pervert

what is it about me that attracts them?
is it my innocence,
my denied purity,
or my clean face,
my aversion to vulgarity?
i'm not
ill-disposed to things that are
>>vulgar
just so you know.
but my input is unrequired. rejected. like I can't reject you.

the same face
they all have the same face of absent excitement.
salivating
drooling
dogs.
they stare between the lines.
they smile
the same smile of passive titillation.
of an offer of a free beer,
slurping 'woof'
into the one they currently have
and wiping saliva
off the face, with a damp mothy sleeve.

i watch them as they try to dance
try to dance with me
try to dance
dance with me
they reject me
they want me to dance for them
dance with them
without them.
it's not about me.
it's never about me
yet why does it seem it always happens to

little me.
startled, perpetually startled,
my fate is to be taken by surprise
and innocently
not
say 'no'.
they lie, when they say you should speak up
speak out
speak.
say anything other than smile or nod.
there is no space for you
in there.
there's only space for
dick.

only space for a gigantic excitable puppy of a penis
and your prim and properness,
in your dark red chipped nail varnish, against the flesh
trying not to squeeze too hard
because you don't want to feel anything
and he doesn't know you are alive
and he would like you to smile and go with it.

and he would like you to do as you're told
and he would like it if you bit your hand and said 'ouch'
and he would like it.
do you like it?
of course you do.
you have no say.
you are not there.

everywhere i walk today i see ugliness
ugly bulging
ugly bulging smiles
absent bulging
male male
suited, booted, aftershaven
distant, absent, gentleman.

everywhere i walk today
i'm struck by the ugliness.
the suspect moles on the neck
of the alcoholic man on the tube.
the awkward jerking of the
man on the train.
ugly.

the women i see are beautiful. it is men, today, that hurt me.

humility

hot, dusty and sticky-eyed
a fat impending doom
orders calm and stillness
like nothing is ever
to change.

like The Only
is a second following when
contact breaks,
a shiver.
but for now,
impending.
Expected.
Required.
Desired.
Distorted.
Deformed.
Disgustingly precious.

but of course, there are rules.
Like how to smile when i'm not smiling,
how to communicate a loss,
when have it all.

and of course, the cat's out of the bag now
and there is nothing new to profess
or maybe nothing left, anymore.
A relief and a constant
Constant,
and a struggle to keep
things simple
or more exciting
that they might have ever been
(before?)

Expectation of exceptions,
except for that of extraction.
Nobody saw that one coming.
A pure removal
sucked up by  proverbial 'powers'
and leaving behind the cover
which i thought was you for a second
but now understand
i was fooled.
I have looked at you in different light
all this time
and have coloured-in the parts
my eyes could not see
as blinded by my
perspective.

Musty, milky patterns
of grey on brown,
and a delirious appreciation
for a single isolated freckle
in your eye,
experienced as an island,
a home, all comforts, all meaning, all hope.

alienation nation

i'm an alien and my heart was caught up in barbed wire,
as it was trying to flee the sinking ship,
and now it's made a mess on the floor
with all the drops of sticky blood.
for some reason,
blood of pain is stickier than blood of accident.
blood of negligence, more potent than blood of betrayal.
skin to skin,
i recognise and detach
i un-know and attach
lose the 'i' and adopt 'this'
look down on x-rays of hands holding hands held in hands.
a breeze expected to hit my face, never makes it.
or if it does, my skin has missed it.
such strong needs, each stomping along to their own tantrum
and 'I', the referee, suddenly awake in stripey top and football socks,
wondering when it will be logical,
when will it be comfortable,
and how will i recognise it as such.
and how will you recognise me,
when my features have blurred?
will you recognise my heart beating
and my hands holding onto you
or is everything numb to me, as i am to my shell?

i'm rushed on to the spaceship
no time to wear a spacesuit
no time to click my heels three times,
joyfully wave a tissue
or kiss you.
i feel like a cross between the hitchhikers' guide to the galaxy and ET,
i feel like a cross between border collie and hippopotamus
i feel like a cross and an axe
i feel like feeling is important
but right now who knows what this is and if my pain is happiness or nothing
and in any case, i don't want to burden you, sorry, i'll keep quiet.

ink hand

your favourite things
are listed on paper
in colourful marker pen
smudged by your hand
then smeared on your forehead
then kissed by my lips
which then bit into an orange
and spat out its peel
into my hand
dripping spit down through
those fingers too eager to care
and too old to respond.

if anything my experience has taught me
is timeliness and cleanliness
are two things i will have to
learn to forget as i age
and then remember again
and blame my demands

on my life-time.

as a keeper of objects
i keep you and your pens and your smudges and forehead
and i'll guard it with life and my death if i have
to confess that it's
less likely than anything that i'll ever lose these possessions,
i promise.

as a keeper of time,
i anticipate its passage to scar me forever.
i look forward to it, impatiently
biting the skin around my nails
so it frays more and feels like
something is
growing up.