aftermathtoo

I am too old to be heartbroken

I should be a young sylph in white drapery, crumpled

One should think of pale mournful eroticism

With splintered heart evident in my fractured swan wings, unnaturally bent

Being old and heartbroken is snot and the tears under the chin

The crying is too self indulgent , I took pictures of myself this time

I should delete them, my puffy face with it’s before surgery look

They don’t remind me of you. Not that I want that, of course. Damn, tripped myself up.  Insert today’s preferred invective here.

I can’t summon up that energetic state of sobbing now

Blinking, biting lip, repeating to myself what I read in your words, the words themselves are dulled now, by repetition, by a shell, above all by not wanting to feel.

You didn’t actually say it made you sick to think of me, not in those exact words, you described how you were not sleeping, and when you did sleep, how you woke sweating and sick with guilt at the thought of meeting me again.

You did not mean that I made you sick but that was all I could see in your words.

We have stopped speaking before, I forget how many times

Actually,  I never counted, I could guess at four, it might be three or five

But, you never told me I made you sick before.  I always thought, the ups and downs are part of us

Always we knew it was not really final, the wire was never snipped, it remained inert between us until something or other made me pick it up again, set off a thrumming and hope that you would feel the reverberation

You never said I made you sick before

Last night I heard a miaou, and I opened the door to nothing

Sometimes, still, the former playmate of my departed cat still sits on the garden bench, but I suspect it is more for the peace and the sunlight and the absence of wind rather than the companionship of Seville's ghost

I wanted to make this time not final, I even pulled my punches when telling you that we would not talk again

I said you were selfish but it was human to prioritise one’s own peace of mind over another’s happiness

I did not comment on the size of your dick

You never said I made you sick before

ragged feral creature that I am, I keep on going back to that vomit pile of grief.

I know

sadly neglected here... been busy with other stuff... but...

sadly neglected my self
(story of my life)
gladly watched others
living a normal life
and wondering
why I don't want it
I have no answer yet
other than being greedy
I want more, of everything
I want you to notice me
I don't want you to think
that you can pick me up again
later
when your life isn't so hectic
but I hate to think
that you will never pick
me up again
and sometimes, like now,
it seems a distinct
possibility.
I know, I should find
a shred of self respect
tell myself, you're not worth it,
you only share the tiniest sliver
of yourself with me
when no-one else is looking
I know.
I watched some people
in that normal life and
because of you
I wondered if their life
was a lie, just like yours.
Like mine, I know.

things to do before you turn 40

wondering how many people remember their last orgasm before the big four-oh...
guess I just had mine, sadly solo...

on a totally unrelated note there is a cucumber scare here in Germany...

storm in a tea cup

The lightning is forking through the sky, horizontally and looks pink and purple. The trees show the undersides of their leaves as the wind whips around. I sit at my computer with a frightened cat and realise I have no-one to reach out to, no-one at the other side of the screen who is interested any more. I wonder what the chances of being struck by lightning are, more when there actually is a storm out there I suppose?

Is it a hopeful sign that I have not sent this mail to you yet, that there is some kernel, an unexploded popcorn seed of self worth that contains all the pride I have left? My finger hovers over the mouse, wondering which button I will press.

today

I only spill myself when things are shit
When things were good
I wanted to hug them to me,
smile a secret smile
that wasn't so secret
that told everyone
today
I believe in love
and what's more
I believe in myself.
Today I do not

exoskeleton

I need to learn (again) that just because someone acts like they want to be with you, it doesn't mean they really do, or that they are prepared to do anything about it. 


I need to learn not to be so trusting, and not to believe that it means something special and life-changing when someone says "I love you".


Like physics lessons, this is not something I want to learn, I just need to, in order to get where I want in the short term. I want an exoskeleton.

always after...

After my haircut, I have soft fur at the back of my neck.  I can feel his fingers rustling through it, his thumb caressing the fuzzy hollow at the base of my skull.  I see him tilting my face upwards to his, see my face pale and oval, see the dark fringe point to my underwater green eyes.  I see myself from outside and inside and I look pretty.

It isn't real, he isn't here, but he is talking as if that might happen next week, or maybe the week after, although I know my hair will grow and grow straggly before that is real.  I will look in the mirror and the sheeny chocolate colour from the hairdressers will grow dull, and my eyes will not fade but lose the light of belief in my attractiveness.

He tells me he has to go now, his dinner is burning in his kitchen, their kitchen, and though his mind was only just full of me I fade out to a ghost for him then. He does compartmentalise so, although he is drinking vodka at the family table. 

He will catch me later, he says.  I know not to trust too literally in that, I have fallen here before and he stepped away. With my pretty haircut I will not notice the grazed knees, not until after.

testing, testing...

Also at Dark Chaos ;)

yeah talking helps...

He said, I am thinking

about moving

to the other side of the 

world,

She said, it will be

a great opportunity,

and he cried.

If only someone

had said

don't go, I want you

here.

only boring people are bored

I woke up mid afternoon as the sunlight kidney filtered & pale urine coloured tapped at my eyelids.  I got up to do nothing, to be nothing, shrugged the chenille jumper back on and pushed the gap between my first two toes into the flip-flops.

I sagged over this screen to see if you had been thinking of me even though it is a Sunday and I knew you would not, you would be somewhere walking the dog along the beach, no wait, that was in the other house, before you moved to be close to your in-laws and the ready made babysitting facilities.  I still hoped you would think of me but it gets harder to hold a picture of me in your head when real life is happening around you and I am doing nothing, perhaps in suspended animation until you have a fleeting moment to think, to reminisce.

