Past and present in pose

Pretty Bullet (you)

Anticipation in the chamber
Fire at will
Hot metal
Spinning through air
Million miles a second
Make contact
Impact!!
Impression
Penetration
Internal destruction
But dear God
Shoot me again
Cause it feels good
Being wounded by such a
Pretty bullet.

latest poetic drop of word vomit i've added to the river already throughing through my mind. my blogs, and my little floral poetry book which has been covered with abstract black lines.
i wrote the below a little while ago. didn't feel like sharing then. i do now. because i don't feel this anymore i suppose. because it was such a tiny feeling, which i made into something so huge? i don't know... anyway... enjoy


People watching

Girl. In colours that could only be described as feminine. Clutching a present to her chest. The paper matched her pink shoes. A box. Containing a surprise for someone. You wonder if she wanted to keep it for herself, or is happy to hand it over to a friend. Its almost as big as she is.

Dog. Lying on the sidewalk. Blue lead being held loose by a café hoping owner. Sitting next to a familiar face. Work acquaintance. Smile. Nod. Keep on walking. Oh but how you wanted to pat the sleeping puppy

Sitting. Green bench. Wind whistling through deep burgundy hair. Mine. Watching a bartender open his bistro. Was he up to the early hours of the morning? Bartenders look the best in slim fit black shirts. Pushing out long wooden tables. Break on. Back inside. Is this what he grew up wanting to be?

Thin man. Large shades. Too much bling for a white guy. Your disappearing inside your baggy pants. Doesn’t recognize you. You know him thou. Wait. Cars. Walk. Now he sees you hiding in plain sight. Gay hug. that’s how he likes it. The same old man as before. You know him anywhere. Small talk. Fast walk. Alone again

Waiting.
People watching
Boys.
Men
Motorbikes

Looking for someone special. Is that him? No. Hope its not him. Don’t mind if its that guy. Yum. Four teens on an identical bench across the road. What are they waiting for?

Flowers. In plastic pots. Dripping. Living. Breathing once. Now dead and on display. Wrapped in cellophanes. Purchase me. I am the nicest. Scent. Wafts’ into your sinus as you walk past. In your doc Martians. Fabric matching blue orchids skims against the top.

Time? Look again. Internal dilemma. Should I stay or should I go? Nervous is nothing. Far advanced by 11:37. Combat pants. You know its him now. Traffic. Helmet in one hand. What are you waiting for? Meet the stranger. Do your thing. Exchange small talk.

2 pair of boots walking in unison. Keep up small feet. Can’t look. Blue eyes. Behind them? Innuendo and expectations. Your going to give it up to easily. Sexual attraction. Heart beat. You’ll hear it closer, later. For sure.

His eyes close when he smiles. Adds too much sugar to his coffee. He made him pay. This unnerves. “The table doesn’t have a table cloth” open mouth. Insert foot. Youngian. That is what you are. A young liar. With easy written on your chest.

A walk. He doesn’t decline. You open the door and let him in. It doesn’t take long. The two hour talk was the foreplay. Skin. On. Skin. Close the door. And let him in. coherent side is floating. Hitting the eggplant painted ceiling. Float. Fly. Leave. To quick. Escape. Your gone.

Clammy. Closed. Lie on rough sea of sheets. You did it again. Whore crosses your mind. As his hands cross your cheek. Will this be a meaningless fuck. Time will tell. “This isn’t me” whispered words into a sleeping ear. He hears. Its it true anymore though?

Eyes close.
People watch.
You‘ll never know them.
Until its over.

*Who are you**

I'm lost along a road i don't usually travel
i don't feel like myselfand i don't know if thats a good thing or a bad thing.to be honest i can't remember who 'Vanessa' is most of the time.

is it the person i was when i was with andrew. always trying to be exactly what i thought he wanted. not to close, not too distant. low manitance. not to clingy....

is it the person when i'm with my squiggle. silly. and giggly and drunk?

is it the person i am when i'm at work. trying to get everything done. perfect. and fucking up something so silly then stressing about it

is it the person i am when i am alone. in the middle of the night. awake in the dark. just starring at the celing.

is it the person i am when i'm meeting a guy for the first time and trying to be sauve and irasistlable...

i feel like i'm none of these things. like i'm hiding behind a mask. everywhere

i don't want to go to this fancy dress thing tomorrow. i don't want to see tim. i don't want to have lunch with this guy who asked me out online yesterday and called me this evening and spoke to me on the phone for two hours. i dont want to see my flatmates and make small talk. i don't want to be alone. yet i'm desprate for something...

i've lost who i am, and i don't remember what i was like to find myself again