“I believe in never.
I believe in all the way.” – Smashing pumpkins
So you don’t take the time take the moments spin the bottle spill the blood?
Ah well ah HELL
The word hell is from the Norse word Hel – this described both the goddess and the place that she ruled. Everyone went there and it was crappy, unless you got stabbed or chopped up with an axe in which case you got to go to Valhalla.
And in Valhalla you got to get into fights. Forever. And there was endless beer.
I remember endless beer.
It was nice. Beery.
So we dip our wings and sigh. Sigh in slightly inconsistent, in-harmonic, clipped shuddering sighs – and only a sliver of love out of synch’.
I know there is no happy ending for this; that there cannot be.
And sure, I know. I know that you – that you have heard the words and maybe read some of them. The urgency. The force of it.
What else is there for me? For ME?
Have some more.
Circles building up in me in that release-less frenetic energy making me blink fast and move fast. Boots hanging off me and the laces really do look chewed though I didn’t not recently at least.
Got that lettered up feeling – heat boiling off me feel the air ripple and coil as I breathe out . Heat for each distil phalange (these are the words for finger-tips do they not slip onto the ends of your hands?)
Still feel the smell of her on me though I guess it’s not pale honey and nightmarish need colouring my eyes not hers though I am hoping hoping.
Forgot what it was like to feel like this so wide open crushable –flawed and ruin-ready – Lit up like a six-fingered passion, a design a metaphor a need.
I remember every point of flesh, mouths meeting over muted susurrations and terrified more than most times.
Toes all bent up and down and pushing so hard not to frighten her that I almost say nothing,
Flood of words damned with sand and ashes and flowers now; flowers.
a catch thickening my throat
And hey -
There might be something windblown and scarred,
A moment for us to press against our cheek,
A plate for us to hold it to.
Out there somewhere. Sure.
My own memory is a scratched cup, a bent fork.
Blown out like surf or a candle,
’a light bulb a curse or a mind.
Warmth and comfort, solace and weight
I need more than you were and are.
The sum of your parts is less than the whole.
And your voice is gone.
This rage and its partner.
They can bring us jewels, my love
We can have
love letter to a woman i have best described thus: as a running chainsaw thrown into a crowded room.