Sit with me

When all methods have been tried, all highways travelled,
all sentences written, all messages sent
To get a handgun from somewhere and just do it
That’d be my method of choice

Practise on a target first to get the feel
Put on my long black coat and boots
Listen to one more song, sing one more dream
Paint my nail one last time

Have one more shot of whiskey
Read one more poem
Have one last orgasm, one final useless fantasy
Then just load it and shut my mouth

Shut my mouth around the barrel
Point it at this brain behind its dense bone wall
Steady it with both these      wasted      hands
Think again

Think again of that thing I just can’t seem to get
Think again of that thing I just can’t seem to get
Think again of that place I just can’t seem to stay
Can’t seem to stay

Think again of that place I just can’t seem to stay
Think again of that place I just can’t seem to stay
Think again of that thing I just can’t seem to      give
And just click the trigger back

Make a mess on the wall that I won’t have to clean up
Go join all the other dead poets at their eternal reading
Go drink their eternal wine and      take up smoking at last

Sit with me under my kind of trees
as dusk falls and lights come on
and the band warms up
under my kind of trees
Sit with me

Sit with me under my kind of trees
as dusk falls and lights come on
and the band warms up
under my kind of trees
Sit with me

Sit with me under my kind of trees
as the night goes on and on and on
and on and on and on…
Sit with me

Sit with me under my kind of trees
as the night goes on and on and on
and on and on and on…
Sit with me

She says
She says these wounds and scars
She says these wounds and scars will make you a strong wise woman
and she should know

Meet my eyes and say my name
as that darkness melts and the dawn declaims
and the sun makes light of the two of us
Say my name

The women give me photographs and poems named after mine
and beautiful cloth-bound notebooks

Deathwish

If I were a man
you’d call me ‘my brother’
We’d drink beer, sing songs, read poetry
late into the night,
swap our latest
discoveries

But
I have a body that makes straight men look.
Legs, arse, tits,
baby face, symmetry, plump lips
There’s a warm love inside
but that dick of yours has no concept of
identity
just an unrepentant
wombwish
drownwish
cavewish
deathwish

I don’t flirt like the other women
All fluttery
I flirt like someone with balls
when I flirt at all

You might be the man in my dream —
the one about the comfortable bohemian house,
the books and music
the friends coming around
the art
the activism
the equal partners

but
you know what?
The woman in my dream
isn’t me. She’s not, is she?
She’s the cushion woman
the carpet woman
the send you hearts on facebook woman
the sari woman
the sandalwood patchouli woman
the bells on her fingers woman
the rose vanilla lavender woman
the butterfly tattoo woman, the woman, the woman
with long glossy hair
and vagina eyes. Yeah, long glossy hair
and vagina eyes

But she isn’t even part
of me.
I can never be her
Never was
Never will be
Never want to be

And she’s what you want, yeah?
The vagina woman
The womb woman
The open up and make room woman
The big juicy tit woman
The boneless chicken, salt, tarragon, lemon woman
The your name on her breath woman
The make you feel big woman

and I’m the
cut you down to size woman
the
right back at ya woman
the
don’t look up to anyone woman
I’m the
wingtip to wingtip eye to eye side by side woman
the boots woman
the bareface truth woman
the knife woman
the leather belt woman
the don’t mess with or else woman

I’m not
the soft-poemed
mystical
gamelan
herbal
heartshaped
gauzy
low-cut
plush
scented woman
lighting the candles
arranging the cushions
But I am a woman.

If I were a man
you’d call me ‘my brother’
We’d drink beer, sing songs, read poetry
late into the night

white boys

I like white boys
I like them
translucent

the black t-shirt sleeve-edge, white bicep
curve
the cool nape, tide-touch
hairline
the black sock, thin sparse-haired
ankle
the Cleopatra-milk-bath hands, stark knuckles
and nails

the diffident fingerprints
he puts on me

the fierce streak of
black
inside him

(First published on Fringe Gallery’s blog)