dust. rat. smirk. drawl.

oh rat
i sing of you
sweet drawling lines of you
smirking gently at the thought
of your dove and coo.
remember that night, bleue?
we sang song after song
made up in that dusty haze
that blustery gaze
and far off, the sycamores shook
life fluttering and whispering
and taking you back.
so i smirk and besmirch you
merrily
hot and readily
howling at the dust
and the love
and the temporal lust
of us.

this fragile empire...

i am the queen
of this fragile empire.
built of rage and a merry desire
for love and other such follies.

deliver me gently
my sweet disciples,
into the hands of somebody willing
somebody clean.

a hand so decisive
it will break down my walls.
built to protect
this fragile little empire.

and now, for him...

he is the king
of his own fragile empire,
fluttering into life
in it's own special din.

i feel his tender ripples
lag and congregate at my toes,
the fragments of wall
that fly at his flourish.

from my blissful barricade
these fragments strike,
scraping my demeanour
of its arrogant grin.

so, we stand unprotected
his courage and my acceptance,
our fragile empires remain
but in a neighbourly kind of arrangement.

I FUCKED A POET...

i fucked a poet

it happens sometimes
like a slip of the tongue
or a turn of the cheek

i put the album on
that covers my sighs
but i am not ashamed of you, poet

i could have done without the mechanic
who's hands were rough
i could have done without the electrician
to talked too much

but i could not have done without the poet.

you lay breathless
having wrestled with your raison d'étre
Baudelaire's Wine & Ideal lay between us
and I caressed you both

for every 4am
that i have seen in alone
there is a moment like this one
to remind me
that not all 4am's are lonely

i could have done without the musician
who stole my car
i could have done without the husband
who propped up the bar

but i could not have done without you, poet.

wilful little touches...

i swell at your proximity
brushing legs
and fixing collars
then apologising.

my spatial awareness
is questionable
or so i say.
i do not admit
to how good i am at parallel parking.

please excuse me
while i squeeze past you
and hover
ever so briefly
in a momentary spoon.

occasionally you falter
and we curl up on couches
and just for a time
i don't have to apologise
for these wilful little touches...

trussed.

trussed
my dignity crusted up
and heaving
sounds like trust
beats particles
outta me
and i am stunned
by your imperial epithets.

tell me a story
i'll glow
grow weary in your irony
pocket your diction
your lazy syllables
pick me! pick me!
'fore my fingers grow numb
and i lose my lunch.

have mercy
fore i am ranting
at your philharmonic guise
picking sycamore holes
in your raison d'être
trussed up and heaving
in these ever-fucking-decreasing
circles around you.

this static and tangle...

you are inexplicably in my bones today, rat. perhaps it is because you are, in fact, so far away from my bones, they are missing you. and i am drawn to others that spark and sparkle like you do. or at least poorer imitations of that flux. my spine explodes with the anticipation of nothing in particular. and my lungs are left dazed and confused in the aftermath. and you are still not here. as if my explosions will pique your interests. i should know better by now. i should also know better than to throw myself head-first into this self-indulgent maelstrom. when will i put filters on this fire? so, as this rip-tide drags me sideways into the path of strangers and people i think nothing of, my desire to hide grows until i realise that it is not my hatred for them that i'm feeling, but my love for you that shakes me. it's not irrational. i know my place. but it is there, distant and resilient. it is not of your concern. never was. but i feel it seep out and encase me in that 'it's-not-fair' tantrum. it's a fickle and sweaty grip. there is no easy resolve? except for a conversation with you. a conversation with break. balm for my bones, rat. so i turn to my own little world and wander. sit restless at my keys and hope. search the night from the safety of my tome. and this fucking sleep, this rotten graze. choked, a-wash with the headlights, the moonlight, the twilight victims of your wake. we wait together. all the flotsom and waste. knowing our place and loving it willingly. knowing that there is nothing else we can do. we are static and tangle, peace and a violent arrest, hope and grudging acceptance. you are my anchor. lost and barnacled. i watch you with love and then whisper farewell.

an open letter to those i cannot reach...

when i think about my future, i think about a time beyond our pain, beyond my breath and beyond these years. and i look back on my life with a contentment very few will ever know. a contentment that comes from having loved the way i loved him. from having been graced with his savagery, his acceptance, and the beautiful melée of his footfalls. even my dust and bones will adore him - of this, i am sure.

from the old rocking chair in my mind, i see a skid row kid, sore, slouching, and with sleep in his eyes. he looks at me from my aging memories and smirks. twenty-foot tall and skinny as a rat. he drinks whisky and weeps. he stirs the shit he can't find the wherewithal to change. maybe he doesn't want to. maybe he doesn't have it in him. maybe his dysfunctional chemicals robbed him of this. he was a ghost then, and from this ancient memory he is a ghost still. when the dust settles, i find him a-top the golden gate bridge. trying to roll a j in the gale. maybe he'll succeed, or maybe he'll just throw a tantrum. from beneath the ragged tendrils, from through his eloquent teeth comes the pretence of a 'thank you', and a nod. and then he's gone.

as in life, i will caress his periphery, knowing that i have made concrete out of our dying flesh. those too dumb to register his flagrant disregard will be dutifully ignored. i will furnish the brave with his words. there will be but a few. scruffy students will find copies of his collected works hiding in library corners. you will be immortal, honey baby. yes.

to him now - thank you, sir. i know i cannot save you, but i can still sing your gospel - in every song that i write, in every grin that i wear, and in every toast that i raise. these are for you, my beautiful bleue. my best friend.

O.