wear the wool

i'll wear the wool and pull the petals over my eyes.

i'll pretend we'd never listened to b-sides 

ate clementines

slept through mogwai

and hated each other for pretending not to

want

the other

when winter comes again,

i'll just pretend.

HOME IS WHERE IS HOME.

Without the summers heat, we've moved to a flat with a graveyard across the street. 

Home has situated itself in a place where reality speaks plainly and the sun stays tucked away.

Stays inside, bent on the hopes that the torrential rain will sort everything out, bring the plants back to life.

They come dressed  in black, with a somber hats that wilt to hide the mood and glasses that scowl reflections of the scene.

Just another afternoon in Dalkeith, 

Our city at a safe distance to keep the season's spirit.  It grows and breaths on thespians, on capitalism, on the dreams of seventeen's willing to work for three quid.

An exit from the depths of it,

My face gleams warpaint, my heart snipped from my sleeve.  I arrive too late, as everyone has introduced themselves to the festivities.  

How can I keep my composure?

Just another obstacle in the everyday retreat.

When one knows they should have stayed home to watch the mourners from the window and feel better about living.

Immobility as my middle name.

thaw.

This seasons sensuality's, afresh with the grace of a hidden marksman, waiting to take the lives of those enthralled with the thaw.

He came, he saw.

The first blade slipped under his tongue; the green grass grew all around, all around. Encompassing the floral and fauna proliferated over night; his divine right was to exploit, to oblige.

I came, I saw.

He asked; how does my garden grow?  I showed him the bare bush.  He placed the first bud on my stark bones, the first blossom on the first sprouted seed.  He pricked his finger on the first thorn of my first rose.

We frolicked in the firsts of lavish spring; he'd revived what I'd believed to be the last of sentient life.

No heed paid to notoriously venal nature; his gentile facade hauling closer.

His fervor ignites, but in due time, he casts a wind just calm enough to ignore. 

Just sharp enough to put the cherry out.

Last drags on the last cigarette, last drink before last call.  The last drop from the last glass, a pick me up before we hit the sack.  

Quite contrary to the enlivened spell, no blue bells showed themselves.  

His arms sought frost in morning's dew; from richness to ragged,

my plot frigid, hungry, dull.

The first taste of warmth grapples a cold front to last the summer months.

We came, we saw.

division.

The antecedent and the consequent's relationship grew farther,

a ratio recognizable to the untrained eye, 

an equation for an animal to multiply

to divide.

Engrossed in her own precocious addition to love, she chewed over our lust.

Wits quick as a wolf's reflexes,

sharp as a fox, 

she saw our consumption of one another,

the re-creation of arithmetic between bodies,

the quantity of space lacking.

Blood on her paws, rum on our hands

Clasped together, in hiding.

Formulating an escape from the captivating beast, 

we fled, subtracting one from the animals game theory.

The competition came to a close, the numbers ceased to please.

She went home unsolved, with a mystery threatening.

With mathematical minds, we deciphered how to repent,

from a question we'd never expected.

and a calculated union.

trustno1

Illustrious as Moses, divine in desire.

rare as the sage.

the leader, the wise.

One would argue, 

the fabulist, the illusionist,

the liar.

Cross continental appeal.

Shortcomings spanned over oceans serene blue,

stretched deep as her fathomless floor -

nonetheless, continuously convincing the masses.

Suspicion of the inception,

persevering regardless,

for the tree proves fruitful for the season.

Apprehension would be blasphemy,

unless the truth rears,

and with wild eyes, we cease to believe,

all we have.
For, to live in him is to exist,
and doubt would be death.

N O N E W Y E A R.

The temperature boasts tepid 

a most exciting adjunct to this new year, 

the weather in Scotland seems the only warm front.

Traditional thoughts could not promulgate a more bitter frost.

There is a mirror to capture my exterior,

to cast the length of my frame, 

anew and ripened for Springs arrival.

