Brain fart
Thursday, July 26, 2007
A summer
Lying in the dark by the French doors,
Her naked body takes the colour of the moon.
The curtains are undrawn,
And the outside looks in like an eye. ¶ 1:36 pm 0 comments
Her naked body takes the colour of the moon.
The curtains are undrawn,
And the outside looks in like an eye. ¶ 1:36 pm 0 comments
Monday, July 23, 2007
Another temporary pattern in the sand.
She knows I’d grind her pelvis into the dirt,
If she wanted me to.
She’s avoiding it like the plague,
I can feel it between the lines
And at the base of my imagination…
It prods me like a knife in the base of my stomach. ¶ 11:35 pm 0 comments
If she wanted me to.
She’s avoiding it like the plague,
I can feel it between the lines
And at the base of my imagination…
It prods me like a knife in the base of my stomach. ¶ 11:35 pm 0 comments
A load of shit.
I remember you were the first person I talked to about my feelings at 17… no one else had taken an interest in them before. We were young, drunk and in the back garden of one of the roughest pubs of our home town. You took my hand and confessed to self harming when you were younger, not for attention like your other friends, but because you ‘really meant it’. I remembered the group of girls you hung around with at school, before I knew you. We were at other ends of the social scale. You hung around with the cool hard girls, some of them were bullies. Me, I just kept my eyes lowered and my spine straight….I was never weak, but I was terrified of being noticed by anyone. I remembered their cuts being shown off with some kind of pride in classes; some girls would even yank rough slices down their arms in the middle of lessons with compasses. A friend of mine would burn the backs of her hands with aerosols held directly over the skin. I could see some of it was for show, but you, you really meant it. You said it really caned. I had already acknowledged to myself that I was in love with you, you telling me this and more made my heart just come out of my chest and out to you in the piece of air between us where we were straddling the same side of the picnic bench. We confessed things to each other…..not everything. Some things I didn’t have a comprehension of yet. We were both different to other girls…that much was obvious at the time. We always stood too close, sat too close, did everything too close. I felt so huge and unattractive around you. Maybe I never told you the way I felt because I was too ashamed of myself, not because I was ashamed of liking girls.
The way you were with me was so different that night. Other people’s problems had always come first, but here I was, spouting shit that had lived in me like a black hole.
Things changed after that… We weren’t really girlish after that. No more you bending over in dressing room mirrors so I could see if your knickers showed when choosing short skirts. We still said we were girlfriends to keep men at bay, but it was with a different edge…
The same night you tried to kiss me on the town war memorial, we snuck two bottles of beer out of the pub and sat there like tramps watching people get in and out of taxis opposite us. You tried to kiss me to freak out some old ladies who were getting out of a cab, but I was petrified and laughed if off.
A while later you told me on the phone you couldn’t be bothered keeping in touch with me, so I hung up on you. We haven’t seen or spoken to each other since. You flitted off to university and got another special friend from Wigan. You told me about sharing the same bed together all the time and showed me a passport picture you kept in your wallet of her – I guessed the rest.
You wrote to me out of the blue three years later, saying sorry for being a bitch and ‘dogging me out’. I wrote back but heard nothing….I guess maybe you just needed closure.
I still think of you sometimes, of how I felt when you said I could lay my head on your belly on my bed, when you wrote to me announcing the loss of your virginity…how you regretted it ‘proper dead bad’. Of revising A levels together sitting close at my parents dining room table, getting so wasted I couldn’t understand what the hell you were saying to me….fielding squaddies sometimes unsuccessfully in the local armpit of a club. But most of all for the way you listened, you were the best friend I’d ever had. ¶ 5:14 pm 0 comments
The way you were with me was so different that night. Other people’s problems had always come first, but here I was, spouting shit that had lived in me like a black hole.
Things changed after that… We weren’t really girlish after that. No more you bending over in dressing room mirrors so I could see if your knickers showed when choosing short skirts. We still said we were girlfriends to keep men at bay, but it was with a different edge…
The same night you tried to kiss me on the town war memorial, we snuck two bottles of beer out of the pub and sat there like tramps watching people get in and out of taxis opposite us. You tried to kiss me to freak out some old ladies who were getting out of a cab, but I was petrified and laughed if off.
A while later you told me on the phone you couldn’t be bothered keeping in touch with me, so I hung up on you. We haven’t seen or spoken to each other since. You flitted off to university and got another special friend from Wigan. You told me about sharing the same bed together all the time and showed me a passport picture you kept in your wallet of her – I guessed the rest.
