Life Poisons

So, what’s your poison?
Laboured breathing; a shallow hovel
Closing its arms around heavy smoke and drink.

Poisons all round, come see.
I got…Anxiety, Weeping Guilt, a shot of Resentment
left from the Lucky Ones the night before…
I got Fatigue, Obligation (by the way,
pick of the month),
Greed of which I’ll toss in an extra glass on the house…
and I have some spicy, dark Fear and Concern with the usual
Over-processed Workaholic brew…

It’s a weeknight;
staring through the empty air,
passing cold fingers along my skin.
It’s a hollow bone feeling,
feeling metal poles, tin-legs
carrying your tired body home.
So, what’s my poison of choice tonight?

We’ve been away for weeks now;
greeting people and business and fleshing out
those desires for ourselves.
Those desires are swirling clouds of reality, settling
like dust sprinkles, sparkling in morning sun.
The journey home of thousands of working adults,
counting green little rectangles floating in the corner of their minds.

We see the sun rise over a startlingly black coffee and a rushed toast
before even noticing how we breathe or feel or rustle in the morning chill.
A shot of sarcasm twisting through veins and off into the thick of routine.
Superiors sending mixed messages and talking overtime;
the half-hour break left to twiddle
your thumbs and seeing time’s hands slow;
the messages you scroll for and don’t receive because
you become exhausted, even to commit to messaging first.
Careful now, caution is best when handling your chosen poison.
No mess here, I take no responsibility if you break a little.

I don’t get to see you.
Eyes and mouth and skin and lips and tongue and hands,
lost to me in the realm of work and all its other meanings;
spending forever making every boss of yours happy and satisfied
for a reward of green little papers stamped with numbers.
Lost in a sky like a drone.

I’m scared about the poisons you take,
in seedy places that strive for work alone, no play;
I’m scared you’ll grind yourself down and that every
phone call will make that clearer.
Hustle and bustle and swollen feet;
Losing notice of your breath and bones and
Warm pulsing cushions inside;
losing your feelings of love for someone;
Forgetting all about life and love outside some
Sliding glass doors.

These slouched, rumpled ladies and gents,
leaning on counters for all sorts of poisons,
Notice how your focus changes, how your four walls grow smaller.
I don’t want to call and know those prized green notes
are all you wake and plan and break yourself for.

All these poisons let us know we all get stuck
in a cynical, dark cycle of obligation, stress, sacrifice
and we all just miss each other, don’t you think?
Missing the hours holding hands,
feeling warm sun brush orange onto our faces,
Waking up with each other,
straddling sheets and breathing in kisses
and waking up for ourselves alone.

I admit.
I’ve never been in love before you.
People taste that word without
Knowing the taste they are looking for.
I was never in love until I fell into your embrace.
I had never felt loved until you showed me
I could be,
Showed me you,
My favourite person in all this world,
Loves me
Like
I
Love
You.

I don’t want to lose you to a
World of endeavors, brushed
Like dirt under the carpet of little green papers.
I want to spend more time feeling
Your heartbeat
Under my palm.

Otherwise you’ll become a lost thing in the sea.
Take some poison my dear, don’t speak
all the time, keep it secret and safe with you…
I’ll always be falling short for you,
when it’s my turn to take poisons, stay alert
all day and give in at night.
Living like I have a turn-around time.

I won’t speak about work. I won’t share anything I learn.
The only interest seems to lie in green papers and talk
Of boredom drones,
Flying wrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr between desks,
And loneliness and the poisons I make for myself.

So, what’s your poison?
Just try not to forget us,
Forget me,
When I set out on the green march myself.

*Artwork- Unknown*

The Blind Stars In Our Sky

I can only start
by saying
that I just feel so sad for you.
I feel so sad myself.
Seeing you like this.
Having to see myself like this,
beneath my whispery fingers,
watching you through this life.

What has been expected of you;
as a friend,
as a lover,
as a woman;
I can’t fathom the very holes
you ripped nails trying to
climb out from.

The things you learn to shoulder
on a small, knotted back,
are usually things that have been created by others.
Everything you touch and
everything
you
voice,
with the intent to mend,
becomes the stake they know how to use
against you.
All because you’ve already explained how fragile,
your world has made you become.

