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.

CHANGE IS NECESSARY.

I am adopting Helvetica over Courier as my new font.
Smooth.

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.

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.

EROTIC.

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

Anais Nin.