I'm due to fall in love again -
My senses tell me thus;
My mind is not my own again
My soul is full of fuss
Between my sheets I turn and twist,
In dreams my torment keeps
I cannot stand for consciousness
I do not want to sleep
My limbs are fire; thoughts run trill
My heart is sober, still,
Until -
My eyes start misting at his name...
I'm due to fall in love again.
Friday 26 June 2009
Saturday 20 June 2009
Friday 19 June 2009
The Visitor
His prescence
Heavy in air like incense
With the oppressive silence of cathedrals
He moves
With scratching skin
Fierce fingertips forage
My skin; 'like glass', says he
And signing his name across my breast
Raises the digit to trace my mouth
Lips, lychee ripe and cupid curved,
Press full against his hot hands
And hot hands hard on my cheek
My head is turned
His breath
Electric
On my neck
I pull away to see his face -
Then
Lips bruising mine
He feeds
Heavy in air like incense
With the oppressive silence of cathedrals
He moves
With scratching skin
Fierce fingertips forage
My skin; 'like glass', says he
And signing his name across my breast
Raises the digit to trace my mouth
Lips, lychee ripe and cupid curved,
Press full against his hot hands
And hot hands hard on my cheek
My head is turned
His breath
Electric
On my neck
I pull away to see his face -
Then
Lips bruising mine
He feeds
Thursday 18 June 2009
Excerpt from The White Moth
When I was very little, so little I now only have soft, faded, misted memories of that time, like looking at them through a very old warped glass bottle – when I was little, I would sit on the floor in the silence that surrounded me whilst my mother read a newspaper, and tell her “I want to go home”. “You are home”, she would say. “Yes,” I replied, “but, I want to go home”.
Because a home is not just a house; it is not always material, it is not always bricks and mortar. Home is sometimes simply the place where you belong. It is the place your soul yearns for. It is the feeling of warm sunshine on your back whilst you sit on soft, freshly mown lawns with birds tweeting in the background and a soft breeze gently stroking your arm and forehead; soft, fluffy, feather light clouds above you drifting like dandelion seeds across the endless blue.
Home; it could be within a group of people, it could be on the other side of the planet in a place you have never lived before and so far removed from the place you were born – and yet you may find yourself feeling more at home than you ever did in your own home town. Because sometimes home is something only for the peace of the soul; not where your sofa and bed are, or where your mail gets delivered.
And it was that home I searched for, for years before, and for years afterwards. I moved to so many different towns, lived with so many different people, and every time I would never find myself satisfied, and so before long I would be packing my bags again. And I still search; although now, I know I will never go back, I will never find it. The home I seek is behind me; it is the town barely in view still from the window of the departed train, fading further from view with each turn of the wheel, each breath, each year. There is no way back, only the sentence of constant travel further away from it.
And then there is him. The times I have cried out loud for him and he does not come; and mysteriously, those times when I do not, my sleep is flooded with him. Do I know who he is? Or is he just a face to whom I attach the character of a person tailor-made to fit the home-sick spirit which stirs, like an unborn child, in my belly. We sit and we talk sometimes throughout those nights where he chooses to visit. Sometimes we don't talk; sometimes there is no need. And so then, on afternoons where I have little cause for anything else, sometimes I sit and remember little things. Like the way his lips would feel when he kissed my neck; the softness of them against my skin, and then, the feeling of his gentle breath causing that delicious sensation to start as a tingle that trickled down and across my shoulder blades like tiny electric currents, growing into an overwhelming shivering stroke down my spine and culminating in a deep intense aching for him that caused warmth and want in places that only a lover knows.
One day, when my hair is faded and my skin has turned to crumpled paper, and the reflection in the mirror day by day grows all the more unlike the faded photographs of me in some dusty album; there will come a time when I will be able to go home, and after the darkness, I will open my eyes again, and I will be standing on a bright platform, the sun warm on my back. And when the last train departs the station on the long journey back; when I start to catch sight of it, excitedly, in the distance, every turn of the wheel taking me back to where I belong; the breath will rise in me, my heart will swell.
And there on the empty platform at the end of the line, I will see the figure of a man. I will finally feel strong arms around me, and I will smell the old familiar warmth of his skin as I nuzzle into his neck, and I will taste the sweet warm tears that will roll down my cheeks and over my lips. At last, it will be final. I will not have to wake up in an empty room alone afterwards willing myself back to sleep in order to live some more of that precious pretence.
And the mourners will come, but there should be no tears. Let them fly banners and sing on that day; that wonderful day when finally, she has returned to the place she belonged.
Welcome home.
Because a home is not just a house; it is not always material, it is not always bricks and mortar. Home is sometimes simply the place where you belong. It is the place your soul yearns for. It is the feeling of warm sunshine on your back whilst you sit on soft, freshly mown lawns with birds tweeting in the background and a soft breeze gently stroking your arm and forehead; soft, fluffy, feather light clouds above you drifting like dandelion seeds across the endless blue.
Home; it could be within a group of people, it could be on the other side of the planet in a place you have never lived before and so far removed from the place you were born – and yet you may find yourself feeling more at home than you ever did in your own home town. Because sometimes home is something only for the peace of the soul; not where your sofa and bed are, or where your mail gets delivered.
