Plastic time

What is tomorrow’s perfect?

When today we play

on mental moments

with plastic time

that doesn’t last as long

but travels at the same pace

What is tomorrow’s now?

When this disposable thing

is no longer new

or useful

or relevant

What do I do then?

When all my money is spent

on repeats

of something already wonderful

What do I do then?

I trace the mountain tops

I trace the mountain tops

with my eyes

and now my pencil too

scratching, outlining the tip

I dip and duck into creases

I shade and shadow

shallow edges

and dark ridges

black and white

I use my fingers now

letting them walk

across cliff face

and jump down

so I have to bend knuckle

to reach back up

to sharper edges

that cut my skin

as I graze the points

and then my hand

falls downwards

as I reach the end of the cliff

and I dip

cold

into icy waters

20.3.18

She knew we were watching

and everyone else

As she led her parade

of butter skin

and salted and bleached hair

past boys who shouldn’t be looking

and girls who couldn’t stop

because these newly bronzed baby faces

are kissed and caressed

by our eyes

and they savour

the judgement

that imprints on their damp skin

and they pretend it’s a compliment

but this compliment

will bite them tomorrow

when they look in the mirror

and see our eyes looking back

 

I get it now

More time to think

but overthinking less

because now these seconds

aren’t wasted

can’t be wasted

because I have so much

so little time here

so I savour each moment

and make each second taste bitter

from sitting too long on my tongue

I allow my mind to flutter

to less beautiful thoughts

to find peace

and perfection

I get it now

‘Battle of Love’ by Pablo Picasso

These entangled lines have secrets

that lurk in the creases

of the bubbled bodies

that bend and fold

around bed and bedpost

Is this desire, really?

or is this stylish rape

embellished with paints

a ‘love’, you say?

between who?

between victim and beast

is that a leg? or arm?

or is that insides coming out

not so glamorous anymore

 

Is this art, now?

Is this art?

 

More sunburn

My velvet bruise

turns crimson

in the salty sun’s

summer stain

and my body crumbles

because it is used

to kinder temperatures

when the sky isn’t so cruel

and does not try to infect

my freckled

speckled skin

and make me ash

buttered up

and battered

 

He told me he loved me

He told me the other day

but I was laughing

and using my laughter to fill my ears

to block noise or notion

body and motion

and his truth

that I pretended was a joke.

 

But now,

now I am thinking clear

and my ears are empty

body clean

and I can hear him

or a memory of him

and he tells me I am cruel and unkind

to ignore him

and all I want

is to be kind

Depth 1m

Depth 1m

is enough

for me

to duck and shallow

my body

submerged

and suffocated

blood pauses

confused

and questions the heart

who rests for a moment

and ponders life like this…

but the brain is one step ahead

translating

and telling me to resurface

so I lift my skin

and my body follows

to find air again

miserable air