart tears as you turn away from the window.