I think I like these mad men
And then they act mad
And I’m like
I think I like these mad men
I think I like these mad men
And then they act mad
And I’m like
That kind of sex gets into your head and into your body, makes it difficult to think or move.
I accidentally bought your laundry detergent and now I smell of you everyday
I see a particular shade of freckle and I remember your nose
Shakespeare is dead but you’re the black man that makes him alive
Marriage isn’t so abstract when I connect it to you
You are the one I want to cuddle
I look for your bright eyes in the darkness
Lord, give him to me.
The one hiding behind your cross.
You know it’s only a matter of time before his nature betrays him.
I’ll look after him.
Won’t try to control him or keep him.
I’ll let him be everything you made him scared to be.
Nothing’s going to happen to him.
Life is full of extremes. Love and Hate and nobody cares about what is in between. But I do. I care about mediocre people. They perplex me and vex me and if I could get my hands around a mediocre person’s neck…They are thieves and vagabonds dressed in nothing, but splendour.
Her mediocre face looks up happily, eyes bright behind her mediocre skin. She has no cause for happiness and yet it is the privilege of her mediocrity, not to see it. And he…a waste of what could be, a not quite, a worse than mediocrity. I can’t look at mediocre people, standing tall and unashamed. I cover them in my criticism and yet it is my curse to see them all the same.
You call me cruel knowing that if things got nasty so would I. I won’t do anything specific to hurt you; only leave you. Leave you like you left me. Leave you like you never imagine I will leave you. It will hurt. The waiting with hope wavering into depression. Feeling, thinking, that I don’t care, don’t remember. That will please me, you hurting. You could call me cruel now that things have gotten nasty and so have I.
‘I’m sick. The world submits. We bitches rule. Okay!’
We rise to electric music. Heart disturbed, before the eyes. We know something is waiting. The day, as bright and empty as when Adam began. We seek out the sun, always rising on the wrong side of the house. Shrouded in down, we wonder if it would be easier to remain in our damp grave. Heart settles. Mouth smiles. Lazarus rises.
We’re so far apart. Me, right there and you, right here. Like a dead mother, you never existed. And…everything doesn’t have to be so heavy, because as soon as you return we’ll smile. At our wicked ways, we’ll cry tears of laughter. That is if you return otherwise the illusion will live on. That is if I return otherwise the illusion will die. Nothing so far has changed you, not fire, not water, not pain. Twin statues we stand apart staring into the unknown of each other’s eyes. We are not dead. We are not alive. We are muntu.
The word muntu makes “no special difference between living people, dead people, children not yet born, and gods” (The Poisonwood Bible).
It’s not you. No really, it’s not you. It’s not you; it’s me. If you knew about me you wouldn’t blame yourself. You wouldn’t expect so little for me. You’d find someone better: lesser. You’d be sad for me knowing that I’ll never be happy, that there will always be something more than you. If you knew me you wouldn’t try. You wouldn’t have to. You would know that it’s not you. It’s not you.
Haven’t seen you in a while. You remind me too much of me. I felt like forgetting. I thought I had.
All over my bed
If we weren’t lovers I’d call us twins trapped in the same womb, born of the same blood. The two of us in an ongoing tussle tumbling round and round, all our colours swishing into each other and swapping places.
And if you left now it would break the heart we share that keeps ours beating.
But I’d find a way to live without your hand in mine and your bum in my face and my flesh pressed into your flesh and your thoughts in my head and our feelings squashing us into this embryonic space.
Maybe we’ve outgrown each other, maybe we can’t live without each other, maybe we’ve killed each other, maybe we love each other.
I’ll never need you because I’ll always have you; I’ll never miss you because you’ll always be there. Even after birth when the need for separation would pull us apart, even then would we be exactly the same. Just less natural.
2 parts moody,
2 parts fine,
1 part the clown,
5 parts divine.
If you don’t come back soon I’m going to kill our dream. Before you’ve even fully envisioned it I’m going to cut it out black from that colouring book we loved. Why won’t you comply? Why won’t you be complicit in my illusion? Completely. I allude to you, only you, all the time. It’s harrowing. We’re the opposite of a rainbow. I don’t even know who you are whilst knowing everything in your little little mind. That’s what I…i…i…
You are a waste of the sunshine.
When I think about you I count every breath
And I wish that I could get them back.
I don’t like you. In fact I wish I’d never met you.
I imagine it sometimes and I climax, tearfully.
I regret not hurting you, more.