Though, my complexion argues, 

its likeness barren.

Worn from winds of a previous locale.

January's mistress emits ennui.

A sexual storm has calmed,  only a light snow lingers,

but the task at hand reflects a thin veneer,

a cerebral black ice. 

This proves to be yet another desire to just slip my mind.

until.

the noise made by people.

if you think nothing is yours,

if I think everything belongs to me,

how wrong I'll be,

none of us have anything.

there's a place I have never explored,

Another world we have yet to conquer

and until then, none of us have anything.

--broadcast.

solidarity.

Dark. The scene is dimmer then I once remember.

Carry Gold.  You'll require the glitz to entice them, to entertain and enlighten.

To liven.

My hair's natural curl has returned, and it's sheen alone has been the only light shed on home.

The air here, heavy with familiar scenario, hot with the sting of disaffected youth,

They assimilate their weight in goods, in jewels.

Their iron stomaches, their lead intestines fear nothing of the sort.

The masquerade of modern day,

Consumption seems the only way for my precious darlings,

their feeble minds and evaporating personalities,

those I hate to love, hence, love to hate.

RUN.

Grimace.  The child can't be older then five, but you feel his chilling glare.

Your bones buckle beneath you, one leg at a time.

The slow climb, how dare you.

The last of the month, the boy is masked, the girl is prepared for marriage.

Surreal, though you're in costume.  Clad in cotton.

Flush, you begin to tear.  Fight it. 

Fight it.

You're disguised, the little ones stare through your shroud of secrecy.

They see how your heavy heart beats irregularly.

Only, if you had a hand to hold. You're ashamed for trying to kid them.

Before you can tear your clothing off, time stops,

the children have gone.

You stand alone in the darkest depths of the park.

Feral in fur, drooling and snorting.

Intoxicated by the night air, the stranger with orange skin in underwear.

You cower in fear, the hollow hole of conversation, the repetition.

Hidden,

There is no rationalizing your current state of affairs.

You have made the body and the mind separate entities, 

a conflict of interest.

Scratching at intangible boundaries, trying to break free.

The innocent see this, 

though the others ignore.

END.

COOLGUYS.

"you know what I want babe?

cool guys like you outta my life"

AT WAR.

I am a sap.

Three recognizable characters grazed the screen for a mere 36 seconds.

wet, soaking wet.

There is no rain in my Scotland.

WAR, missing warmth.  

Summer stings, his hot breath .

The film finished, the theater roared, 

unaware, unaccompanied.

I hold my own hand, silently.

I am a sap.

The night licks my hot cheeks, I brake the bottle on the castle walls.

I walk along side her volcano, I profess my love, 

wasted on rocks, on hills and meadows.

I am gothic, numb as black lips. black tongue.

I want to mirror her, the undying, undeniable charm.

she is strong.

Instead, I embarrass myself.

I am a sap.

I spit in the sink of a strangers pale blue bathroom.

I watch the violinist with hunger, his socks match his shirt.

I count eyelashes, prominent and beautiful, though his words don't resonate.

A lover kisses his mouth, I am quietly enraged.

I steal cigarettes, I reapply lipstick repeatedly.

I prowl and prance, I ask to see his bedroom.

I fall asleep next to a man whose name I don't remember.

He holds me, we freeze, 

the embrace, lulling.

I am a sap.

I wake, 

in sheets I've never seen.

 lights on, bra off.

I piss, I eat a croissant. I use his ex's lipgloss.

I take pictures of his typewriter.  

Ten minutes spent trying to open the door to the main road,

his neighbor finds me, drunk, on God's day.

bemused, disoriented, I can't find home.

Daylight casts a hideous shadow.

so, I sleep until it's dark again.

I am a sap.

with no method to mayhem.

this is all I know 

of war,

ME VERUS ME VERUS ME VERUS ME.

coexistence.

- - - - - - -

dismiss.

divulge.

delude.

doubt..

deny.

destroy.

