Saturday, December 31, 2011

Temple: 2011's ghosts


Behind your reflection in the mirror, he asks you how you feel
‘Filthy’, you say briefly. 


I was in a dark place and I don’t know what happened to me, except you.

Last night, you made me feel like an ugly word, disposable. I said I would never write again and you said you were strong. The trees were struck by seasons and I hid in them, knowing that not even the Ganges and Indus in their monsoon glories could wash this stain away. I cried to strangers on the train, past Wembley Park and Preston Road, across Rayners Lane and Ruislip Manor.  You were so high you thought you saw the Niagara Falls stemming from my eyes, and smiled because it was beautiful.  All the time, you swore at strangers who saw tragedy where you saw history.

'Happy New Year', you said. 'Take pictures of the fireworks for me.' 

He made love to a corpse that night. There were two coats of Russian Red on pursed lips when it began. He pushed forwards, she pulled backwards, harder each time -

Chaque matin reprise en reve,
Et chaque soir abandonee

There was a blue stain where his fist met her ribs again and again and again. She was screaming, but she wasn't making a sound. His fingers left long traces around her neck. They were shaped like the Tate, where they'd display his paintings one day. She let him because she didn't know a life before him. Before he turned away because her kisses were not sweet, she asked him to hold her because she was so, so scared. When he was done with her, there was not a single curl left in her hair.

"I'd kill you everyday," he whispered into a dream. 

I have loved you in all the ways I knew, and now it is not enough.
When the sun rose again, he asked if she ever had nightmares.


You, with the thousand lies, I love you so much.
It doesn’t hurt me anymore. It breaks me.

I don’t understand it, I fight it, I erode myself against it but it just doesn’t go away. I have tried occupying Wall Street against it, demolishing the Pearl Roundabout to end it, gone back to November 7 Square where it all began, but it just doesn't stop or fade away or burn out. So on this last night of this beautiful, miserable year, let them all hear it once and for all.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.


He is always too hard on me,
Always too much of everything at the same time.

Maybe that is why my mind knows no temperate zones
When it comes to him.

Monday, December 19, 2011


We wait for crises to salvage our loves:

I want you, but I can’t let myself have you
Like Babylonian lovers, we end and begin like
A phoenix, forever in descent,
He wonders why she couldn’t be there; away but -
Only a few inches further, salt and sapphire
And raindrops clinging to wintery windows,
A green light across the river.

An accidental virgin with skin of Peridot,
For artists whose paintings are instruments of war.
Political things, helplessly conscious
Of heart breaks and passion and
Things that can’t be conquered like.
Her -
She’s crying inside.
She’s crying, not weeping. Go help her -
Go make her stop, go tell her some lie.
Oh, Jesus -
She’s crying inside again.
Go make her stop.

But wait –
First girlsdon'tthinkofsex. No, no, no -
First kisses; they change everything,
Your smell of smoke and too much perfume
Nothing will remain in its right place.
Oh, just a few inches closer
Her taste of salt and sapphire
And raindrops clinging to wintery wonders.
Her taste, of green lights across the river.

What is it with men and wet hair?