I think that you are horrible like the hideous monster under the bed.
I wish your heart was as big as mine so you could understand how much hate can be squashed inside it.
You are a pot belly pig. I kick you and I roast you.
I share you with all my friends and they love you.
You are delicious, dead.
I wish you became a puzzle and I jumbled up all the pieces so I didn’t know what you look like.
I wish I was so stupid I couldn’t solve the puzzle.
I don’t even like writing about you.
I’m going to tear you out and scrunch you into a ball and play basketball with your head. Dickhead.
You make me feel like
I should be smiling.
I take it back,
I love you.
Saying goodbye to everything for the last time.
Goodbye light as I switch you off.
Goodbye life I used to know.
It’s time to hear the news.
What if we’re all a mistake? What if God couldn’t help himself one day and got bored or horny and had sex. And now Mother Earth raises us all single handedly because her bastard lover refused to stick around. What if he pops his head in now and again, disrupts the order of things before deciding we’re all useless and washing his hands of us? Well, what if we don’t care about his rules or his issues or his absence? What if we’ve forgotten about him? Formed ourselves, designed our destinies, wanted more for ourselves than he could be bothered to conceive. What if we’re all just fine, or actually, perfect? Without him.
I thought it
I know you thought it too
So it happened
I was sitting there and a sadness came over me, and I immediately imagined my death and all of my friends gathered around me. I thought of him and him and him and someone to hold me during my last days, and that’s when I knew that I wouldn’t tell a soul. I’d ask them to publish me the way it was always meant to be, without me, just my words. I’d ask them to stop the crying; we all have art to attend to. Because when I am gone creation will be all that’s left behind as it was in the beginning. And through creation will I never end. Then the sadness left me.
And you. Everyone else historicised in my lexicon. But you.
On finding the moon above the clouds whilst flying to Atlanta
I couldn’t take me eyes off you, my shining lense in the sky, picturing me from above, knowing how I meet your light with my inexperienced love.
I can get off on a vision, you don’t have to be real. Your eyes can tell stories you’ve never seen, your mouth smile with a love you’ve never expressed. I can trust your insincerity, your ignorance can explain things unknown. And when I think I really know you, you can be everything that never was, with the earth and the moon and the sun, imagined.
A man discovered a diamond
He let it slip through his fingers
It sliced him as it fell
It came and went
Like the snow.
And when it came
It covered everything.
I’ll grind you to powder
Then sniff you up my nose
And get high on my success.
Where you fool? Ha ha ha. I can hear our song. Ha ha ha. You laughing in the shadows. My man, fix up before I ha fi get serious. Ha ha ha. You never stop laughing. I never stop missing dem times. Wit u. Wit me. Whitney, shut ya mout. The greatest love is this bullshit. Peace. Ha.
Do you ever wish you could take it all back? Time. Do you ever wish you could give them all back. Memories.
Smells linger on the street corners of your mind. Just when you think you’re safe, you remember. The same stories read to you every bedtime. Your dreams filled with could have beens. You wish tomorrow could be the day you were born. The sky not yet blue.
Back in the day we were never worried about the answers because we were never asked the questions. Now our lips quiver along with their dicks. Nothing is convincing anymore, not even the womb. Complete, we are in need of nothing and so complete, we desire it all.
Profoundly confused, profoundly uncertain, profoundly brave, profoundly human.
The vagina is complex and no two are the same. It is therefore important to avoid comparisons amongst vaginas. There are however, certain similarities shared by vaginas. These include:
– The need for regular contact. To prevent a moody vagina, play with it regularly, keep it well lubricated and avoid leaving it vacant for long periods of time.
– At times vaginas will refuse entry. When this occurs, make sure that there is no disconnection between the vagina, the rest of the body and the soul.
– Sometimes the vagina may not respond well to certain guests. It is likely that in these situations it will do anything including crying, curdling and flushing to alert you to its discomfort. You may need to reevaluate the guest.
– On the whole the vagina is an enthusiastic participant in most activities: adaptable, flexible, warm and enduring.
– When the vagina conduits blood from inside to outside the body, it is its way of confirming its support of the wider procreative concerns of the body. This role does not however, negate the hedonistic interests of the vagina. If anything, it intensifies them.
Once again, the vagina is complex like most masterly and multifunctional things in life. The best way to live harmoniously with the vagina is to respond promptly to its needs and never to assume full understanding of it: it is in the vagina’s nature to surprise.
Dedicated to a 24 year old vagina of whom I am most proud.