400 blows keen, crawling.

wish came true, now you've seen,

all but the

death of me.

the BREAD.

grazing the thin blue grass, 

in the EAST, facing WEST

he's focused on the word MAN, in the context of MEN

the bread, and the meat between each piece.

how could a woman carry a cock ring, a man cry himself to sleep?

the liberated lack of emotion versus the robotic movements learned by book.

hilarity, for our meaning of marriage stunted.

we too, loved hard. licked each others wounds at the crack of dawn,

sucked teeth, mourned the same loss.

idle on hillside ,

this Man and this Woman.

question our roles as our own, kind.

using our sex cells, our bottom lips, our crooked jaws.

if only, everything could be OURS.

but we're stuck somewhere between reminiscing and role reversal,

who could be 

the ruler of Y chromosome,

even if lacking 
one?

emersed.

there is no need to despise capitalizing on one's beauty, though difficult to place worth on the ideal features.

a theoretical price tag.

the unfavorable reminder, to be surrounded by women who are utterly revolting.

the hollow resemblance of an oni, 

but in 'one's eye's 

a pretty penny.

even

comparable to a specific screen-dream, 

perhaps.

if I too, were to shed all existing light from piercing my heart strings,

bitter, wearing soulless as chic

the bones & blood of a reptile

I too, could capitalize on you

and would no longer feel much of anything.

W H O C O U L D I B E? 

FINDMEBIGLOVE.

leisurely rummaging through the options for existing,
but, one could care less.
a full belly that's been bleeding since Tuesday,
a list of things with not a single accomplished.
no work, no play. really, just
days in bed.
nights spent dawdling in shoes that make noise,
with Men who won't quit talking 
about building bass bins,
French Woman VS American,
nights spent high,
with children who paint themselves in ridiculous excrement,
eating each others faces in a two-stall, crammed washroom,
basement,
after 3 a.m.
mornings, at Twenty Two
dosing lines with an Eighteen year old,
or silently sipping paint thinner resembling liquor,
or pissing in a school yard , drunk, alone,
cold,
with no remorse,
for simply just, not thinking,
about the possible consequence of the option that is
almost, absolute, nothingness.


GET ME OUT OF HERE BEFORE I EAT MYSELF ALIVE.

swan.

Currently, quartered inside the death of Queen West.

The cause of, the uproar of, 

The artists of the early Nineties 

being cast aside for Yuppies to glamorize, 

Downtown living.

If every day, were as elating

as the Eggs Benedict-Smoked Trout, 

Curried Potatoes,

Americano,

Almond Croissant,

That I consumed, this afternoon,

then, I'd sell my precious soul, 

to live inside the walls of this million dollar stranger,

with a record constantly 

spinning.

you were my god, in high school.

scrimmage

'I can only feel the blood in my veins when I'm drinking, and the air in my lungs when it's below freezing'

Typical, as the lonely hearted, extraverted, twenty something, lost-cause, could cry, simply to explain herself.  

All this information she's been trying to digest, obtained from the daily bread she's pretending to feed on, is just there to sop up the wine she'll drink at night.

If she could reference a film she'd watched, made in the early 40's, innovative for it's style, directed by Hitchcock, then she'd be set, without education.

lack of focus on the New York Times Headlines, reading every other sentence in every other article to highlight interest, except she won't retain blatant connotation.

she'll exist in coffee hubs and solid black leather boots through the winter, as though she were you, or her, or even the girl of his dreams.

she isn't sexy. but she'll devour all the sexual implication you toss in her direction.

as cold as her heart seems, she'll rock your cradle to sleep.

then wonder, ponder, how her brain could possibly retain, any additional information,

when all she worries about is how she'll sleep.

Although all can be accomplished in a day, all can be desired in a week,

she can't pick a year to be satisfied with what's current, existing.

 She'll pretend to suffer, pretending, she knows what life could offer,

even, when, this could be,  just fine.