Love is too much a black box
– fragments surge in and out again, changed, but
the alchemy which acts upon them cannot be known
unless the possessor of the box gently teases apart its mechanism
to expose their gaze to his own insides
– to see how and why they light up and throb to his lover’s touch
– what ignites in thought and sensation,
what constructs are born?
Unique to her stimulus
projected forward hand in hand to create a world just for them, with its own physics
and theoretical foundation upon which their architecture is built and cause and effect
is discernible only to them, are only for them
to explore with touch and caresses and words and breath.
Tag Archive: poem
Love is too much a black box
this moment is turning back upon itself;
like so many before it highlights a desperate need to connect to the surround biomass. People and voices.
Perhaps this sadness is all chemical
these are just the tears
of a perpetual tourist.
Perhaps I really am driftwood.
The tedium of the itchy eyeball – just the act of looking is annoying.
Better just to let those fleshy lids fall
you never notice anything worth seeing anyway
– no clear vision to present the world.
Nothing that would make even the most slack-jawed catch their breath.
Just receive what gets transmitted
sense making apparatus in that shirt pocket
you call mind.
Mind you, wouldn’t know the way you go on
– gabba gabba all damn day.
Anything for a motherfucking look-at-me.
If we could
but talk innocently of the raw
we’d stand a chance.
Washed ashore and clinging desperately.
through the desert of the real.
This is the death jam.
We come real far to get it on.
Bass pulse through eyes all. Moon adorned.
Catch up with the stuff that corrupts all it touches.
Keep your distance. They shoot your sort on sight.
Don’t sit we’ll with me. Got a handle like a Chinese finger trap; snaps metacarpals like frustrated pencils. A taunting lip, turned out to make damn sure you miss your mouth and
ruin yourself for the day.
The ugly yellow cup
Don’t sit on the self. She made me promise to fill it up every day.
“when you drink from this vessel you drink of our love. Drink always deep as if a kiss.”
That she is gone
I drink from the ugly yellow cup
As soon as she comes back to me
It’s days are done.
It’ll find itself carelessly left teetering right there on some hazardous edge.
Or buried at the foot of that sycamore tree where we carved our names shortly after we first met.
Loaded onto that clay pigeon shooter we found at a car boot sale and she just had to have because “oh my god, how fucking cool is that?”
simply obliterated with the lump hammer that was there in the shed when we moved in that’s still covered in cobwebs because we couldn’t think of anything cool to do with it.
The ugly yellow cup wont sit right again.
But until she’s back in my arms
I’ll love it and drink from it, wash it tenderly by hand. I’ll polish it with a microfibre cloth and keep it beside me
Whilst I sleep.
That ugly yellow cup
unless I’m unconscious and you’re a doctor
basically summed up as risk-aware consensual verbing
actually have no issue
with giving consent
consent is possible in most cases.
dealing with with buried trauma… is dangerous
not the case with other people
too many clumsy dancers stepping on toes –
they actually annoy me a lot –
I can’t participate with anything that is inhibited.
I don’t like the idea of false memories at all.
true, bad is probably relative
I remember the myth of FUN birthdays
the sum of your memories.
a powerful… and dangerous
means for change.
These uncanny stones
so near yet always not
– A distance that forever
ends with every step.
Of sound they swallow
A song more felt than heard,
which sends skittering about
that bone of echoes
and brings forth from whispers
this most unusual light.
Hard to believe, isn’t it?
This state of affairs that gnaws at the elbows of our gentleman caller.
Could it all be a viscous indictment of some previously unacknowledged truth?
Obscured, as it was, by the hubris of humanity;
its tendency to imbue with grandeur and nobility that which is actually
rooted in the most base of instincts?
There is only one way to find out.
Tune in next week for the thrilling conclusion!
no tapping of the foot or complacency.
The whole damn thing is about to break.
True love blinds
like tear gas.
evidence of ache and joy.
sticky like pollen
the ineffable skin traps
of our passing
beneath its surface.
My fingers quiver electric to make an inappropriate gesture in the hospital waiting room.
Tiny demonic chymicals rampage up and down the length of my arms
gnawing on relays and muscle mass.
These idle hands want to play, pull at the air like a deranged mage
casting improbable thoughtforms into the warm and musty room
but I stop myself just in time and instead fiddle nervously with my phone.