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.

polished?

This week, I wrote in a mail to someone explaining my bulimic writing process.  I'm from the vomit school of writing, I sit down and spew the stuff up, then tidy it up a bit.  Things happen in life, I swallow it all down, and then sick it back up, somewhat selectively.  It's not that life makes me sick, I just react to it stomach first.  My natural inclination is not to polish writing endlessly, to pick the perfect perfect perfect word because near perfect will do for me.  





So I was quite surprised to find how much I enjoyed the polishing up of a haiku series yesterday, adding pictures and creating a new Issuu "publication" for it.  Perhaps there is no thing as too much practice ;)  Click the picture to see the finished result!

un-titled

I am not a dog

I do not have to chase them

just because they run.



I am not a budgie

I do not have to wait in my cage

chirping "pick me, pick ME" at whoever passes.



I am not a cat

happy for my home to be with

whoever feeds me.



I am a woman

I should have a brain, a persona

that stops me doing those things.



I am a mirror

just reflecting

I want what you want.



I am dark

so you don't know

if I am a hole or a mountain.

when does the story end?

It was so hard to let go of him I wanted the story to go on I still do I hate to be without a story. 

It was a slow start with him knowing him being acquaintances drinking with him but not sparking until one day the brain and the sense of humour clicked in and that was that then the story started properly, chatting for hours on end and then flying on a plane and racing along the dark motorways to meet up with him for a real date. 

It was real even though we both knew there was only one place it would end up, he wore yellow and oh god I knew it was risky as I was already half in love with him for chatting to me and finding me interesting all that time and I thought the biggest risk was that being with him wouldn't live up to my imagination but it was worse than that as it was so much more and we laughed and his arms cradled me and I felt cherished and spent and cherished again and then of course he went home but that didn't matter so much as we still chatted and chatted and planned the next chapters.

But the expectation monster grew and I wanted more of him and he wanted more of me too but he hadn't left his old life behind he was still living that he was greedy for two stories while I only wanted one but he couldn't always tell which story he was living in and one day he got them confused and took his wife with the passion that was meant for me and then one day after that while we were holed up and hungover in a cheap hotel she called him with the news that wrenched our story off the rails and called him back into her story which she called their story.

I did not want to let him go although I said I only wanted what was best for him but of course I thought that I was the best for him although it turns out that he valued respectability over happiness, over his own happiness for sure but over mine as well but our story continued through more hotels and bedrooms until I finally pestered him as there was nothing new happening in our story pestered him to the point where he had to make a decision and he did make the ending decision but even then our story was not through for all the repeats of the story had to be lived through.

And although I did let him go and there is no new story and you would have to search hard in the multichannel world to see a repeat to spark up that story again it will be dead and quiet while he and his wife bring up their child it will be quiet so quiet and he will have regrets and swallow them down and not turn to me until one day he will turn to me and tell me how bored he is and then I would have to decide how that story goes on as I am a storyteller and I weave many people into my stories.

Anniversary

It's

a

year

today

since

I

last

had

sex

with

the

ex.

Or

at

all.

One

year.

But...

heknowsitwasthistimelastyearbuthehasn'tcontactedmetoday,

IwonderifheremembersasclearlyasIcanhowitfelttobebehindme

myfaceinthepillowashetookmefrombehindifhecanrecallasIdo

howitfeltwhenhethrustnotcarefullythefeelingjustthissideofpain

howIwantedhiminmeovermehowIwanted.

How

I

still

do.

Robbed

Still I wish for you;

The sap rising in the trees

I will not blossom.

-

Yes, it is calmer

without you close, rain clouds scud

across the grey sky.

-

Ripe for seeding, sun

falls on open eyes, legs, heart;

you push into me.

-

You pull out of me,

drive from the hotel; litter swirls

windblown vortices.

-

Your seed trickles out

a wet patch; summer is due,

sunshine flew away.

-

Your words trickle in

Why do I let you? Cut, not

clutch at memories...





Published at The Camel Saloon here

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