You asked me to write you.
You asked me to write you and yet
And yet and yet
Here I am writing but it’s not what you’d like-
Not what you asked for, I suppose, not what you can use-
But that there are blue veins beneath your skin
Blue eyes to match
Blue lips- cyanotic- too long apnoeic
You play the role of the dead too well.
I wrote once of a girl who explored her insides
She was dead too, you know,
Preserved but cold; slippery and wet, still,
But yes, very dead.
For her traumatic, for me erotic,
Rather like you, like you,
You drive me to lick my lips
But I don’t know why.
I see, I see,
When I close my eyes I see
The imprint of your skeleton against that void
Not empty, but vast, vast, so vast
That any glimmer of anything else gets lost
Minutiae before- within- the face of god.
Camouflaged your heart
I can’t see it, but I’ve a fist that fits
Within your chest to feel it.
I’d suck the sun from your lips I’ve written
As good as saying it
Almost as good as feeling it,
But you, an autopsy scar,
I don’t know if I want to tend you or rend you.
You want to break open as badly as I do.
It’s almost like you invite it.
It’s not sex, understand,
It’s far more guttural than that.
Sit back and wonder
And wonder, and wonder
If the heaviness in my hands as I bring them to the keys is simply
A lack of practice or an absence of feeling.
I’m tapping an invisible pen against the back of my teeth,
The distant knocking of words that yearn to be written
But they’re invisible to me
I feel them
I feel them
Stilted and jilted a love song I can’t quite provoke
Words of regurgitation,
Of abstinence, of the guttural and distant
Nothing here comes smooth
No trance to suck it from my gut
No passion, no inspiration.
Every word a tired, dull thud upon the page.
If you have to push for it,
It’s not worth it, right?
Give me my words.
I will wrench them from the universe if I have to.
I will write trash. I will write paragraphs, solitary paragraphs, with no end and no beginning.
How dare I be given the need but not the substance.
Here with no stories.
Fierce passions lost to the ether,
Nothing new to explore,
A burning I smother by spreading my legs and opening my mouth,
Loud and proud and still
Silent in the only way it matters.
I would call you angel, if he hadn’t
Hadn’t been the first, I mean.
Initially an antithesis, you,
Chin dropped, brows heavy, an unconscious manoeuvring
You seem nothing of an angel.
But if they were wings you hefted upon your back,
Instead of the weight of your world,
You could be Michael or Lucifer
Or Uriel lamenting, your sword in flames.
You think fire does not become you.
Cloying smoke and burning ash
Seem dark enough to me.