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.

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.

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

poke

poke poke

hey

look at me



ow

I am bitten

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.

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...

A circle of friends

It was a subdued night in the George & Dragon, the drinks were being nursed rather than gulped in deference to just dissolved hangovers, and the conversation was desultory except where it touched on the reality TV programmes.  It was mostly the same crowd that had been there the night before, except Carl and Donna were missing, some problem with one of the kids Donna had told Kate, and she'd told the rest that too.





Kate was quiet too, thinking about the night before, it had been romantically wild and crazy and would have been something to brag about at the pub with the female half of the gang if only she was ten, maybe fifteen years younger.  Back in the days before the gang's relationships coalesced from an amorphous mix of shifting allegiances and suddenly everyone was paired off.  Now that they were grown ups, it wasn't done to keep pulling at the old bonds.





Sometimes those bonds could be recalled with just a glance though.  Last night, Carl had seen the circle of bruises around Kate's wrist when her sleeve had slipped back, but he didn't say anything immediately, waiting for an opportunity that eventually came when they were both waiting to fetch drinks back from the bar.

"Did Daniel do that?" he asked her, touching her wrist under the sleeve.

"Sometimes he can be persuaded," she smiled, and watched his eyes for a reaction, for the old memories to resurface.





The window she'd climbed in through banged in the gusting night.  Carl had sent her a text saying the coast was clear, that Donna had gone back upstairs thinking him passed out in the living room, and when she arrived he had held out his hands to help her over the wet sill.  A dramatic heavy night, dark with expectancy, the thunder and rain appearing with perfect scenic timing as she arched her back on top of him, on the sofa.  The lightening heralding the next rumble froze the image of her hand across his mouth, pale with painted nails that looked almost black in the stark flash.  His arms darker than hers reached, gripped her waist, helped the rhythm build.  She'd lifted her hand off his face, allowed him to moan when the thunder cracked and rebounded around the room, squeezing it back when the sound faded.  She'd forgotten that he was so much bigger than Daniel, and that riding him like that pushed his cock into her so deep, almost too deep.





There was little enough time afterwards for her to stay in the circle of his arms, she hadn't been sure if she really wanted to anyway, a small taste of comfort and nostalgia went a long way.  It had been enough to keep her from the chill of the short walk home, the streetlights glimmered coldly off of the windswept puddles.  Into the stone flagged back yard from the alley, pulling the wet things off of the washing line, an excuse for having been outside.





Daniel was waiting for her in the kitchen.

your comment is awaiting moderation...

I know, I know,

I am outspoken, yes

but the things I say

to you

they are private,

right?

My life is awaiting 

moderation but

you don't need

to censor me

really, do you?

I am immoderate

in everything,

I have enthusiasms

for people, for ideas,

and mostly it is

inconvenient for them

when my mind clocks on

and my being

is engaged and

the cogs whir.

They only wanted

a moments

distraction,

they did not want

my over-eager 

immodesty, at least

not more than once.

Moderation in all things,

definitely not

my motto.

You know that?

colour by numbers

A says "Not now, I'm swamped today."

B metaphorically pats me on the head, tells me to keep up the good work with my writing.

C says nothing because I did not abase myself in front of him today.

D says "Hallo," in the restaurant and makes a mental note to contact me privately one day, maybe even one day soon, but the days drift by and home is familiar and it is winter and not the time to try new things away from the cosy hearth.

C still says nothing.  I say nothing back to him because he values my reticence more than he values me.

I said it again...

...what I always end up saying and what always gets them running for the fucking hills.  Men, I mean.  Married men even more so.



"Make your mind up"



They seem to want to believe that they have no fucking choice in things, that they drift through life and things just happen to them, without their volition.  Innocent victims of their own magnetism.  The merest suggestion that they are complicit in their own lives, and not awash in a sea of circumstances is ignored if at all possible, shrugged aside or compartmentalized somewhere else that doesn't interfere in the here and now so they can carry on saying the things they say to me, doing the things they do to me.



And really, they ask, what is wrong with me that I can't turn a blind eye forever?  That I can't just keep on compromising?  Why do I have to hold up a mirror to their actions and make out as if they have done something wrong?  It's not like they've been caught, so it's not a real problem, is it?  Why can't I just go back to before and be an adoring foil for their ego? 



I do it so well.

Hypocrisy

I wonder if he imagines me still... 

17 days since I said goodbye (again).

Once I managed 4 weeks without contacting him, but I'm not sure there is anything to go back to this time.  Or, well, at least anything I would want to go back to.

But I want him to still want me, I wish he would be burned up thinking about me.  Pumping one out in the shower where she will never know.  Thinking of the things I did and things I said.  He will be checking online every day to see if today will be the day I would break down and send an oh-so-innocent message enquiring how he is.  He did that last time, well he said he did.