Because of your feelings,
your thoughts, which do more
at making you the person
that you are,
rather than the combination of body parts you own.

That disease of your mind
they remind you of,
using it to hide their own faults,
own self-blames.
That foul blackening spot,
soiling your attempts at healing.

Whatever expectation you are expected
to stretch to become,
that requirement isn’t the problem in their eyes.
They make you the problem,
for getting so emotional, so sensitive
so easily vulnerable and so easily hurt.
I’m so sad that they are blind to see
how emotion gives way to sincerity
and
care.

And how rational and forthright you are at protecting
yourself and
acknowledging you actually matter,
that gets shoved deep
where sticking your bleeding hands in any further
doesn’t reach it at all.

I’m so sorry
for all the pessimism
you’ve been taught.
For all the weary treads of your feet and
the straightened hunch of your back.
The lessons you’ve learnt make you unique,
yet they are the easiest to be taken from you.

The world is losing its stars, one by one.
All the people trodden on,
like a blanket of human dirt,
and all the people afraid to pick themselves
back up after a fall.
All the people coerced,
for the sake of ‘appreciation’
for the sake of preventing abandonment
for the sake of keeping the peace,
preventing the punches, the fights, the rude words,
preventing the verbal snap of words thrown like sharp twigs.
preventing your lover from losing his desire for you,
his love,
because you can’t give your hand and your legs,
no –your heart matters less-
to a simple release.
Feeling warm, gushing fluid as you
learn to patch over wounds that finally start to sting.

Such is the lonely, inexpressibly sad, lesson you’ve built
as your walls:
Beware of the people you allow to see you.
Beware of the people you welcome, and the people
you learn to say goodbye to.
Beware of the people that spread false hopes, sow false whispers
and rough caresses through your hair.

You can’t be violated
anymore
by dirty fingers.
You can’t be used again for this.
My fingers can’t touch you, to pull you from these
places again.
You learnt your lessons, made your reasons,
built your beliefs and swore to yourself,
to not allow that base, instinctual animal
you attract,
To come near you again.

You’ve seen enough self-war, on yourself, within your own body.
Made it a cave for all the monsters that stole your heart,
breathed life into you,
called you beautiful and let you choke on your own tears
when they left.

We found a way of making an excuse
that we aren’t good enough
for one person, and another, and another…
An excuse that we aren’t good enough
to meet a loveless need.

My heart hurts unbearably to know people
people can hurt you like this.

Are you supposed to be vulnerable
to love like you are expected
to be vulnerable to selfish love?
Is it desire, or a base instinct?
What will they use it for?
What will they learn about you?
That you’re so soft inside?
That you part and bow and purr at ease?

Does it reflect you,
or does it only reflect a person you have to be
for someone?
I know what you feel.

It’s being asked to forgo what you are,
And to neglect the fact you care much more deeply,
and just provide a need;
provide bread when you are starving yourself,
provide a service before you can
even take care
of yourself.

Being asked to provide something so
inherently intimate, on such whims,
I’m afraid for you.
How much learning and unlearning do you
need to swap
and change
for so many people?

If you’re desired, asking so much
and so hard to expect something so unmistakably,
unworldly,
unrealistically large,
does that hurt you more or less?
Does that wound your self-confidence,
Would your self-assured gaze,
wound your pride and your value of yourself?
I ask you,
what do you believe from that?

I’m so sorry you keep having to fight.
Fight to find an exemption, not just
another example.
And when you find such a sweet and gorgeous exemption,
you build up the fears that have been lying around in your head.
And you risk closing up when you shouldn’t at all.

This is an ode to you all.
All of us who cry, who feel anger,
who lie down at night to feel betrayed.

Strong women made weaker and more open
to ambush
because you have a pleasure spot between your legs.
Strong people told their emotions are just fragilities,
like broken bones that keep you in bed.
The strong ones who have been trampled enough,
that preserving love for yourself, admiration of your abilities
and preserving your heart and mind and that which you value as
a human with feelings…
becomes harder with every person who makes you feel so small.