You wrote to me out of the blue three years later, saying sorry for being a bitch and ‘dogging me out’. I wrote back but heard nothing….I guess maybe you just needed closure.
I still think of you sometimes, of how I felt when you said I could lay my head on your belly on my bed, when you wrote to me announcing the loss of your virginity…how you regretted it ‘proper dead bad’. Of revising A levels together sitting close at my parents dining room table, getting so wasted I couldn’t understand what the hell you were saying to me….fielding squaddies sometimes unsuccessfully in the local armpit of a club. But most of all for the way you listened, you were the best friend I’d ever had. ¶ 5:14 pm 0 comments
Sunday, July 22, 2007
A consummate post
I was just thinking of a way to express ‘consumed by’ and consummate popped up in my head. Although not the same thing at all, consummate is an interesting word…a web definition is ‘having or revealing supreme mastery or skill.’ Is that how the groom saw himself on the wedding night in times of old? I pondered with a laugh. But then I saw ‘complete: perfect and complete in every respect’ and ‘make perfect; bring to perfection’ and consummate became a very beautiful word indeed if thinking in terms of relationships and lovemaking…. But then I saw ‘fulfil sexually; "consummate a marriage"’ and it became a formal, dutiful word. Gone was the romance…!
¶ 4:17 pm 0 comments
Saturday, July 21, 2007
The cider got me.
Ugh it’s like kicking a puppy every drunken convo we have…I’m not sure I can take any more. My hardness makes you cry and hurt for days. My guilt makes me hurt for…not as long. My cackhanded way of explaining things hurts you for days. You running off or ignoring me when I try to explain is exhausting. You misunderstanding me all the time hurts. Not being able to say what I want hurts. The things coming out my mouth hurt you for days. I’m a shit. You hurt. I say I’m a fucking shit. You cry a bit more. I’m obviously a social retard. You reading into what I say hurts me and worries both of us. I’m so tired. Tired of this. Your expectations hurt me. You looking out for anything that might hurt you hurts me. You look for reasons to be wounded. The fact I pay for your insecurities hurts me. The fact I’m so blunt hurts you. The fact I can’t be blunt hurts me. The fact you don’t know me properly hurts me. The fact I can’t be myself around you hurts me. I know I'm not bloody perfect.
¶ 1:09 am 0 comments
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
For G
In my dream it is dark with
Film noir lighting,
In fire red and bottle blue.
On a beaten up old bed
Lies just me and you.
A tired velvet covering
Which has seen so many at rest,
Lies crisply and softly
In mounds and pits beneath.
A creaking portable
Lights up the bed scene,
Softly.
It casts faint shadows from
The raised faded roses on the counterpane
We are clean from a bath, like children,
Just faintly damp.
Light cotton nightdresses cover everything,
But hide nothing when lying so close to each other.
I think we are backstage somewhere,
It is open but the world is so closed in
On our bed scene.
Scenery stands silently propping the world up.
You are beautiful lounging there,
At home in fawn flowered softness.
We smell of bubble bath and cotton innocence.
I lean a little closer and murmer “I think I need a lover.”
You are startled yet warm, you misheard.
“You want me to be your lover?” you say,
In a normal everyday, friendly hopeful way.
On the spot, I can’t lie, I say “yes”
I lean over and sink into you,
Into the cotton, the velvet, your body
The softness of the kiss is so perfect,
It all cumulated into this…
Your body warmly giving way. ¶ 10:54 pm 2 comments
In my dream it is dark with
Film noir lighting,
In fire red and bottle blue.
On a beaten up old bed
Lies just me and you.
A tired velvet covering
Which has seen so many at rest,
Lies crisply and softly
In mounds and pits beneath.
A creaking portable
Lights up the bed scene,
Softly.
It casts faint shadows from
The raised faded roses on the counterpane
We are clean from a bath, like children,
Just faintly damp.
Light cotton nightdresses cover everything,
But hide nothing when lying so close to each other.
I think we are backstage somewhere,
It is open but the world is so closed in
On our bed scene.
Scenery stands silently propping the world up.
You are beautiful lounging there,
At home in fawn flowered softness.
We smell of bubble bath and cotton innocence.
I lean a little closer and murmer “I think I need a lover.”
You are startled yet warm, you misheard.
“You want me to be your lover?” you say,
In a normal everyday, friendly hopeful way.