But he doesn't actually want to be with me.  I am not sanctioned.  I am only what he chose in a weak moment and not what he thinks society would choose.  How come that they really do tinge the "fun" girls like me with suspicion, tar-splotched good time girls?

And, for fucks sake, how do the girls who are not seen as "fun" ever manage to catch a man to marry them?  Do they go out and think, "Well fuck me, she's dull, I wanna spend the rest of my life feeding sperm down the shower plug hole, and occasionally, every couple of months, she might let me feed shit into her?" 

And I?  More hypocritcal, knowing all that shit, even questioning it like he doesn't, I still want the attention, I want to have the beam of interest focussed on me even as I decry the good time girl tag, the one I live up to so well.  I want, oh I want.  I want to be put first.  But I don't want to put someone else first unless they do first.

I do hope his life is fucking dull right now.  I hope he wants to tear his hair out with boredom; that will hurt as he shaves his hair so short, pulling it out would require individual hairs to be wrenched out with tweezers.  I would volunteer to do it, except I don't trust me to do only that.  He is only tempted with me if we are in the same geographical space.  He can say no when I am hundreds of miles away.  Well, he says "Yeah, but no" when we are hundreds of miles away.  He says if I was there he couldn't resist.  Great, yeah, I can resist anything but temptation too.  Especially convenient, playing away from home temptation... 

I fell for him because I thought we thought the same way, and I thought that he cared.  It has taken me 16 months to realise I was little more than a fantasy that had the added advantage of coming true every once in a while.  And really it was the fantasy and not the reality that sustained anything, for him.  And I guess I have to think that might be true for me too...



yeah, but, he imagines me still.  jacking off he imagines me.  kneeling in the shower in front of him, water drops pearling on my skin and anticipating the pearls he wants to release over me.

coping...

You have knocked the life out of me,

I shovel dead things into my mouth

but I only taste the fermented stuff.

Honesty looks good on me, but on you?

I didn't need to know how easily

you put me out of your mind.

You made me feel alive and I hate

to think how long ago that was now,

I want to quicken myself but it does not come,

I can not come, it is an exercise in friction and

though the flesh is willing the mind is freaked.

Reject, side dish, bit of fun, reject,

slut, tease, reject; words bicycle in my head.

Dead mould, mushrooms for tea.

Yes, on the side, by the pallid fish flesh.  I will

shrivel up in the non-weight of your disregard.

This time, can I make the silence stick?

Can I pour in enough alcohol to make

me tongue tied and not voluble? 

Bitter exudations, oozing failure, and

in the morning, sweet rancid sweat. 

Success and failure both are counted

by apathy, not talking to you. 

Your life goes on, maybe to her you will

seem a little distracted, maybe? 

Maybe not even that, after all, she didn't

even notice when you went to her,

rubbed raw from our exertions. 

I try another tentative rub, but no,

rejected by my own flesh.  To drink

to sleep; to sleep perchance to weep.

You have knocked the life out of me,

and now half digested dead things

come back out of my mouth.





Also published at The Camel Saloon

next poem-->

For someone

For someone who always said that her own opinion mattered more to her than other people's, she sure spent alot of time seeking affirmation. 

For someone who claimed immunity to charm school chat-up lines she sure ended up on her back with a lot of guys who were all talk.

For someone who could sparkle with life when the mood hit her she made sure she was not in the mood with isolation and alcohol.



She wanted to be for someone.  But nobody knew that.  Not even her.

is someone else here?

Yeah got a chick lined up for tomorrow night, sure need to get my rocks off for real in a warm sweet wet cunt, my cock is red and aching from all the jacking off I been doing recently.  Couldn't help it I just got addicted to it this last week, there's this girl, no I've not met her, she's like another writer, in Europe somewhere and man she writes some hot stuff. 

-

"I'm out on a date tonight," I tell my flatmate, "You know with Martin?  The writer guy?"  I am kind of in awe of him he's published a book and he runs a magazine, how cool is that?  I'd love to write a novel you know, they say everyone's got a novel inside them and I want the world to see mine, see how creative and cool I can be!

-

Oh I love hearing from my favourite correspondant; right about now he should be checking out the mails I sent to him last time, asking in my faux naive way to tell me about how it feels when a guy is ready to come.  Time for another e-mail conversation which will end up with us both sticky and wet and satiated.  I love that he jacks it off at his work for me.  I even sent him some pictures.

-

Thing is, we have these conversations and they make me so fucking horny, and cos there's like a time difference she's playing with herself at home and I'm in the fucking cubicle and every day this week I had to get up and shuffle to the mens room to jack one out quickly but when I get home she's gone to bed but I can read the mails over again and again and I feel so fucking horny all the time at the moment.  So it'll do me good to get out there in the real world with, um, yeah Trish.