And the people who hurt you, without any intent to,
don’t realise they hold so much potential to harm you.
Please forgive them,
but make sure you speak out about the hurt.

I made mistakes,
allowing people to hurt me and being afraid to tell them
they did hurt me.
For fear of abandonment,
For fear of them not loving me,
For fear of me learning that I need someone to remind me I can be loved.
For fear of falling into a corner.

I realise I can love myself. I can be fine, with a hole learnt to be filled and
nurtured by myself.
Looking over your shoulder, I only wish I could point and remind you
of what you deserve to feel and say.
Don’t let anyone belittle your feelings.
And let them know exactly if they do.
Because those feelings, that is what shows more attention and love and devotion
and desire,
than any tangled physical position can communicate.

You keep safe,
I’ll always be here when you need to talk.
To cry, to rest, to scream, to fear, to grieve over something.
The grief over a partner lost to you, because you didn’t give them
their expectation.
May I protect you as much as I can.
And,
you are such a brilliant star.
We need more of you in these skies,
so make sure you remember that
ok? xx

bear

*Feature Artwork: “Scarlet Ribbons” by Jack Vettriano*
*Concluding Image: “Bear Catching Stars”, artist ‘Katie’ (unknown)
 

Float Atop An Iceberg With Me

Dearest;

 

I’ve been thinking and thinking

every day.

About the cold that seeps under the covers;

smiles and lit eyes,

devoted lips and breath,

yet I find you colluding with the shadows above my bed,

whispers rippling around walls with

your face buried in your hands.

 

I can smell a sudden whiff

of intimacy, laid bare,

sprawled before my uncovered legs.

But,

Dearest,

I’ll never forget your soft face,

a warm candle glow casting the

shadows of an infuriated

scowl

beneath your soft skin.

 

A flicker of light,

candle sputter,

a caught breath,

closed legs,

shivers,

tight jaw and stiff back,

dearest, you turned away from

my scared face.

I remained a scared slave

sleeping beside the man I love.

Feeling my chest give out, heaving

sour, soiled breaths,

panting at the fading ceiling for warmth.

 

My bones chilled;

preventing tears from meeting my skin;

skin roughening,

a captured bird shedding feathers

out of season.

Dearest,

the night was cold.

I had the night slashing,

searing scrapes and tattooed bruises

greeting me in the early hours.

Slipping silently to hide and hope and

rattle around my brain,

the nightmares of a distance growing larger,

of a hallway stretching a walk into decades;

of the sticky thorns embedding when I decide no

and the dirty fall I receive, fall from your grace,

fall from your respect, fall from your opinion,

fall from your favour.

 

You all leave when you

don’t feel the attention that you want.

And you speak iciness when you

pick up

your things and leave

saying softly it’s all

alright.

 

Be a soldier;

mind your tongue;

watch your movements;

slide your hand back there

and your lips over here.

Don’t pull away;

don’t pull off;

keep engaged;

keep your allure;

don’t say no, always say yes.

 

Feel the post-traumatic stress,

licking your legs and bashing your skull.

Walk away and feel the shame,

the bitterness, the disappointment.

Walk away greasy in guilt,

the guilt I can’t help but feel all over,

guilt you rest on my shoulders,

Dearest.

 

I want to see the horizon,

but I feel I never can.

I’m busy keeping my eyes from

going cloudy and falling into

the same holes.

Float atop an iceberg,

not drown beneath it.

 

Dearest,

the world is teaching me that saying no

can be a crime.

Punished when giving over a yes,

to the fatally wrong man;

equally punished when I’m confused,

and unintentionally ignore the right one.

Be a soldier;

mind your tongue;

watch your movements,

and maybe you aren’t entitled to speak a no,

maybe for the sake of saving you harsh wounds,

silent pains and endless fears,

maybe the only sound and symbol

you make with your naked limbs,

should be yes.

 

Dearest, you are

the man I’ll never have the

heart to disappoint,

I’ll never have the heart to ever

hurt you.

The man I love more than seeing stars;

Dearest,

and yet you like to show me that I do

those things;

I do disappoint you often.

 

And so I spend my night,

drawing ink into the only explanation

I can give.

 

Remember my sad lullabies?