I see the little blobs above the houses and shops when I close my eyes now doing nothing but clicking here, clicking there, clicking where I am told to by the dumb computer game and I accept it and let this limited structure be my life, do as I am allowed as I am expected to do.  Will I take this half promotion which means more work and less recognition, oh yeah sure since you ask, no not nicely just since you ask and I must do that stuff as it would be impolite not to.

I read someone say they had boundaries of tissue paper and I thought of how I do nothing and let tissue paper become my boundaries, build fucking great concrete prisons out of tissue paper, and I did not used to be like this and I am getting worse and worse at hiding it.  Muslin curtains at the windows are enough to seal the world from me.

I sent a message out into the aether, no not to you, to someone who was a distraction from you for a while, an incandescent spark of distraction that is burnt out now because I am so boring and stale.  He used to push me on too, tell me things, say things to me and I drew stuff out of myself to reply, building, pulling and pushing at myself and what I thought were boundaries but now they are not even tissue paper, yesterdays toilet paper and flushed away and I am too far below notice to be worth a reply now.

The sun is going down in a small fizz of light mostly hidden by the metal grey indifferent clouds and the lights in my flat are on and I am opaque to the world outside the windows again.

why not to get back in touch with exes...

poke

poke poke

hey

look at me



ow

I am bitten

censored poets

I have a new poem over there ;)



Censored Poets: Short coming

on waking

I smelt strong this morning, I must have been aroused in the night, in some lost dream.  I wonder who and how.

In between days

He wants 

one thing from me

In between times

I hibernate

for all he knows.

He whispers

wicked words

to wake me.

I want the same thing

from him too, but...

I will always lose

as I want more

than one thing.

I want words

I want whispers

I want wickedness

but most of all

I want not to hibernate.

Irresolution

What to resolve?  Things I should already do but don't?  The daily self-maintenance routine, which basically, I suck at.  Most days I fail to fully complete a routine of toning/moisturising/cleaning teeth/cleaning ears out, weekends I sometimes have a whole day without a bath or a shower.  I could resolve to do more of these things.  

I could resolve to write more, or write better.  I am trying at this.  I could resolve the usual dieting, exercising, taking care of myself stuff.  I am trying at this too, helped by a hangover, they are good for something....  

But it is only a date, and why should a date suddenly make me able to do all these things that I have failed at before.  So this year, again, no resolutions.  A vague hope I will procrastinate less and "accomplish" more, and I guess a good start would be to understand what I would see as an accomplishment...

Too Much

my poem Too Much has been accepted by Shannon Peil for amphibi.us!!!

http://amphibi.us/all/too-much/#comments



1st of the year (although technically it was accepted in 2010, it was in a time zone at least  5hours ahead of me and therefore arrived when I was imbibing ridiculous amounts of wine, and therefore counts as this year)



I would celebrate but I think the two day hangover would carry on then...

too much practice

I cry when I come

too much practice, too little

else, I come alone

mi mi cry

now featured over at The Camel Saloon

click here

leaves, shoots & eats

a new poem over at dark chaos ;)

click click click

46 hours

38 hours, and counting.  A tiring morning, going Christmas shopping.  Wearing the wrong clothes again, my knickers are falling down inside my jeans, I have to periodically back into a corner in the shop, on the street and push my hand past my belt, past the swell of buttocks which you would think are large enough to hold anything up, push my hand down and hoick the offending knickers back up. I think about going into the department store toilets, wondering if it is worth taking them off and going commando?  Inside the store, without all the striding around, they seem to be holding.  I clutch various things to me, they don't seem to go much for shopping baskets in this store, but I make sure they are bought and bagged before I brave the escalator descent.

38 hours, and 2 hours into the shopping, my feet are aching.  Wearing the wrong shoes, or well, maybe the wrong socks. They ruck up under the balls of my feet and my weight falls onto the creases, rubbing, pressurizing the soles.  It hurts and I need to sit down.  I haven't finished the shopping, I know I have missed a couple of people so far, and I know I need to go to the other department store in town.  I decide to treat myself again (yes, the books seem to be all for me, and those other things that seem to have got mixed up with the gifts too) and have lunch out.

38 and a quarter hours and I sit at the table.  Dry mouth, tired.  A glass of wine would be good, and I could have a couple really as they will have worn off by the time I have done the next round of shopping, by the time I would get back into the car. But I am good, I hear my voice tell the waitress "Cola Lite, bitte" and then when the food comes, I pick it up out of the bowl, and my hand shakes.  It is very noticeable when you are eating noodles with chopsticks, they quiver, the sauce spatters off them sporadically.  I bend my head closer to the bowl, try to eat them faster, so I can get home as soon as possible.  The coke is good though, thirst lulling. The chef makes origami swans out of patterned paper, whether he knowingly does it to impress the waitress the result is the same.  They catch me looking at them and think I want to rush off, and come over with the bill.  I smile, I would have liked to stay watching them a little longer, get my notebook out and write about his surprisingly thick fingers and the tiny paper folds.

By the time I leave the restaurant it is 39 hours, but today the wine is already chilling in the fridge and I know I won't even try to resist its call this evening.  I have earned it, I have completed some normal tasks, interacted with the normal world.  I did not have any yesterday.  I have earned it.