-

"We're gonna meet up at that new bar, you know, we all talked about it last week?  Apparently it's only a couple of blocks away from his apartment..."  I want to tell her not to wait up but he might not take me back there.  I'd like him to, it would be pretty cool to introduce him to people as My Boyfriend, The Writer.  I'm sure I could be creative, I mean my brother has a blog so it must run in the family.  I could be his muse!

-

I know I told him it had to be virtual only.  I think I said my head was pretty messed up with an ex and hinted that things were messy in real life.  I thought if it was only virtual, only make believe then I wouldn't be prone to all the worry, the neediness, the wondering if I had done something wrong when the beam of attention is not on me.  And writer guy did oblige with the attention, I could not complain about that.

-

It is loud in the bar, one of Andy's mates runs it and Andy had a spare couple of VIP tickets which is bound to impress, isn't it.  We drink little bitty fizzy cocktails in a raised area with squishy black leather sofas.  Trish is cute but a bit enthusiastic puppy.  The noise means conversation is difficult but she keeps at it, along with peeking up at me in a come and get it way.  Which is good.  I'm fucking dying to grab a hold of her and her all american sweetheart tits.  Push her down onto the sofa.

-

Wow, we sit in the VIP area and the bartender brings Champagne Charlies.  This is what it will be like all the time when he gets famous!  Well I will smarten his clothes up a bit, it's alright to look boho and geeky when you're just starting to get known, but nothing says success like a well dressed guy, you know?  I'm so glad I put this dress on, it makes me look sweet and sophisticated at the same time.  He isn't saying much, but he's enigmatic like that.

-

But when he told me he was going out with some chick tonight I felt a stupid pain.  I know it's really nothing to do with him and all to do with the ex, but I still felt it.  The pain of being left behind, the self-disgust at being taken again and again for a cheap fuck to be kept apart from a person's real life.  I'd been kept apart from his real life containing his marriage that was so fucking sacred that I was the third person he'd cheated with in less than a year.  Hmm, and as for writer guy, well I should be rational.

-

Gotta get out of here, I got her a load of them cocktails and she's sure enthusiastic now, couldn't manage more than three or four myself, too sweet and fizzy.  Cute dress she's got on, white and sort of lacy but more like embroidery, pretty, and fucking love the way it rode up those thighs the more she talked and drank those cocktails down.  "Hey, lets grab some fresh air and starry night," I tell her, and hand her up all gentleman like.  She wobbles a bit on her heels and clings on my arm.

-

He does like me, people are looking at us I bet they think we look really good together.  Oops, little wobble there!  Coffee at his place is such a good idea.  We'll sleep in the same bed, and kiss and cuddle and stuff but nothing full on until I'm sure he likes me in the morning.  I am a little tipsy and he can read me his poems while I fall asleep and he can stroke my hair and in the morning we'll have more coffee and the sun will shine and he'll tell me he thinks he loves me.

-

I should be rational about him going on a date but I am not.  He doesn't know that I do know him in real life and the reason I insist on it being virtual is well, complicated.  He thinks I am some girl in Berlin that he would never meet.  I love it that he thinks I am a girl, and that we can talk and meet mind to mind even though I am starting to suspect that he's only interested in the fucking talk, not in me, or any personality behind the words.  If I was a girl waiting on the end of the line for him I guess I would be disappointed.

-

Fuck this isn't going too well, I got her back to the flat and the bedroom fine even through all her "baby we'll do this when..." and "baby when you are so famous..." stuff.  And she did look so hot laid out on the bed in that white dress and the long legs but when I crawled up on the bed behind her and kissed her neck and rubbed my hand along those legs she crossed them and my cock is not even properly hard she's just too much of a good girl.  I leave her on the bed to sleep while I grab a beer, and I can't help it, I turn the computer on to see if Berlin girl has sent me anything new and if not I can read one of the old conversations and jack off and the night won't be a total failure.

-

His flat wasn't that nice really.  A bit small and cramped.  And instant coffee, how cheap was that!  And he had been a bit presumptuous, taking the coffee straight through to the bedroom but then the main living area wasn't really much more than a sofa, a dining table and a tv in the corner.  Some bookshelves, yeah.  But he got more presumptuous, sliding his hands between my legs as I lay sleepily on the bed, so I wriggled them closed and pretended to fall asleep because I didn't want to fuck him there and then, suddenly wondering what if he didn't get to be famous?

-

I needed a distraction, I turned on my computer even though I knew writer guy was out on his date, but it would pass the time.  I called my sister for a chat, even if she is a bubble-headed gossip she can be fun in small doses, but her flatmate tells me she is out on a date.  With Martin, you know, the writer guy? 

Fuck, fuckfuck, fuck fucking fuck. 

How could she have got to him?

And then a mail comes in from him, "Are you there Berlin Girl?"





with apologies to "writer guy" for taking something out of context as inspiration ;)

published at new wave vomit here