Remember the yes-es of this world,

I gave so freely;

I can only say I’m sorry dearest,

for how petrified I am.

Of being screamed at that I

can make no sense;

that’s it’s just months of all the same;

If I’d played the soldier long ago,

learnt to watch my feet,

learnt to equally fight and yield,

maybe I wouldn’t have to

frenzy,

over doing wrong in your eyes.

If I’d said yes the times I whispered no,

I wouldn’t have to hang myself upon this peg.

 

I wouldn’t have to cry.

I wouldn’t have to lose you somewhere in the cold night,

when the shadows play across your mind;

where the ceiling fades.

I wouldn’t have to fear myself.

 

Dearest,

I wouldn’t have to fear you building regret or

resentment

towards loving me.

For all the times I weep and

all the times

I apologise for myself

and all the times

I make mountains as obstacles for us through anxiety.

 

Dearest,

goodnight,

sweet dreams.

I’ll be here in the morning when you wake,

but

will you? xxx

 

– Artwork by Elisa Bertaglia “Water and Swimmer”

Reveries Behind Your Eyes

How can one turn a red rose purple?

The lightest of touches make for the strongest embraces.

Much like kissing flowers under

sunset’s gaze;

a glowing ebb of internal fireflies,

the way we look so deeply;

reach so strongly;

feel the heated bellows nestled

between chests and hands;

nose to nose, feeling sparks

and caressing flames.

Spent following the crooked paths,

that display our single footsteps,

before each other;

the cracks and splinters,

the shadows we dare play for each other,

cradled in each others arms.

The only thing that matters are the footsteps;

left as two patterns, now,

wandering any plain, any ocean,

holding hands together

in bed at dawn.

Counting down the thousands of steps

we take to show we are in love.

 

 

A young woman, kneading songs about the

thousands of darknesses

welcomed when you fall to your knees,

sowing love for a man.

A man always destined to love-

fleetingly-

then only love you as food for a man craving,

starved of intimacy.

Such little hope was already fading;

a night light switched off before a child is sure

there really aren’t monsters roaming at night.

But there came this one man,

the sweetest soul,

who had always been there, just a seat away,

who embraced this singing woman.

Heard her fears, heard her melodies,

heard her heart beat before sweet sleep.

A trembling touch, soft fingers,

tracing the body shapes of each other;

learning of each other under warm sun and soft moon.

Counting down the thousands of steps

we take to show we are in love.

 

And that sweet man was you.

Is you.

And that woman was me.

Is me.

 

 

We found each other.

Right before us, unknowingly, like

presents hidden around a house.

Rosy cheeks, the warmth of hot blood

beneath skin,

leaning in for

the tang of cherries in our mouths.

We found each other.

Right before us, unknowingly, like

unwrapped presents placed at our feet overnight.

Counting down the thousands of steps

we take to show we are in love.

 

 

And so this one faithful man,

happily drifting across reveries playing

wistful cadences behind his eyes,

changed the life of this damaged woman;

all sweet candy and drug,

left behind like used needles.

 

 

Curled up on a bed, composing

opening notes and words to this gentle man.

Curled up on a beach under stars, listening

to this man devote his heart to this woman wrapped

in her past and silences.

Curled up in warm arms, opening cracks and hearts

and finally understanding true comfort, true admiration,

true acceptance and peace sometimes clouded in

the gaze of lovers; sometimes hidden vendettas and

on second appearance fake smiles.

But not this time.

Curled up in soft embraces in the shade,

talking for hours, unwrapping flowers for each other.

Curled up in new places, new adventures,

seeking sun and snow, chasing each other’s smiles

and following our wandering, hand-held dreams.

 

 

All these lines, lyrics, involve this man.

You.

This woman left him tracing reveries, with careful fingertips,

brushstrokes on a painter’s canvas. He followed her, singing

and breathing colour into her world.

This man left her following in his wake, tantalised,

so humbled in her heart that such a wondrous man could

love her, truly.

She walked with him, blissfully in love and unaware of such past

chaos rooted deep in vines and stumps of her mind.

To fall in love was frightening, it always had the makings of

letting in the devil to her bed.

