The Sea’s Criminal Record

I could write forever about all the ways you can kill me,
The first is the sea.

It is a trying thing, to remember how one person loves oneself,
In contrast to the affections of their mother.

We often stand as people and chuck our problems into the waves,
Harmonising our troubles are sounds to soothe our souls,

Numb our small minds limited by God’s kiss,
To not feel the pains of a man stumbling on another woman,

To not feel the pains of a human closing shut forever,
To not feel the pains of an argument playing the same hook,

The sea can just blow it all away, can’t it?

Until I met a certain fellow who could use the undertones of an aquatic world,
And turn it into a monster.

Who threw the duvets of the waves over my sea-bed body whilst I lay on a shore mattress,
And drowned in a salt ridden meal, you’re a great one child,

You can take the aquarium of fish to prick me, sting me, munch away my flesh,
I’m sleeping with a shark.

You’re not a good trespasser on my soul, I’d like to prosecute you,
But Daddy can vouchsafe that you do not have 8 rows of teeth,

Smiling across your plains,
Look at my shark throw out his gaze across the aquarium of females

You can take the stars away from me,
You can take the moon away from me,
Could we make this poem more typical by saying
You can even take God away from me,
You can take the clay to mould me,
You can take the land away from me,

Strip me away from the air,
Leave me hanging with no gravity,

My one promise of a human, you can take a sea’s lips,
And uppercut it into a Glasgow smile,

You can let the waves bleed on me,
Then leave me bleeding,

And whilst I sleep,
Drag me slowly into deeper waters,

Man, you’re good for anything. Anything at all.
Don’t engage with me.

Meanwhile, the sea still gazed gently,
A wealth of liquid potential for the shark to come up and eat me,

Deep in the folds of its quiet rolls,
Up a scale and down,

Pretending to soothe me.

My Barefaced Liar

The babe lay asleep,
I kept my coughs curdling in my throat,

Not a dust mote crossing his breath
Ought to disturb him.

His eyes danced underneath his eyelids,
Foxtrotting in his dreams,

I smiled with a patience that took only years
To build, then I wandered to my thoughts,

Away from him. Far as possible.

“My name is Your Other Half, marry me, say you will”.
He tangles my heartstrings, plucking my skin of “silk”.

Oh stitcher, the word-thief is asleep,
And boils the fire in my lungs, twixt’ ignored protests,

He persists, with an insistence I call a lie.
The eye of the clock watches the little world,

I fix my coordinates stood in a blank forest some early morning,
Trying to remember where did I go wrong,

When my aborted relationship failed like a popped condom,
Did I suddenly become a soul that couldn’t forge a happy love?

You know December brings a chill that I seem to identify myself with,
This isn’t a hate poem, this is just me,

Realising that I was never ready for a new pasture to grow on.
Io voglio, Io uccido, Io vivo, my imaginary friend says you say,

You hold a boat only at half mast, carrying my premature heart,
And it resides in the sea of your mouth,

Resting between the gap of your two front teeth,
Will you close your lips?

Press tight, smash the little thing bobbing between an airless sticky concave,
Warmer than summer, underneath the duvets,

I try to fix my cerebral tongue to speak your language,
To comprehend.

But no one could comprehend anything such as this.
No one could understand the inner turmoil.

The self-regret shrouding me like a bad spirit,
Oblong and black, it blindfolds my eyes.

I fall into the same kiss,
He takes me for granted,

And whispers the truth,
Staring into the lit fireplace behind me.

