pretend.

I have gained a portrait of a woman, I have gained the legs of a man.

Susan Sarandon purses her lips, perched high on my desk.  The blue visage of her celebrated face carves a barren chest to heave and whimper.  

David Bowie's limbs arch and twist to remind both Susan and I of thrilling times.  

When sex was plentiful, when nude was the only report of daily news.

Susan's eyes would scowl our starved bones, our bodies swaying to and fro.  David would perform the dance of the Dream Man, allowing us our animalistic nature.  

We'd come in the soft light of the afternoon, flooding in alongside the voices of school children, their Mother's cries. 

We'd devour with lust succulent suppers of rich proportions, the infamous duo close enough to set the mood.

Now, these likenesses mock this lone cub with reminders of the candy walls, the sweetest flavors,  the luxurious. 

All I must forget.

As if they were make-believe, as if it were just pretend.

EROTIC.

'Eroticism is one of the basic means of self-knowledge, as indispensable as poetry'

Anais Nin.

the time.

when we rise.

a girl can DREAM.

a girl can dream.

she slept through all alarms, all signs of warning.

she awoke in 1940, when a woman's strife was glamorized.

when women were forced to fight.

she'll stay situated between the sheets,  she'll take this one laying down.

for her severed limbs can't hold her up,

the beast has harrowed her zeal,

her will to persevere.

the narrative of a tragedy, Oh who will save the heroin?

the whore, this bitter burden with breasts,

glowing and thin.

her body looks alive, though her pale heart claims otherwise. 

MURMUR.

wake, drown in drink, sleep, wake, drown in drink, sleep, wake.

the cycle consumes.

the weekends here are kept wet, 

in body, in soul, in mind.

we hitched a ride to the oldest pub in Edinburgh to sit coy in boxcar

quaff ale,

gobble ostrich.

refusal brings out the beast in us, lungs tight, clandestine.

a melody sneaks quaintly into our corner.

violins, fiddles, tam-tam's, the traditional bagpipe, a tin whistle.  

20 deep, locals have assembled to jam.

to romp,  to tap their heels. 

we watch, we steal, we run.  leaving the 'piobaireachd' behind.

transformed into mountaineers, we climb twin peaks.

the rain pours, Ring around the Rosie, we all fall down.   mud cakes between lacerations.

steep slope, stone steps carved in 1361.

hands held tight.  carrying the weight of the world, we totter until we're upright.

frogs squirm from pavement to grass, wishing us well.

dive into a dive bar full of 15 year olds in poor fashion playing bingo.

He's lost control again. On the floor, again.  We gulp as quick as our throats allow.

screaming, scolded.

sip the smoke, grasping the night air, again, we're out.

We galavant to an old movie house.

Intimacy surrounds.  One man down, and it's couples therapy.  We speak of failure, of loss, of interest,

of socialism.  Tarantino looks on. 

Two brutes appear in the form of women to ruin the fun.  I'm silenced, sensing tension.  He abandons me, once again reminded why I keep so cold.

I duck away, hide my face in shame, I cry.

In the water, I am beautiful.  I am honest. I am raw.

Bare, introduced to a former self. I close my eyes.

Where have I been?

just fine.

today, I wrote a letter,
the first of many.  
It took me a single try to convey fullness,
frugality of ink,
celibacy for the greater good, 
a higher power
idle is love.

93 days, 
count them on your fingers
your toes.

Sometimes FOREVER would be too SOON

though, tomorrow would do.

NEW LOVES.

we slide down cobblestone streets, 

damp, drunk

she prods her fingers between my stitches.

I coo. I clamber. I fumble. I flounder. 

a hole in the wall Jazz Bar, hidden beneath an underpass.

we scamper to purchase liquid courage,

though we've had out fill hours before.

She screams at the man with the metal violin,

a buoyant tune reverberates, 

we bounce.

light as a feather, scared stiff as a board.

I fall in the stall and sneak up the steps,

feeling quite like 16 again.