But she realised she had never felt love at all.

This, with this man, was what love was; she had never felt

so breathless, so comfortable letting a man into her erratic clockwork thoughts

before;

she realised she had never known what it was like to be loved before;

all this lightness spreading through her fingertips,

that is love.

And so this woman is in love with this man, to this day.

 

 

On an empty beach, smiling at the ocean,

she wants so many more shared memories, she can even see a future

so vividly, she wants to embrace it because he’s

right there in it, without any cold feet in sight.

And so this

is what you mean to me.

 

*Charles Amable Lenoir – Reverie Painting*

 

Our Insecurities – Men (photoshoot)

Insecurities…

We all have them. The degrees to which they affect us all varies from person to person but the notion as a whole is something we can all relate to; whether they’re ingrained into your personality, or are a construct of the the way in which society and the community around you tells you how you should be.

Prior to this photo shoot we asked men we know about their insecurities, to see what specifically they were insecure about. Those that answered provided an interesting insight into the variety of ways men feel insecure and particularly ostracised about opening up to them. Answers ranged from the way in which men perceive themselves to societal expectations placed on men, which accounts for a significant amount of the answers we received. Interestingly a significant percentage of the men asked were either uncomfortable to answer or gave flippant answers to the question posed to them of what were their specific insecurities.

Our photoshoot and following piece aim to address that it’s alright to have insecurities; it’s totally alright to talk about your insecurities. They’re not to be ignored in the hope they’ll go away. Have an open conversation about them and address them in a healthy manner. As well as this, we hope to highlight the media’s influence on our perception of ourselves and how we should be as a person, both internally and externally.

open-and-vulnerable

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*Model- Bailey Rodrigues*
*Photography- Hannah Robertson*
*Written piece- Bailey Rodrigues*

 

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An Ocean Dance At Twilight

A warmth I can’t equate

to anything that

blossomed and I could touch as real

in my life to date.

Watching an ocean dance at twilight,

shifting and settling into myself;

a return home

after a long retreat.

Filled as much as one can,

living in a partly broken glass.

 

A warmth I can’t equate,

that smile that kept the streetlights,

still humming on their own,

late at night.

An absolute joy,

to see me,

that kept the sands still and made

the waves unafraid to keep crashing on.

The light brightening settling eyes,

on me,

like the happiest moment

of any day,

is when I’m right there,

walking along your way.

 

A warmth I can’t equate,

settled side by side

wrapped in fresh air and

twinkling planets high above,

breathing down a clear night,

on souls forever fixed

in an achingly sweet moment;

watching paths cross,

almost collide,

with words of love and loyalty,

grace, beauty, adoration, bliss,

transfixed on the glimmering promise

of single coloured roses

as gifts

for a sweet girl

you say

and a whimsical romanticism not dead.

 

A warmth I can’t equate,

how unearthly beautiful

you let me feel

in your eyes;

love professed on empty beaches,

showered attention on a

long-time lonely girl

you melted and folded

into a goddess.

Love professed

for a patched-up

lady singing melodies,

and holding herself together

with decisions scorching her back,

confused nettles of feelings and

obligations, allowances,

grievances and sadness

bearing a weight on her slender shoulders;

She’s a creature holding aloft all the

wonders and hearts of decisions left to face.

 

A warmth I can’t equate,

as I am

the protagonist always

failing to make the right decision,

lost and redeemed and burdened

in every instalment;

no one has made me feel as wondrous

and special,

in all the times I’ve had lovers sit before me.

But this protagonist,

has not had the greatest

trove of romances, nor the heart

to carry much more fears;

pieces are given away,

in every extended touch and heartbeat,

so please beware,

what’s left.

 

A warmth I can’t equate,

right now, lost in every state,

but hope I can at least reciprocate,

in some way after healing has mended

and stitched

and time has played it’s course to warm cold feet.

This lady is afraid,

of how quickly you might have fallen,

for all her wise, sad songs.

A sweet, unsettling fantasy made reality.

 

But she knows.

Of this warmth.

No one can really equate.