And it was that home I searched for, for years before, and for years afterwards. I moved to so many different towns, lived with so many different people, and every time I would never find myself satisfied, and so before long I would be packing my bags again. And I still search; although now, I know I will never go back, I will never find it. The home I seek is behind me; it is the town barely in view still from the window of the departed train, fading further from view with each turn of the wheel, each breath, each year. There is no way back, only the sentence of constant travel further away from it.
And then there is him. The times I have cried out loud for him and he does not come; and mysteriously, those times when I do not, my sleep is flooded with him. Do I know who he is? Or is he just a face to whom I attach the character of a person tailor-made to fit the home-sick spirit which stirs, like an unborn child, in my belly. We sit and we talk sometimes throughout those nights where he chooses to visit. Sometimes we don't talk; sometimes there is no need. And so then, on afternoons where I have little cause for anything else, sometimes I sit and remember little things. Like the way his lips would feel when he kissed my neck; the softness of them against my skin, and then, the feeling of his gentle breath causing that delicious sensation to start as a tingle that trickled down and across my shoulder blades like tiny electric currents, growing into an overwhelming shivering stroke down my spine and culminating in a deep intense aching for him that caused warmth and want in places that only a lover knows.
One day, when my hair is faded and my skin has turned to crumpled paper, and the reflection in the mirror day by day grows all the more unlike the faded photographs of me in some dusty album; there will come a time when I will be able to go home, and after the darkness, I will open my eyes again, and I will be standing on a bright platform, the sun warm on my back. And when the last train departs the station on the long journey back; when I start to catch sight of it, excitedly, in the distance, every turn of the wheel taking me back to where I belong; the breath will rise in me, my heart will swell.
And there on the empty platform at the end of the line, I will see the figure of a man. I will finally feel strong arms around me, and I will smell the old familiar warmth of his skin as I nuzzle into his neck, and I will taste the sweet warm tears that will roll down my cheeks and over my lips. At last, it will be final. I will not have to wake up in an empty room alone afterwards willing myself back to sleep in order to live some more of that precious pretence.
And the mourners will come, but there should be no tears. Let them fly banners and sing on that day; that wonderful day when finally, she has returned to the place she belonged.
Welcome home.
The Man I Can Charleston With...
There is a man - I'll tell you about him:
He's fairly tall, has great panache,
Slicked black hair, pencil moustache,
Neat and dapper, handsome, smart,
A gentleman after my own heart!
A side parting, yes - and moving on,
A smile that outshines the sun.
Brown eyes has he, with visions deep
And soft lips that are mine to keep.
My man wear boaters, blazers, ties
Wears Oxford Bags (he's so fashion-wise)
The occasional monacle for his weak left eye
And a pocket watch to keep track of time
And do you know - it's such a shame!
I have to play this lonely game,
But there's nobody I can blame
For my lack of gents to claim
To fit the description of my beau -I guess that I'll just never know
The man I can Charleston with.
He's fairly tall, has great panache,
Slicked black hair, pencil moustache,
Neat and dapper, handsome, smart,
A gentleman after my own heart!
A side parting, yes - and moving on,
A smile that outshines the sun.
Brown eyes has he, with visions deep
And soft lips that are mine to keep.
My man wear boaters, blazers, ties
Wears Oxford Bags (he's so fashion-wise)
The occasional monacle for his weak left eye
And a pocket watch to keep track of time
And do you know - it's such a shame!
I have to play this lonely game,
But there's nobody I can blame
For my lack of gents to claim
To fit the description of my beau -I guess that I'll just never know
The man I can Charleston with.
'The Dance'
We have danced before, you and I
In days when there were Castles In the Air
We have danced: I remember it by your eyes,and by the way you part your hair.
These derelict days sometimes summon
A conjuring of my soul
At some musty relic – and I recollect
As if of it, I already knew
And I am captivated by that sweet sudden sense of déjà-vu.
Of that past life, some things remain;
The music has changedbut
The steps are the same.
In days when there were Castles In the Air
We have danced: I remember it by your eyes,and by the way you part your hair.
These derelict days sometimes summon
A conjuring of my soul
At some musty relic – and I recollect
As if of it, I already knew
And I am captivated by that sweet sudden sense of déjà-vu.
Of that past life, some things remain;
The music has changedbut
The steps are the same.
Gone Missing
Did they ever find him?
Radio Inventor Gone.
Patent Notice Reaches Home After Engineer Has Disappeared.
Anthony Bosson, 28 years old, of 113-13 Atlantic Avenue, Richmond Hill, a radio engineer, disappeared from home last Friday. Yesterday his sister, Mrs. Mary Schad, with whom he lived in Richmond Hill, received a letter for him from the Patent Bureau in Washington, announcing the issuance to Bosson of a patent for a radio device.Mrs. Schad reported her brother’s disappearance to the police of the Richmond Hill Station. She said he had devoted years to the development of a special radio, and for many months worked day and night to perfect an invention which he wanted patented, which, according to Mrs. Schad, was meant to “receive normally inaudible signals.” Mrs. Schad reported that her brother was of a uniquely creative type, and was guided in the development of his invention by images he got in dreams.Bosson was impatient to hear from Washington after he applied for the patent, and always hurried home in the evening to see if the expected letter had arrived. Mrs. Schad reported he had been more than usually agitated in recent days.Friday night he failed to come home, and has not been seen by his family or friends since. He had $248 with him on the day he disappeared. He is 5 feet 5 inches tall and weighs 135 pounds. He wore a brown suit and brown overcoat.
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