A Reunification

I don’t wanna call it rebirth

But here’s our child laying before us
And it stirs,
And it calls,
And it is the essence of our sensations.
Elation, salutation and then before you know it
You call me over for affection,
The life that grows in the bubble of our kisses
It wasn’t pretty
It wasn’t endearing
It was life.
Sometimes you breathe
And so do I and I feel like
Our hearts are conquered in the war of every rose that blooms from each
syllable we lip through mouth and tongue
Laced in the tapestry that is our idiolect of obsession of each other
Linked by linkage of sunlight which induces freckles in endearment
You smooth my cheek with just your thumb.
It’s apparent in the way you hold yourself
And the way I clutch my legs in a foetal position sometimes that
We’d die in fire before letting anyone remove the soup of our combined souls
We always walked on water together
And showered soil and sun on the fleurs of our summer-child
With each footstep your foot glows on the surface of my soul,
Every feeble and delicate tiptoe on the leaf of my character
Is greener, wider, and nourished
Oh the responsibility of loving this hard has become our child.
In raw winters we will have to nestle in the fire of our minds and we will burn logwood and fuel into the night.
Under the innerings and witherings I pity others
For they do not renounce their love after what in reality is 5 years
And for us, an eternity of ups and downs and cold hatred
With hot love.
It has spared me and so has spattered me,
You and I keep the ships away for our view should be as plain and as empty
As the way we had always bet
An unexpected win for when in love,
We first met.

Who’s Your Mama

I’ll seduce you like F Scott Fitzgerald,
But fuck you like Hemingway,

Your library looks good, hunk, it does,
Looks good, I said I’d leave him my poems

The next time he comes my way.
Then he listens to me breathe, whispers to my ears,

Shell-like, they’re pale from all the moonlight,
Then he cries, and says my legs remind me of his mother,

Then I undercut his lips with a kiss,
Pulled the blankets straight, tucked him in like this,

And stroked his body with my fingertips of fire,
And like his girlfriend shuddered, my legs quivered under him,

Read him Shakespeare and then next, it was Dickens,
Before I got out Seuss and set up a truce,

I spoon fed him, gave him sips of warm milk,
Told him I loved him, and gave his heart a warm cosy with my hands,

And reverberated my touch to radiate through his soul,
And called him my own, with morals of Aesop, and a cock like Oscar Wilde,

Then he stopped gyrating me like the planet’s orb when it’s crossing the Sun,
And left scarlet-faced, clothes on, in a foreskin-pink fluster,

And then I remembered everything, including the fact I was his mother.

I Stole It

I stole it
And then I stole it
Cos vengeance licked me like my ex lover that I wanted back

Then the need to prevail
And consume swept me over like a wave
And doused my lips in greed

And it kissed me leaving bruises all over my olive skin
My cheeks blushed yellow
I stank of a cheap guilt

The kind that burger vans squeeze on their fatty meat
And serve up to the unsuspecting victim
And I sniffed it as I carried it,

Cooed at it like it was my baby.

The Fuckbox

When he lifted off my panties
And discarded them onto the floor
He remarked the scales on my back
And Yazin nodded, locking the door.
Then he was folding out my behind like a book,
Kneading in the flesh, sharp breaths he took,
Breaking the spine, and burying into me,
Seen like a foreign war not affecting him directly, yet still there,
But that’s what my job was.
Living in a Fuckbox.
I’d measured the lengths,
Widths of each wall in this room,
Like dicks, exact, 5 metres by 5,
It chaves the legs of being alive.
When I wasn’t being dosed up with my former self,
250 milligrams of “accept it bitch”,
And daily injections of “700 lira an hour”, I’d say it’s all the same,
Sit with my ass up,
But that’s what my job was.
Living in the Fuckbox.
And I hailed Mary about 40 times a day,
Cos Jesus bathed his halo in the desert for 40 days and 40 nights, like this Tom-cat bathes his hands in my tits
My poppa must be having a fit,
Knowing I take nine hits from a 40 year old homosexual’s cat o nine whip,
Tryna prove he’s not doing Allah any dismay, afterwards he’d sweat, do his Isha, 5th prayer of the day,
But that’s what my job was.
Living in the Fuckbox.
The lights loved me, lathered me in moonlight cream
And smoothed my battered sores on my mine field brain,
In and out of me, in and out of being in my dreams,
But I got used to my lips feeling smooth from worn cock,
And this time Marzio would look round,
Tell the 40 year old time’s up,
He’d break his stare on me, his grasp on me unlocked,
And in my earliest youth
I chased pink ponies made of candyfloss,
Painted rainbows, weaved my fingers together, wiggled them like waves on the sea,
Somehow the present brought me candyfloss lubes and LSD,
Knobbly knees and sadomasochists,
And glacé cherry lips,
But you know my job was all these things, living in a glove of goosebumps,
twitching veins, traffic of trafficked,
worn out dirty flip flops,
and of course, living in a Fuckbox.