Olly-Olly-Oxen-Free,

I am completely alone in this city.

there.

you are there. 

here, I sleep through days & dread night.

I finally saw city in light.

volcanic rock coats pale sky, bricks, bread and a baron.

isolation, the black block screams.

1660, dark ale & cold meat.

the city breeds life, 

hollow to me.

he's 15, he spits, he holds his member.

he's 18, an avid, angry drummer.

he's 25, the most beautiful man I've ever seen.

wink, nudge, nod, nude.

he's glowing, he breeds,

hollow to me.

distraction, distraction, distraction

less to say.

the curtains draw clean to a close, a gash is stitched pristine

the light is best in the studio, 

in the morning.

up all hours, heart stares back literally.

with only time to waste, wasting precious time

coming,

to the end of an era 

greet the deceased,

with nothing sentimental,

in conjunction, we'll never be complete.

fuck, I.

a life.

"Am I dreaming?"

"No, you're awake now"

"You'd left, left me, left our city. You took a train to Tokyo"

"I don't plan to go, haven't thought much about Tokyo.  Haven't thought much about anyone, anywhere, for that matter"

"Oh"

I am empty. I am listless.

an emphatic denial.

You'll heal, 

They'll be no need for me to lick your wounds.  

They'll be no need for me to dream a life.

The equivalent to fools gold.

and, left the fool,

I'd wait for you in every city.

You'll never show, You'll never shine.

You'll find another to collect the goods I waited years to savour.

Languid in my lowliness.

I am empty. I am listless.

outside.

He refuses to remove his shirt, 

the sleeves have been cut off

I've hidden every knife in the house, though none belong to us.

I've never seen a body, a body like his.

the body of a wolf

mutilated, deranged, 

the blood. 

the talk of terminal bliss.

cross hatching skin through skin, motion etched neatly.

I try to read the thought pattern carved into his chest

his stomach, his thighs

his bloated purple lips.

sweetly, I blame myself.

some nights we are beautifully manic, 

we frolic in our bodies 

majestic as our love allows.

today, we are only damaged, ugly.

think of the children outside.

addition.

let go.

developing the best ways to avoid confronting anything; sentimental, 

imagining myself small & insignificant, 

each word that leaves my lips just a test for the next, 

inaudible, no sound corresponding with another.

I cease to speak anything worthy.

palms at heart, I sit

in front of all the plants that will soon replace my presence,

except in bed, where their soil would stain the sheets.

I feel like I own nothing,

Lately, not even novel wit.

or a faultless way to let go. 

damaged.

a smell reminiscent of piss between tree's in the Don,

the nurse is home. 

wet from the lackluster anticipation to summer.

it's pouring.

craving banality, 

a sedative.

tending to the parrot as patient.

REPEAT STEPS CAREFULLY.

REPEAT.

lacking narrative in his manual

a needle end polished, too dull to puncture.

still,  the nurse drives it deep 

stake to the heart.

still, the parrot squawks 

reminiscent, of a man learning how to fall.

"Don't cross your fingers. Sundays will never change. They keep on coming. You'll be a freak And I'll keep you company"

stiff.

I can't say I'd die for

much.

the scent of the wind,

come spring

a stiff, thick, sparkling,

prize of man,

a drink

& the waves, the water

the ocean,

will

(we'll) ALL come

soon.

soon.

"she sucked my balls

I made her tea

& we were we"

S O O N

afraid to love.

I'd be afraid to love me, too.

?

F F F F F F F F F F F F

finally, lightness.

optimism exposed yet again, 
assuming, it's only because the sun is finally out, making the vegetation visible.
the floral and fauna that's been sedated can breath, slightly, 
gradually, uncovering the lush patchwork amid our metropolis 
loved, on occasion.
there is appreciation for the thin road home.
the fine lines that curve between street and person.
encompassing whole bodies, busy turning the dial and brushing their teeth.
allowing this city to continue mobility, 
momentum of the moving.
stunted and sterile through winter months,
the first thaw allows one to realize the dank, drab, dark breach
isn't, necessarily, permanent.