It’s just too hard right now,
and the greyness of pashu,
seeps seductively through,
the kitchen window.
I am enfolded in the loving arms,
of a man who hardly notices,
pashu because he’d never see
it in me were it there.
It is the rose that fight it off,
the spash of colour over the kitchen sink,
causing me to think,
that pushes the greyness back.
Badly Punctuated
Looking over the petals to the rain,
I wonder where you are.
In my mind a conversation,
about the greyness of the day,
how it all begins again,
if we fight the day to day,
for the pashu may consume us,
unless we are vigilant,
and I look over the petals
to swear she’s heaven-sent
red against grey, love against this,
we will be fae and we will know bliss.
Sisters
Aphrodite and Sedna are twins,
One sinks so that the other swims,
Cast off by her father, cut off at the wrists,
She had her sister dismember him,
And float free from his bits.
I find myself somewhere between them both,
Sinking to the bottom,
When love would surely float,
Flying on the foaming waves,
When a death goddess would moan.
My Dive
When I came up, for light and air,
Your boat wasn’t there, I’d finished my dive,
You’d followed, not my marker buoy,
But where you thought it should be,
I was struggling to breathe,
And I find, it’s that that I remember,
Swimming against the tide,
You took your Miracle where my Optimist should have been.
Not where I was, my heart in my mouth,
struggling to breathe,
low on air, low on light, you weren’t there.
But so many times,
on that stage I carry around with me,
you drove through the night,
to hook me up to the oxygen,
when I struggled to breathe.
We don’t talk much, and when we do,
It’s all about you, the Miracle’s gone,
you’re trying for wings now and we never do talk
about that time
when I dived, and tried to come up,
never got the chance, no light and air,
you took them elsewhere, where I should have been,
by all sights and sounds.
So many times, you taught me to light,
that stage I carried round with me,
you taught me to mix, green, red and yellow,
until you sailed the Miracle over my line,
cut me off,
til I was down there diving alone.
I find I’m stuck, thinking about that time,
when I came up for light and air and never finished my dive,
No one was close, no one was there.
There were so many times when I couldn’t breathe,
and you were right there,
carrying me to oxygen, carrying me to the light and the air,
but the Miracle’s gone,
and it’s a cold November now,
all I can think of, not the dive, not the ocean,
my head is struck on the rocks,
and the light and the air that I perceive,
they’re browned by the sea-water,
and I don’t think I’ll ever breathe,
your boat wasn’t there,
and it never came back for me.
So let me breathe the memory, of all the times,
I lost my breath and you carried me,
took me to the air,
took me to the light,
let me sink, no light or air, only what I carry with me,
let me sink, the memory of your Miracle,
carried with me, right to the place I sink to,
at one with the depths, at one with the seals,
my fingers fall from me,
they continue the dive,
I’ll never come up, the memory of light and air,
sustain me still.
Have you read all this crap?
All these mindless words…
I am addicted to the words
until they mean less than nothing
and that’s all they ever will.
Some days I want to say I love you,
eye to eye maybe we say enough,
but the words, I need to say the words,
need to hear them need to write them,
what is this power that they hold over me,
that I cannot take your love
that I cannot simply be.
I need the words deep,
deep within some hated part of me
and I cannot simply feel them forever,
for when she rides I need to speak them,
somehow get them right
and yet we know,
that language is far worse than what really exists,
we need to see, to be, to feel,
and why oh why must I just speak?
Have you read all that crap that I wrote?
Why can I not simply be,
and know, eye to eye, you to me,
everything can simply be,
oh why must I open page and type?
When nothing is wrong,
when all I feel is right,
and still I have to write.
Always, I have to write.
Look at me sometimes, oh please do not mind,
that some days I need to say that I love you,
some days I need to more than only feel.
I need the words deep, so deep inside me,
somehow it makes things seem more real.
Endless Love
For I am too narrow in my definitions,
I who am,
too concerned with boses,
labels of communication,
I down tools and follow you,
past the herd,
paying attention to your temper,
and enjoying every moment of your,
calmness,
for you have,
my endless respect.
I down tools and follow you,
barefoot,
for I must go,
and seek the horse you saw,
past the worlds you know.
A queen barefoot in the ashes she left behind,
and that taste in your mouth,
and the sourness in mine,
for I am more powerful here,
as I stand in the centre of the crossed roads,
and I am more real here,
that you have ever seen me.
Come,
cross my road,
and endless love I give you,
whatever it is you bring,
but all I ask of you,
is keep on travelling,
and speak when you dare most not to,
and keep silence when you feel you can’t,
for I am barefoot following you,
Others thinking I lead.
A queen must listen,
follow,
careful not to narrowly box,
and on this road no definitions,
and on this road,
a stream to cross.
Bring the horse lord my endless love,
give it up willingly,
for we will all drink at this cup,
whatever I have to see,
and whoever watches me.
The Great Trap
I am who I make myself,
And this is the Great Trap,
the Great Work absorbing every aspect of life,
until I am sucked within,
that ever devouring self,
that in the end I created.
