Friday, 30 April 2010

NaPoWriMo # 30

The great flood.

All I know is that I am not in straight lines anymore

I am unorganized.

I am un-anything.

All the possibilities flew by when I was unawake

And the possibility of sleeping was all that I

ever longed for.

I sit in the lazy shadows,

Surrounded by my treetops, insurmountable

And dissolve into shrinking lakes,

Coloured blue by my tears.

Liquid expanses of melancholy,

So great that I forget the speck on the shore

is a man. I share my air with creatures who

came from the lake to drink my tears,

until they were not hungry anymore

and instead I flooded whole towns, districts and counties

with my sobbing.

Everything swept away like Noah and the Ark.

You couldn’t even imagine it.

I have lain for hours with puffs of cotton

In my ears, lying

To the boy who knocks on my door.

I hear the faint tac tac tac of the nails

He hammers in one, by one, by one.

His reactions do not take my world by surprise

Because no one has every really understood

that when everything I do feels like dying,

there is no possibility of ever feeling

Alive again.

NaPoWriMo # 29 (Late)

Bulimia, on an African island in the middle of nowhere.

Sealing myself into the quiet of alone.
I can hear the music pounding across the island,
muffled voices and laughter,
my silence is all the more surreal.
I begin to wash my hands,
not paying attention to anything but the whirr of the generator.
The water’s cold, but I've no use for comfort or warmth,
not tonight.
A quick glance shows no towels
so I wipe my hands on the back of my neck,
feeling all the tension I've held so long.
Looking in the mirror, I have the sudden urge to jump in 
the shower,
with all my clothes on
and scrub my skin and the scent of it from my body.

Standing beneath the outside shower

Head under the stars letting the scalding water

hit me like hot bullets.

They puncture my skin

making faint red circles

on my face,

my legs,

the small of my back.

Why do I do it?
Why do I keep coming back to the same unkind,
unloving situation?
The music stops and someone yells at the barman to
Stop messing with their tunes.
Someone else pushes out from the table,
causing their chair to topple over.
It makes the single bulb above my head to flicker
and my reflection in the mirror to distort.
The music begins again.
God, is that what I really look like?
My makeup is smudged, leaving dark circles under my eyes.
My skin is pale, and the yellow of the light gives me a 
sick twinge.
My hair is a mess, and no attempts to tame it could take 
away the feeling pushed on top of me.
I suddenly swagger,
reaching out for the sink to steady myself.
I should throw up, but then this reality I am 
experiencing in this dingy bathroom would happen all the time,
and I don't know if I could deal with that. 
I'm not even sure of when it started.
Was it fun? I can't remember.
I don't remember a lot of things,
especially the events leading up to the first time.
I remember smiles and laughter after,
steadying myself on the wall.
I didn't fit. 
No, I can't stop.
If I stop, I'll have to give up this disillusion and face 
the fact that no one knows.
At least this way, I can pretend,
and no amount of broken hearts or headaches could be worse 
than the chilling thought of facing the world alone.
Sobriety is a four letter word, and I can't spell past 
And so I regain my composure,
straighten my shirt and assume a smile.
I'll retrieve my brooch from the hammock
and rejoin the world of muffled laughter and music that I
left just mere hours ago.
I'll smile and laugh and act as though it's what I wanted 
if someone asks me where I went.
If nothing else, at least I can still pretend.

Wednesday, 28 April 2010

NaPoWriMo # 28


Stand with me in the centre of the fire.

Yellow orange pink orange pink, five.

Cut off, no soil. Just water, fluid.

Liquid dinner. Death will come soon, fear.

Treasure them, these few days of flowers.

NaPoWriMo # 27 (Late)

Losing a friend

You won’t remember the night you held

The whole weight of my being in your arms,

so sharp I could cut myself on you.

I am going to ask anyway.

I suppose that this is unavoidable, dealing with me

As you do. I don’t necessarily want

an answer, or if I do, I would like a lie. I don’t want

it to be as heavy as I was, nor its rhythm

to have stopped, jilted and flagging because of a

misplaced sense of thinking I need you.

I want you to say only that I weigh as much as

you’d expected: no more, no less. That I am nothing more

than a friend, I would hold no more sway as your princess,

that I am nothing to you, until I have stopped.

Sunday, 25 April 2010

NaPoWriMo # 26 (Early, ha!)

Leaving the City

Translate my thoughts
into words and actions.
I want to be,
as free as I say I am.
Blue sky joyful
and leaving the city tonight.

Leaving the pretty girls
with their lovers: Jack and Wills.
Leaving the business suits and tall corporate buildings
and the white washed walls that hide
urban poetry, in thick black paint.

I could wake up in a park,
or anywhere.
And drink champagne out of a plastic cup
on a bench,
while a homeless man tells me his life story.

Look at pictures of a lake,
and his (ex)wife's feet wrinkled and soaking in blue
taking polaroids and pretending we can make a forest
from the spilling of our seeds.
we'll be there until some time in the future,
throwing our naked bodies at the trees.

NaPoWriMo # 25

The first bad day of spring

The words dance over the page
like long-legged insects across a still lake.
Collapsed artistically on the bed,
window open, overpowering smell of
rain tapping it's fingers on the walls.
I am alive.

Saturday, 24 April 2010

NaPoWriMo # 24

Tiring of this.

Tell me, tell me that
this month, this april, will be
over soon. Thank you.