adult – three good words

March 21, 2016

to a young(er) friend

ok, let’s talk about it
that thing that disturbs so many

oh god, not again
#sigh #rollseyes
though somewhere I read that
porn has become the new sex-ed

um, what?

i don’t even know what to think of that
where to start where to end
and, oh, the visuals
endless, endless
sunk deep into the web

which makes things so difficult
when the deed is actually to be done
because intercourse
depends on one thing a screen can’t provide
(not that people don’t try…)

bodies.
real bodies. alive.
living, breathing
actual people
humans
with skin and hands and mouths
personal scents and personal sounds.

touch. feeling.
such small words
doors to so many worlds.

#obvious I know
but think about it

a person’s presence
cannot be fast-forwarded
freeze-framed
clicked away
edited
photoshopped
or otherwise modified

not to mention their preferences
their pasts and presents
their hopes for the future
in unknown beds

that one moment in their lives
that can outlast all others for
hours, days
years on end
it all depends

on what actually happened.

there are infinite variations
like flowers and bees
and all the other species on the planet.
so let’s talk about it
that thing that disturbs so many

y’know
what needed to happen
for you to be here in the first place :D

oh my god TMI!!!

March 19, 2016May 16, 2020

outsourced

we need to re-learn how to take care of each other
we have outsourced so much
even the care of those closest to us
those who were, once, beloved.

we have to re-learn how to take care of each other
to offer solace without fear
without plots of retribution
without vitriol and viciousness
but with that rare thing: kindness, gentleness, sincerity.

why has that become so rare?
why is that not something we can expect
why is it the exception, rather than the rule?
a lot has come to my attention recently
about those left outside, alone, ‘to the winds’
freezing with a body warm
utterly lost with Google Maps uploaded.

we have un-learned the language of emotion
we can no longer speak of love without deconstruction
without cynicism and scoffing
we have no vocabulary to articulate the sublime
that allowed a poet, once, to stand on a bridge
and hail the sun, the sky, an entire realm.

we have lost that primal sound of succour
that beating-drum directness that reaches heart and soul
deep down into the darkest parts of the human condition
breaking through the man-made clouds with a ray of
sublime light that others of less sophisticated times
would have called divine.

we need to learn again
this language of love
langue, parole, signifier, signified
all meanings together, wrapped into each other
used in all languages known to man, woman, child
even if they were once warped by Barbara Cartland.

(and so what for the lace and corsets
so what for the gentlemen in bespoke suits
leaving their card at the door?
they have their place in the joyous abandon of make-believe.)

does that lessen the value of a warm hug, a sweet embrace?
that moment where you come together
with someone who is genuinely lonesome
and needs that one thing you can give, freely:
solace, comfort
peace.

October 22, 2015

but world enough, 1

The surf rushed high over the sand, the beach was quiet.
Joggers could be seen in the distance, their dogs at their side.

Lem stood at the porch banister, watching the sun rise. He never got tired of watching dawn turn to day, the grey melting into yellows and reds, that first purple glow that finally turned to blue.

It would be cloudy today, grey, the sky was already covered, but that would be in a few hours. He hardly needed to look now, he’d started sensing the weather again.

He waited until the sun was up, drinking from his cup, always white. He was into white again, everything was white in the house, the couches, the walls, the sheets. Not glaring, that worried the women. Creams were good, eggshell and beige. The only other colours were the plants, tall, fanning out in greens, and whatever paintings he could still look at.

Lem finished his cup, enjoying it to the last drop. It was good, he memorized that recipe and stocked up, he’d never gotten the ingredients here. He watched two joggers pass with their dogs, one after the other, both with plugs in their ears, the woman’s ponytail swaying to the rhythm of her run. Her dog was a large lab, it raced forward into the surf.

Lem watched the four, two humans, two canines, and remembered all the dogs he once had. He should get one again, it was always good having them around. He was into cats right now, though, and as if she knew, the young one came out, brushing along his shins. He picked her up and put her on the banister, feeling her purr under his hand.

He had three cats right now, all of them strays. They came cautiously, first inspecting the terrace, then the food he left out, then the others. Most went away again, but the three liked each other and stayed. Once he’d seen them around often enough he did everything that needed to be done, and now, every morning, at least one of them walked around his legs when he opened the doors to the terrace. waves 2

The young one had enough and jumped down, running back in. Lem followed her, sliding the doors closed. He went to the kitchen, started the dishwasher, and went upstairs.

The girl was still asleep.
He watched her, young limbs, young face, bright, healthy hair. She would sleep till ten, eleven. He watched her sleep a little longer, remembering all the others he could remember.

He sometimes wished they knew, but then there were enough who knew.

Lem turned and went to the bathroom, bright, spacious, facing the beach. The mirror said what it always said, that nothing had changed, that nothing would ever change. He traced the scar, a shadow now, hardly visible. You only saw it if you knew it was there.

September 26, 2015

reflection

fall and thoughts sail down
like leaves off a tree of self
doubt and certainty

asking, wondering
so many etcetera, too many to count
silently loud
in the quietness of hidden hearts;

questions that linger
ever since ‘I’ became ‘Me’
and ‘You’ was separate
apart, a part of everyone
else
someone, somebody
a body beyond the self
‘I’, ‘Me’
sad hours seem long

that room where they come and go
why Michelangelo?

consciousness, they say
is when a mirror loses its wonder
and becomes reflection.

this is what we have
a sense of confinement that is open
static yet moving
a constant attempt to decipher
the senses trick or treating
us to another’s perception;

always desirous to
touch beyond skin
and hear the voice
that reaches our inner ear

as deep as heartbeats go
beyond skin and bone
to that marrow that others call soul.

August 13, 2015August 13, 2015

rise and rise

two seconds, three
understanding blooms
palpitations rise and rise and rise

a hot red slab of anger, pain
veined white with amusement, wry
scorched perfectly on each side
with blood red coals of feeling
soot black with melancholy

then
after all pretence is dropped
leaving just heartfelt desire
to know, see
to really understand:

a sudden why
splits the tree of reason
with a jab of irrational light
a bolt of hot heart electric
that goes deep
deeper still
all the way down

cracking open marbled stone below
that lay hidden
under deep roots of denial
possibly, probably
lying low in the undisturbed slumber
of the long ignored
disrupted by a blessed moment
of clear harsh uncompromising
sight.

sometimes the mistake was made
too long ago to be rectified
sometimes youth means
being hopelessly hopelessly blind
to the silly slyness
that is life.