I am what I do more than what I have been,
and there is where I set myself to be,
here is where I am now,
and where I might have been?
Of no issue now,
for I am who I make myself,
whether foundering on shifting sands or not,
did I make myself?
I made who I am, my greatest work,
ever continueing and never stopping,
may also make for me a trap,
what does it matter,
other peoples boxes,
they are of no consequence to me,
I will ascend, and have ascended,
to that golden court,
of no consequence are you who tell me,
this is not this,
you are not able to see,
what I see.
A brain-scan would tell you as much.
I am where I have always been,
climbing up a spider-light and whispering,
that my sorrow has never been here,
but I will live
as though it has.
At the base of this pole are lies,
and I climb for the truth,
but wherever I started from,
upside down upon this tree branch,
I am not baseless,
I am the stories I told myself,
that they have never been,
makes no difference.
I will not be caught by your great trap,
nor another.
Self is defined by self telling stories to self,
and does it matter that the basis for these stories are lies?
All stories are lies in the end,
and the spiral goes on and on,
each friend telling a story about a friend,
come, sit by the fire and listen to my tales,
each a story of self,
each a lie, a ship sailing on an ocean,
with no concept of waves.
Let me dive below, I long to be,
completely soaked,
I feel dry above the water,
let me be, wrapped around in seaweed until I choke,
drowning on notions of self,
and let me see, on high,
my friends, gathered around a fire on a mountain top,
each telling lies about me, that even they believe to be false,
and let me see,
upon the ship sailing far above me,
somewhere too dry for me,
an escapee of the notions of self,
fleeing with an angel,
as I sink willingly beneath the kelp.
I dived into self, and discovered lie after lie after lie,
let me tell you stories,
let my fingers sink around me into seals,
let me watch that world above these waves,
where self is self defined and lies as acceptable as truths,
for I was sold into the person that I am,
and I fled the waves,
but now I choose to sink beneath them as my secret self,
love goddess feared by the Eskimo,
for my foam is not theirs,
above the waves where lies are believed is far too dry for me,
I sink,
too willingly,
to rise from waves when capriciously I decide is time,
self is notions of self telling stories to self,
and I,
am far too bound by them,
by myself,
by my stories,
let me rest within the kelp while you tell stories on the mountain
and sail free above my waves.
Who am I? I sound like some angst ridden teen,
That space where you’re supposed to get a handle on life,
somewhere between twelve and seventeen,
turns out I didn’t know myself at all.
That every memory, every thought I had,
was constructed through a veil,
now opaque, now translucent,
that shimmered in the wind of my teenage years.
Every past thought, was coloured by mistake,
like nineteen fifties film, a little over done.
I’m walking on this headland,
this undiscovered space,
between sheep skulls and I don’t know,
where I started from, I don’t know where I’m going to,
me who always had a plan, a dream, a destination…
am suddenly cast adrift by passing waves,
the ropes I had woven are untied because,
that single knot in my before time,
turns out to be far smoother than I thought.
But what of me? Am I not, my false memories?
Somewhere between twelve and seventeen I based myself on stories,
is that why I deserved it? telling lies…
because no one would tell me the truth
and I know that I did not deserve any part of that,
I’m back here again,
facing you,
and keeping my mouth shut because I don’t know how to ask,
Why did you do this?
So I gain this reputation as something of a gossip,
never knowing when to keep my mouth shut,
and never able to open my mouth to ask a simple question.
Why did this happen?
I’m out on the moors again,
Walking by myself again,
and I don’t know what anything I thought is worth,
because you never told me what was true,
and this is far more real,
than any half-truth,
but I don’t know how to deal within it’s bounds.
All my flaws revealed, broken, and I stand,
uncertain.
Sixteen Years
Why didn’t you tell me?
And then again, why did you wait so long before you did?
Drowning five fathoms down is nothing compared to this.
A little on the physical side, I can take all of that,
But to wait before you told me,
To have me believe, my own lying memories,
this is drowning high in the sky,
much further up than five fathoms down.
Everything I do can be analysed,
everything I feel; there are suddenly reasons why.
You lied and you lied and you lied,
for sixteen years,
every day you didn’t tell me, you lied.
I imagined… so many things,
assumed, that I myself was at fault,
sixteen years,
oh how you made me.
The physical was nothing compared to this,
that first day you hit me,
nothing compared to a chance slip,
of the tongue over the phone.
Every day you never told me,
you lied to me.
Every day.
I am drowning as I fly,
because everyself I thought I was is another lie,
and we all come crashing down
I never deserved wings, never dreamed them,
just created reasons to be up in the sky,
and all of them, more damnable lies.
Everything I do, easily analysed,
not myself, not anymore,
just a whole lot of badly constructed lies.
Hit me again, I can deal with that,
not this destruction of who I am,
Hit me until I bruise, til you break my bones,
just leave this undone, unsaid, unknown…
Just leave this untrue, another worthless lie,
told to me by you.
luvlymish
Mish's Quick Kisses 