On the spot, I can’t lie, I say “yes”
I lean over and sink into you,
Into the cotton, the velvet, your body
The softness of the kiss is so perfect,
It all cumulated into this…
Your body warmly giving way. ¶ 10:54 pm 2 comments
Poor Chaps
The poetry seems to be having a rest… I had a moment of clarity today which I wanted to write down but not anywhere too personal.
My decision to never let a man touch me again in that way was the right one. At moments of inclarity I remember how fun men could be at the start… but then how the boredom, the numbness, the violation of further…. Err relations felt. Wearing a mask was unfair on me and unfair on him, unfair on the male sex as it made me resent them for having a more straightforward and immediate sex drive. Men get a bad enough press as it is.
A respectful man would cherish his lover as I would….I know plenty of straight couples who would agree. He wouldn’t see his lover as a sex object. He’ll see his lover the way I’d see mine and want to please her too.
Wearing a mask and pretending I was feeling something for them I wasn’t, kidding myself, was leading them on. Their reactions were in part my fault. If they didn’t know any better, I couldn’t blame them… These men were not pervy. Funny how time gives you perspective on your errors. I was involved with some lovely men, who were wonderful friends too. How awful they obliviously made me feel cheap and objectified and resentful sometimes. They’d be mortified if they knew.
Of course there are nasty pieces of work who do objectify women, but I’m talking about the nice guys here. It wasn’t them who made me feel cheap and used, it was me.
Being involved with men when being in denial has not been the only time I’ve made myself feel cheap and nasty… friends and strangers have had their part too…but not to their knowledge! When I used to dress up to show off the assets, most of the attention I would get would be of a sexual nature… getting called a sex kitten all the time, people talking about or to my breasts all the time….couples would proposition me, people would just plain leer at me…. I just used to feel awful. But as soon as I covered up again, and repressed my flirtatious side it all stopped…I won’t flirt unless I seriously mean it now (for a start it’s deeply unfair to flirt and not mean it!) and the assets only come out for special occasions! It’s been that way for years now, it’s good, but sometimes I miss the attention. I am a bit of a closet exhibitionist.
Other women, not just men have also made me feel cheap and objectified… but only because I was putting myself out there as someone I’m not or as feeling something I wasn’t.
Maybe I got what I deserved! If people think you want something you really don't, who should you really blame? ¶ 10:37 pm 2 comments
The poetry seems to be having a rest… I had a moment of clarity today which I wanted to write down but not anywhere too personal.
My decision to never let a man touch me again in that way was the right one. At moments of inclarity I remember how fun men could be at the start… but then how the boredom, the numbness, the violation of further…. Err relations felt. Wearing a mask was unfair on me and unfair on him, unfair on the male sex as it made me resent them for having a more straightforward and immediate sex drive. Men get a bad enough press as it is.
A respectful man would cherish his lover as I would….I know plenty of straight couples who would agree. He wouldn’t see his lover as a sex object. He’ll see his lover the way I’d see mine and want to please her too.
Wearing a mask and pretending I was feeling something for them I wasn’t, kidding myself, was leading them on. Their reactions were in part my fault. If they didn’t know any better, I couldn’t blame them… These men were not pervy. Funny how time gives you perspective on your errors. I was involved with some lovely men, who were wonderful friends too. How awful they obliviously made me feel cheap and objectified and resentful sometimes. They’d be mortified if they knew.
Of course there are nasty pieces of work who do objectify women, but I’m talking about the nice guys here. It wasn’t them who made me feel cheap and used, it was me.
Being involved with men when being in denial has not been the only time I’ve made myself feel cheap and nasty… friends and strangers have had their part too…but not to their knowledge! When I used to dress up to show off the assets, most of the attention I would get would be of a sexual nature… getting called a sex kitten all the time, people talking about or to my breasts all the time….couples would proposition me, people would just plain leer at me…. I just used to feel awful. But as soon as I covered up again, and repressed my flirtatious side it all stopped…I won’t flirt unless I seriously mean it now (for a start it’s deeply unfair to flirt and not mean it!) and the assets only come out for special occasions! It’s been that way for years now, it’s good, but sometimes I miss the attention. I am a bit of a closet exhibitionist.
Other women, not just men have also made me feel cheap and objectified… but only because I was putting myself out there as someone I’m not or as feeling something I wasn’t.
Maybe I got what I deserved! If people think you want something you really don't, who should you really blame? ¶ 10:37 pm 2 comments
