This fevered brow seems to be the resting place
for all the nightmares that you have unleashed.
What would I have to do now to erase
the memory of you plunging into my wretched
heart, a blunt dagger called betrayal.
Give me back my trust, at the very least, give me denial.
Cato was very much an ordinary cat
who reclined royally on my welcome mat.
No, he wasn’t one of those portly Siamese
with all fur and no brains, none of that for me, please.
Nothing remarkable about his pointy face -
Just a scruffy cat, not one you’d want to embrace.
Cato had just one name, not three, as far as I know
But I could be wrong, as I’ve been before, you know.
I suspect he was eminently capable
of carrying off an effable, effenineffable,
deep and inscrutable singular name, just as
any old poet’s cat, but I dared not ask.
Cato had permitted me just to listen
and chronicle his adventures, wielding my pen.
I was allowed some pertinent questions; the rule
said pertinent, mind, not personal. He was no fool.
Therefore I wasn’t privy to his singular name.
It was a closely guarded secret – what a shame!
Questioning, pondering, wondering – trivialized as “PMS LOL?
Been with a lot of women, so know all about moodswings”
Go fuck your tiny brain, retard
Hormones
Why are men uncomfortable with menstruation
Why are women uncomfortable with menstruation
Catholics
Catechism, blood on skirts, don’t talk about it
Kept under wraps because coming of age was at 12 rather than 14 of previous generation
Celebration because she is ready to be impregnated?
Announce to the world that the womb is ready to be seeded
Legs to be spread only to the one chosen (by family, society, rules, world)
Pseudo liberated chauvinists
Men pseudo sympathetic to feminism - Why would a species/group recognised/accepted as higher/better willingly step down? Makes no sense. Yet pretend – to understand (PMS) condescend, patronise.
Feminists aren’t humanists, but then retards wouldn’t know.
Questions that can’t be answered, spirit that can’t be quelled, anguish of the soul – attributed to PMS
Go fuck yourself, you retard
Beautiful language.
Apocryphal.
Scary shit.
Intention to scare.
Distorted story
of a man named Jesus
who lived some years ago,
I fell in love with
some years ago.
I am Magdalene.
Where are your stones?
When you're around, a giant smiley called Glee
makes its appearance, to seduce and woo.
Glee is a fickle friend who visits me
only with you; when you leave, he bids adieu too.
You came, to give me music. That’s why you came.
I fell in selfish love; I hoped you’d stay.
You came with my music, you bore his name.
I should have known. Angels cannot stay.
Why
in fuck’s name
can I not write about
pizzas
and gooey cheese
and chilli flakes
and sugar
and money
and honey
and home
and children
and recipes
and schools
or even the yellow white round faced moon
that shyly peeked through potted bamboo
while I was stuffing my face with French Fries.
Why the fuck must I think breathe write -
You.
I should have written that poem for you
Yesterday.
When words were floating inside my eyes;
when every thought ended with
“Him
the one
with music in his fingers
the one
who brought manna from heaven”
I eat my bitter heart, black coal
with tar blood which seals the lip of a wound
that splays my ribcage open.
This curse repeats, a never ending play
of bleeding shadows, puppet show
to entertain minions
of Satan.
Oh Darkness, mother, embrace my bitter heart;
touch my frail soul that begs for your mercy alone.
My bitter heart, is a toy,
is a toy, for some
for some minions
of Satan and of God.
And for all humans.
Oh Darkness, my friend, embrace my fearful heart.
This frail soul begs for your mercy alone.
What nightmares did you sow in my mind
O Jesus
that the brooding canopies of its lush growth
shut out the merest speck of light.
Darkness, kind stranger, put your arms around my frail body
Close my eyes with cold palms
I beg for your mercy alone.
Of the lot many things that make me blush;
one is a secret in my heart of hearts -
that in your mouth, like a darkling thrush,
have sung, several of my body parts.
Your smell is of autumn; rich and woody -
Of rain - on sorrel leaves, on freshly churned earth.
Of warm truffles, of the wind that blows free;
Of frankincense that burns in a joyful hearth.
Shocking phrases of city slang you teach me.
My joy knows no bounds as I say them aloud.
I am giggly. It’s called unbridled glee.
Your presence is the drug that I’m allowed.
I’m beautiful, it’s just that you don’t have the eyes
I’m divine, it’s just that you don’t have faith
I’m the answer, it’s just that you’ve stopped asking
I’m your dream, it’s just that you sleep no more
I’m the sweetness of your memories, it’s just that you’ve forgotten.
As days go by, labels shrink
and wither away like dead skin.
I am not even narcissistic anymore.
Only delusional.
Amidst the most mundane household chore,
with no warning at all, a ball of grief
coiled in my gut, rolling up to explode
in my skull. It was an untamed creature,
which left in its slithering wake a brief
burst of toxins, killing love in its slow spread.
I'll serenade you with love songs - thousands
of them. But you tire easily of my words.
If only we could be together in silence
Then, in the dark, I’d speak to you without words.
