MIGRATION.

I fold the night around me

and I wake up in my bed of molten blue

beneath the shade of the Banyan

as I sniff the last patches of sunlight you sat in

where sometimes the light settled on you like pollen.

I’m here in your Supernova wake

thinking that the brightness will keep you safe, here

and the wind vehemently pushes the cotton sheet

running canyon along my back-

I can only think that your hands are strong

when mine are spent ripping tokens overdue

from the earth by the handful.

I fold the night around me

and I wake looking for some benign truth

as to why the earth was much bigger when I was four

when every day was forever and people like you

were blown like kisses to the stars.

I often wonder if gravity only keeps me here

or whether you’ve found yourself a better place

migrating, instinctually inside the cupboard or the sheets

so you can go in there to hide.

HABITUAL ISLANDER.

I do not know her now

but in between I do, somehow

pearlescent moon, title of traveller

far flung from her orbit

onto greensand, shifting shades-

little sea reveller with graffitied arms

habitual islander

pulling apart with the currents

tendons afloat, wide sargasso

torn ritually from bird skulls.

Hands sifting, searching

for love in the spaces of pumice

but it was just wet sand.

MY LITTLE YELLOW LIGHT.

We snuck a kiss in the bits of lights

Through long dense cord we neglect to remember

which held each light’s hand and bound our souls tight

buckling weak, overnighters

sweeping under each other as dust does.

I’m walking home, calves slipped into fish-nets

to my little yellow light suspended

in the violence of hurricanes- clapping the earth in fury

safety pinned to flesh I don’t know

and pushing against you in acres of skin.

TEAM

We hummed the beginnings of personhood

in our jerry-built camp, where we’d black out

and our lungs would cry

‘ I fucking love you!’

barefoot on a cold living room floor.

I’m bonded, you see

lassoed by indisposable recreations

and blue tac’d walls of liquor spilt smiles

shielding us from the uncertainty

that we’d never grow out of this.

We came and got our bearings right

Our lives messy but well loved

municipal stomping ground, in glittered tights

lips ripen with every spiced rum chugged.

This place will be understood forever

saying goodbye to familiar flagstones

huddled together for warmth outside

in makeshift tees and matching shorts.

I’ll never forget our battleship sofas

prized from our bums by sudden change-

we held the fort against loud voices

monsters in the kitchen, chopping knives

and yet our cultured charm remained.

We captured moments and we planted them

behind our eyelids where we knew they’d be safe

that we painted in glitter, stamped with loose gems

all grown up but still as baby faced.

One day we’ll go back and we’ll dance there again

hands in the air my warrior friends, sissy’n that walk

platonic hearts that others will never see

dancing amongst a hundred jewels of glass on the floor.

 

LONGING

Peppered dynamite dragged across russet brown-

citron peeled pitted with pores

through curtains sliced lengthways

brains share pleasure between fabric rains-

feet sockless

gooseflesh grounded on floorboards

touch eyes of partial blue

the same blue as confusion

she chews on her hair

lungs squeezed orange juice

ballooned when she moves-

eyes pressed shut

spherical lids

glittered

byzantine

and she’s stuck.

Tightwound

comfort squeezed

in earth’s coldest places

exposed pith

her face

glowstick spritz

spilling innards

turgid

e x p an d i n g  space.

 

 

 

I am.

I am but space

a cluster of mess;

my skin full of chemicals

that has let hurricanes in

and planets and scars

like plastered wax

stuck to my chest.

I am the white sclera

the peeling film

of tired eyes;

I am sinew of bones

that make up home

with feelings reaching

from the praline shells

of their seed.

I am the landscapes

painted on my limbs;

I must preserve me

and see through the lenses

of eyes

like the dirt of flowerbeds

with beauty built around them.

Body.

Don’t ever let them hate on your body

for it is a striking mosaic of bones

a relic of desire, peppered with nostalgia-

wiggling hips

like a dog bounding from the riverbed.

Your belly button is deep and soft

a likeness to a shellfish-

your skin is fuzzy and uncharted

and your fungus white fingernails

trace freely, the field of wildflowers

gilding your face.

Happiness can always be found

in this tangible body you call home-

the indents of your collarbones

and the fleshy, vivacious giblets

like small purple-striped jellies

washed up on the shoreline

in gallons of freshwater.

Your body is not a regulation

for your body is the delicacy

of free-hand paint strokes-

discolouration

imbuing the undiscovered clefts

of every cave on your flesh.