 

*Artwork by Quibe-Close Noir Art Print*

In All The Times Spent Wandering

In all the time we’ve wandered,

spent landing from impossible heights;

dancing blind, in the dark, being fumbled and prodded

for feelings and requests,

the games we laugh at, wasted on self-confidence and

possession

I have much more than yours,

intoxicated on the thriving pulse of fearless flight,

we crash into opened arms,

not noticing the extent of the fall.

 

A wandering soul, I shall be.

Picking up sand on empty beaches,

spending time thinking of the footsteps,

surely imprinted on my trail I left behind.

You came and went.

And so you came and went.

Tumbling across my path,

like that cooling hot flush brought with salty ocean and rain.

 

Wandering past empty mountains,

looking over my shoulder to notice the

mortal statues I made of you,

and you,

and you,

my tended garden of people and places and things;

of darkness and light;

of scraped shells and glorious feathered wings;

of sickly love songs and hearts blazed;

of lonely nights waiting up for you,

and all the times you let me down.

 

Wandering alone and free,

the purple skies above offering sacred slumber.

I remain awake, watching stone eyes move

on me,

fixating on the bumps in the road,

tremors and falls in gentle dips unexpected

under my feet;

like you were.

Another came past, the smell of cut roses and

blushes minus a make-up brush;

shaking in the middle of your field of games,

playing rough and dirty,

feeding ego and primal instincts,

bent backwards and underneath,

an empty canvas for marred drawing;

it was erotic while it lasted,

but I turned to stone long before

you came back on your knees.

 

And all the time I’ve wandered this lonely escape,

I come to wonder at all my marvels,

the things that made you fall faintly for me,

and shrines of you,

and you, and you.

Whether we were meant to collect an exhibition

of second best loves;

successive wilting romances burnt on scorching days.

Whether we were meant to learn by breaking hearts;

making cold remnants left to mildew in the past.

 

Whether we make do with second best,

as close to first yet farther still;

because we don’t know what best is.

We know when it tumbles down,

like a broken house,

but to see it gone is much too late.

Safer to say yes to second best,

than risk the cold wandering left for us alone.

 

In all the times we’ve spent wandering.

And I’m still wandering.

Empty beaches and purple skies,

long past.

 

*Artwork unknown*

 

Escaping The Empty Earth

Tensions high,

like broken kite strings,

reaching further away,

escaping the empty earth

in your arms.

 

Creeping chatter,

pouring inky letters,

in runny messes

all over my hands,

feeling bruised by you;

the sting, the slap

as leaking words

drip drip drip

from your mouth,

the broken tap.

 

I’m tired.

I’m so tired of hearing

soft

whispered yearnings

scratching the back of your throat.

Desperation, loneliness?

You beg with the croon in your tone,

you play along like the gentle little

sweetling,

a songful, humming love,

all warm in cupped hands.

 

In all this time,

this achingly long time

I’ve played as your neat little trick;

the showman’s trusty pet,

small dove flying

as soon and only when you release me.

String caught up around my waist,

I’ll never fly too far.

 

As I walked away,

that night with the moon trailing my form,

and pooling in pillows cradled in my soft footsteps,

you watched my back

stretch lean and tall and

stand

away from you.

You looked back,

it was the moon shifting through my hair,

when I turned to notice

a head shake,

a blink in the empty settling air you left behind.

 

….Drip….drip….drip,

you leak all those notions I wished you

would one day say,

those heart-melting flatteries,

desirable admissions,

I’m the only one you want,

to keep you satisfied,

keep you going and touching and loving

and exploring and breaking,

until your other girl comes home.

You ask and plead and return,

lapping and licking in my arms,

wanting my form so bad again;

you cry for all the fun in the world,

but this time, it just can’t.

 

You’re just my broken tap.

You’d need to stop dripping dirty water one day.

You’d need to stop echoing around me at night,

cradling myself to keep my strength enough

to say no to what I wanted and got for so long.

 

But you’re just my delicate and lovely broken tap.

I’ll always love you somehow, and feel so dangerous,

intoxicating and breathtaking

as you made me so.

You showed me so.

But I can’t wait for you to cease on your own.

Pull me round with you, wait for you,

tossed like an empty drink because of you.

 

Maybe

I just need to let you

let me go.

