I loose myself
in the process of someone else
when I fall in
an out of love
but I still push down your zipper
night skies and
washed out droplets on the window pane
I smell you on this 846 night train
in the feeling of cold
you still keep me warm
as you compress to me
I caress every inch
of your chest
and hope to confess you by name
as I drop lower to loosen
your eyes no longer visible
inside darkened desires
I close my eyes and secretly smile
inside your mouth
I want you to feel everything and depend on my touch
tell me what kind of night this is
and I’ll shout out loud my affection
There’s a feeling that one cannot quite depict – to begin where it ended; The Transparent Self and an Absolute other’- or in reverse; ‘An Absolute Self and a Transparent Other’.
This transparency belongs to the self and is something that you think you should be – someone that you are but do not show – a one-self but also another-self, elsewhere. There are multiple transparencies, but still you can never find the one that makes an entrance for the exit point (manifesting into the room with multiple people), however it floats around and you begin to wonder why it has taken you so long to access this self that cannot be fully exposed, but its presence is there as you can feel it. But the problem is that you’re the only one who can.
It’s 4pm and I haven’t heard. The fountains sound beautiful. Especially in the heat of the afternoon. The sun is burning my left arm that is holding this page as I write. I miss it. I’m missing everything but I’m not sure whom or why.
I’ve spent the afternoon wondering around quaint east end shops that ease happiness within them – peaceful and friendly as I pick up odd shaped vases and coffee cups. I’m touching materialism; items that I’m not going to buy but would look pretty in my home, somewhere else that’s not here.
I’ve filled myself up with expectations of you along with the idea that I may just hate you slightly for the way you are, but of course that isn’t true. I sincerely adore you – it’s what made me like you in the first place. It’s mixing and pooling through me as I try to explain your actions to myself when you were here. It was raining and I can still hear it. I can still smell you and I can still taste you in this stillness, but your eyes don’t see me anymore. Your words don’t move me anymore and my hands don’t touch you anymore. It’s cold but the rain keeps it warm inside a safe space with you. I’m leaning on the beat of your chest where desires override conceptions of reality. The electric ocean of sound is drowning, and through the glass we cannot touch. Ear pressed I read to you as you sleep. But I’m not sure you can hear:
“Your cravings fill me and your scent becomes me, and I hear you screaming in the silence and your voice rises in the mute as waves crash before you. So silent and still. Where you embedded my head with your hands. My mouth is filled with earth like a blow against the wind, stopping myself from measuring myself with your breath. And I name you softly, and I know that you hear me, and I think of you in my always. You’ve moved me and my touch, and I know that you reached me” …
I look for you, always. I follow you and I embrace the cold now that has crept in unknowingly. It’s all for you but it’s different now. I know. You didn’t take all of me with you. Just a small fraction that may erase over time. But when you left, you left every single part of you with me and it kills me to still feel it. The broken pieces of me are scattered between every whole part of you as I attempt to piece something together between the cracks that I hold onto.
light me up
and watch me burn
slowly as I enter your mouth
like a pooled haze of taste
and a feeling that won’t last
more than a minute
as you breathe me out
I am the one that will
make you fall to your knees
and beg me for more
when I release you
release me too
and stub me gently
like the post orgasmic settings
of the seconds, before
when colour fades
from red to white
and they melt
away with the water
falling down my face
diluted and distilled
like the dilated pupils I see you through
when I look at you
when colours change
from silver to blue
the false platinum pools
over my hands
like the dirt that remains
on my fingertips
from not touching you
and a lifting of lust
or something on the lines
of this lost feeling
of excitement and regret
in turn, approaches, I then colour. spin this.
I and take it. couldnt resist it in a great lost new
and lost the colloquialness off all of that – lost the register but why? I became ever looking but didn’t I become lost. something why and something found, or to find this.
had that doing of that I had to do, lost why, that doing to do? I too far I, me, not-so-serious forgotten. I forgotten. I forgotten all of that.
Count the I in me, and was the I that doing in return – that colour looking reducing. the turn, taken known bit.
So was colloquial the first doing of attention? what am, what is this …
(nonsense and complete sense)
functions of bodily fluids. or the lack of …
you make some kind of beautiful mess that no one really
understands, so the sentence becomes poetry and repetitive.
but you do it anyway, and you tell it more than once with a bit of hope that someone might just be on that same page. because it makes
every single sense of the world to place
untold words into the shape of something like a
breast — but it’s not entirely a breast, no.
but it could be.
so then what do you do with it?
break it up into tiny fragments and pull every single piece apart until one
can completely represent you. decompose and breakdown every single
meaning of what this could be, just then, you might realise that everything is worthy, meaningful and consisting of the unnoticed …
no? … didn’t think so.
it’s not supposed to.
and you hold him
and you ride him
like a horse
left to lie
in a coffin
full of hose spit
and you place a hand on my left knee
please look at me
he watched you perform
firing your breasts
as you arch over
until he comes
like the bullet in your loaded gun
hit the ground heavy,
this soft gentle leaf
the sky is getting a little lighter now
a weightless lift of nothingness
Notting Hill and the Hugh,
Grants are gone
and pretty blocks stand straight,
Motorcycles pass this
little Venice .
theres no one wearing masks but me – and
the end is horrid so I quickly put it out
numbness of the knees,
needs and please.
a hello and a how are you
the bags are full –
a real weight now.
the weigh in like a pendulum
backwards and forwards yet not going anywhere
the private and secure
come closer and feel me
i can feel you
the water is drying now
but not quite a drout.
the sweeping removes all traces