2009 December:
2009 November:
2009 October:
2009 September:
2009 August:
2009 July:
2009 June:
2009 May:
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2009 March:
2009 February:
2009 January:
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I i don’t miss you. my walls stayed white. my eyes stayed blue. that disordering of senses promised for so long is undelivered. nothing is breathing except a taut beauty where the sheets are drying. II there is no heart. lifted like swimming i am more weightless than one hundred small fish. but i am out of water and i am going bad. there is no heart in an ocean. III my eyes are open, naturally. if i could sleep i would dream of white crows pecking my ego down to size. instead, my eyes cannot even close to blink. i thought i saw you looking in the freezer for vodka. IV and where did we meet? the night you lied and said it was poetry, and not the way my lips moved as i read it that you liked. but you admitted it later, it was my lips all the time. V that was a cold september and you without running water traded secrets for a shower i was the writer and you did all the talking my other asked me if one of the languages you spoke was "kat". VI with an armspan that almost doubled mine, he speaks of my friendly cruxifixion. but a man who holds back, who denies me my piercing when it is precisely that which i require, that man makes me strong when the blood in my hands is weak. VII i mark the hours like some mark days. 4am is a holiday. it is a solstice. the longest hour of the night. VIII i am uncomfortable in my own bed. i am remembering a breakfast, our first, when i was embarassed to swallow. funny how that morning’s coffee still keeps me awake. IX you are not a soldier. you are duty-free. i read your poetry and you read mine and i wondered if we were fighting the same war. even when you loan me a book, i study the bookmark as a map to your territory. those scraps are the details you’ve forgotten and the cities you’ve seized. X i see it coming. dawn is the most silent catastrophe around. but i cannot afford sunlight. literally. cheap apartments are surrounded, and mine is always dark. my ears slide on sheets that held our conversation about how you are not my boyfriend. and you said "yet," not me. XI and i think of your mouth. the funny way it twists around french words and how you suck my tongue like a suicide in a locked garage with the engine on. but my need to breathe is as eloquent as any frenchman’s kiss. XII such a good lie to say "i have no memories" no still-life snapshots no motion pictures of little bites above my knees and little bruises rising. i could see them if i crossed my eyes. but to remember is to lie and no perfect memory can touch me, can leave those marks with such gorgeous perfection. XIII i sing a song of teatotalers. drunk only with sleep, that stranger, that tease, i tell the joke that is decaf. bitter and useless as old age. XIV "a couple of kids" you called us, as if we meet each day to skip rope. as if tetherball was foreplay and i was your hopscotch virgin. do you remember growing up? i remember pretending to. XV 1pm is almost christmas. i will freeze your vodka and hang parsley over my door and we will pretend. you will come with your full bag and stir me like pudding. i have counted the hours and the days between the birds and the bees and it is now. XVI find me in the doorwat come time your breaths in sync with the spaces between my ribs. homing pigeon, come squeeze your notes into me. we can ignore the stroke of 2pm in favour of our own holiday. you can pretend to forget. i will loan you a pillow and later we will sleep like two bulbs that must be switched off, occasionally. Listening To: in for the kill // la roux (skream remix)
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