Like I cried to let you go first.

 

*Photography unknown*

The Emotional Affair

I’m walking down a howling, windswept street;

an open avenue of untamed elements,

all icy scatter and driving push, pull,

forlorn crossed glances disguised at the last second

in a rush of slapping breeze,

pulled my face straight.

 

I’m walking down a street, peeking past corners,

wondering where you lead.

I walk and chase,

in the sharp, swollen bites of rain

rolling down my face and

pooling at my feet.

 

I’m walking down a street,

mind circling and picking over pieces of you.

In the furthest reaches, in the shade from awnings

of trampled, stampeded pavements,

I inch closer and escalate straight back.

 

I’m walking down a street, having an emotional affair with you;

my silky, sticky, sweetened crush;

a burn,

you make me cry.

You’re not a secret.

I’m stepping over city-clogged gutters and

dirty grass;

having forays and majestic waking daydreams

with all those startling crisp images

of you and me

you

and

me

bundled together like twisted wires.

Using each other like immortal weeds.

 

I’m walking down a howling, windswept street,

where blue sky begins to play peek-a-boo

trying not to cry.

I leave myself unguarded and playing at wounds,

thinking of you again.

 

But walking down this street,

I know you are futile game,

a persevering sweat beneath the blankets at night.

I know you prove an attractive devil,

but these tears cool the heat, the lust.

And by being swept up in these winds with me,

maybe I’m your devil, in the end.

 

*Art postcard (1910) – Fred Spurgin*

Swing Beneath A Swinging Moon

I get to swing,

swiftly,

under the swinging moon.

One leg up,

one leg down.

I get to be your mistress,

both legs up.

 

The second woman in the equation.

 

Called for the night,

set up a swinging cascade of

fuck-me fuck-yous

one leg up, one leg down.

Mixed messages, forays booked,

you treat me like your nasty secret,

forbidden jewel,

plaything.

 

Swinging interplay of heated tosses, pushing and pulling,

thrilling rides and moves and rhythms;

twists and turns, arches and rolls;

lying flat and stepping over;

I hear you grunting, breathing hot wind in my ear

like the wild thing I unleashed and let escape at night,

in the shadows of the furniture and seeping shades of black

because I can only cum

with the lights turned of.

I can only be with you

when the lights are turned off.

 

Snap from when I saw you breathing me in

under the sunshine,

falling with me onto soft grass and

achingly tender dreams.

Speaking of swinging hearts,

minds against us like dripping stains,

negotiating and planning and hoping

and

wrapping sweet candy for a later date.

And wrapping me in soft cloth to take out

when you are close to tears,

to bliss,

too lonely to sit right,

too lost in waiting for another

that you are over missing, wanting in the nights

I’m not with you.

 

Being the girl that has to

say no to you,

is exhausting.

And when you tell me,

in your arms,

what I’m not.

It.

Hurts.

 

You gave me the ground,

when all I could do was tumble.

Swinging high,

swinging low,

I get to be your mistress,

both legs up.

 

Come the night-time charades,

the night-time little lies like flicking dirty crumbs,

feeling base and wasted in the dark,

waiting for the answer you keep struggling to say

with frozen lumps of words dug down deep

like kicking rocks into a dried up lake.

Hear hear!

the mind games are here.

Playing fool and playing god,

dealing cuts of upper hands and

bent up cards, abused in your fingers.

Guess what you played for me?

Played on me?

 

I’ve stopped feeling necessary,

when it’s feeding your ego like feeling feeding fire.

You need me under your skin and

it burns me up like gasoline.

Swinging round and round we go,

I don’t need this anymore,

however good I am and nice I am,

and wholesome I am

under the table,

for your stupid decisions and weakened by

my confident temptations.

 

Use you,

use you up and push

your taint out of my heated blood;

swinging the right side up,

I get to find my strength,

that elusive comfortable integrity,

self-honesty

feeling the blaze under my skin of strength

you didn’t expect I’d wield.

 

I get to swing,

swiftly,

under the swinging moon.

Alone, or not,

at least my legs will be stretched beneath me,

to catch me if I fall.

 

*Artwork unknown- Pinterest*