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gods

who worships you but gods of soil, who worship all above I am above can you see me, stretch your neck, fold it back my pupils the stars, my thighs an entire galaxy, my mind nebulas what are you to me, all bold eye, big mouth is it wide enough to fit my hips, big boy? will the corners of your mouth not rip on the edges of my name you going to chew all these weary bones, all this eroded flesh? sharp enough to polish your teeth, boy I am housed within them, eat my home you going to swallow all the wrath, every decision in my skull bad or good alike, it all just tastes of ‘yes’ to you you going to eat me whole? cut your tongue and bite your cheek? mouthful what are you to me, nostrils flaring, eyes too wide eyebrows raised you going to breathe me in, big boy? put your nose to my power, it flowers I will blow your lungs clean inside your chest and sow wishes in your veins you going to watch me, boy? movement too square to fit your circle eyes spook easily, deer-like dear-like, you trying to soften me boy? call me darling again in the night and I’ll show you a smile that sinks cities and hands that are the waves love is destruction, I say you going to build it up, boy?

Delilah

Samson, gelijk gij, kronkelt van mijn armen naar mijn bed, gevangen in dit vleeskatoenen net het doet mij iets iets aandoenlijk is het niet dat ge mij iets aandoet buiten da ik u iets wil uit doen ma ziet u nu liggen hier uw haar van mijn schoot tot aan mijn schouder voor u een wapen voor mij een te warm gewassen kriebeltrui een beetje ruw maar ge houdt mij warm het is nog maar even voor ik u uit elkaar scheur, denk ik als ge begint te rafelen langs de kanten omdat ik aan uw ziel sleur vanuit mijn lakens en gij dan, een hoopje wol, ongebreid en ongebreideld dat aan mijn voeten ligt hoe kunt gij, gij man der mannen, ooit een probleem zijn voor mij? ge zegt dat ge god bent of door god gegeven zijt voor mij maakt dat al geen verschil god of mens, ge zijt een man verschalkt en schalks tussen mijn dijen zijn jullie allemaal gelijken het is nog maar even voor ik u kaal scheer en u reduceer van pauw naar kuiken ik vraag mij af of ik uw verbazing ga kunnen voelen door uw schedel door nu verdwalen mijn handen altijd in al dat haar van u verdomme dat is overal ik vind dat op de vloer en in de douche het is gelijk het mijne ’t mijn rood en t’ uwe zwart gelijk het vuur en het verbrand tegelijk het is schrijnend maar ik ga genieten van uw kale kop u ontwapend en moe zien liggen is wat mij goed doet dromen van goud doet dromen sssst, schat het is niks, leg u neer morgen hangt er niks van die shit op uw schouders meer

Blowjob

how low are you willing to see me go are you willing to watch me, pain your eyes with me when I cling to you with knees the colour of the gravel I drag them through for you will you be disgusted yet? when full earth turns my golden hair to brown to soil, to grow and root within this earth will you be appalled yet? my nails, broken, filled up with pieces of granite and obsidian now more resembling of talons than hands will you hold them still? when I have dug for oil, and it is seeping from my eyes will you can it and sell it? when I finally sit among diamonds, will you think now she is low enough to stop complaining I never give her anything will you tell me about the riches growing underground and send me down to mine for you to yours for you until I finally can’t manage to crawl back into bed with you? I’ll keep myself warm on the marble floor with your love letter words that wrote me into an inferno once with your love song tongue is this all the love I get to have? you’ll say yes yes, you’ll say this is all the love I have to spare you’re a railing without stairs but I still tumble down for you take your hands and bruise them purple kisses on the wall love too frail to punch clear through tangle my hair around all the broken promises that silently line the empty sides of your ring finger and see if my heart fits through the space between your legs it doesn’t you contemplate the paradox, but not for long and I’ll say yes yes I’ll say this is all the love I get to have

Scout's Honour

I will jump at the throat of love and sink my teeth in deep. I will crash you against the Universe until you merge with it and all I will see in the sky will be you and you and you: every constellation the extension of a limb. I will use blunt force and coffee to keep you in bed, and pin your lungs to the ceiling so your ribs can rise and rise again so my sun can breathe and breathe again. I will boil down the hours between us and drink them on a sullen morning soaked with rain: the sweat that rolls off your back in the night, be it nightmares or my thighs - and how different are they really? - that make it pour. I will drag you out by your tongue and my knees will follow until they bleed. It will be destruction. It will be Ragnarok. And it will be beautiful. I see the end of us flicker through the ribbons you are cut in by poorly shut blinds and passing cars’ lights like a carrousel or a flip book. You dizzy me most when you lie still, like you are now, and that must be part of the reason why I want to move you. I will do nothing gently, no deity was ever gentle in creating, in destroying. I will push you and pull you until I can stand still and balance on the hours spent screaming and throwing plates into collarbones and at the edges of my hips. I will paint ourselves new lives with the blood that is cut loose from my lips by teeth that are not yours. When I at last, tear all of the stars out of my sky and hand you back your skin I will not cry. I will stand in the vast blackness of an empty galaxy after we have sunk and smile at the contrast. We will have been so grand for so long I will find solace in being small in someone else’s hands. I will not let this love die slowly and suffering, I will not bind needles to my fingers and gently caress you until you are raw and open and my kiss can sow nothing but salt. I will lay this love on the train tracks. I will do nothing gently. I have not loved you gently, I will not leave you gently. I am a creator. I will end things just so I know that they can begin again.

Speaker's Corner

Things always seem bigger when you’re a kid, they say. And I agree; with one exception - always the exception - of outer space. When I was young, I used to think those stars were painted on a canvas, that hung behind our own sky, stretched on enormous splints and wrapping itself around our entire world. Splatters of purple and orange, random littering of white specks and a Pollockian way with some reds and yellows whenever a meteor shower would pass. Like a three year old finger-painting. And every night I thought little men and women would tug the curtain behind our stage a little further on, so the spectators might know we had arrived at a different scene, another day. It was a most wonderful feeling: as if with each night, all the lines from the previous script were erased and I could write a new one in my dreams overnight. I felt free as my characters stepped up on the stage, barefoot onto the bendy and young wooden planks, still at liberty to improvise in between the dialogues. They danced and laughed like there was no audience, which is exactly why it was entertaining. And every day I buzzed with what my night had dreamt up for the day to come, anxious to see it played out. I was unaware of the absence of my mother’s love, for in my younger days, under the painted starry sky that inched further on down, I had Ursa major as a mother. And I could wallow in her soft tan fur that caught the starlight. I was a child of nebulas and constellations and I could giggle and laugh and I could roll around and wrap myself in the black warmth of the Universe that seemed sticky beyond belief. I loved those days when I felt it close in all over me, when I was small enough for it to coat me just up to my fingertips. I felt the big bear’s claws around me, as I just - just - fit into the crevice of her chest. And then I grew up. And I learned and I opened my eyes to the galaxies behind the galaxies and the words behind the words and the stars behind the eyes. And I got a script, and a strict director called Adulthood, which I despised the minute he walked in. And suddenly, I noticed the floorboards creak, and I noticed the stains and the hollowed out areas in the wood where I used to stand. Just like that, I felt like I was acting. Acting another part than my own. And it felt awful, because mother bear’s protective claws couldn’t reach around me anymore, for she had become the smallest thing in the sky right then. I rebelled in the darkness of the wings, whispering in the ears of my costars to start a revolution. In my case, the riot consisted of bringing on another player, from another company, and sneaking him into the coulisses, trying to get him on stage. It was you that took the challenge on, that dragged out a soapbox that made awful scratching noises on the flawed wooden floor. While looking Adulthood right in the eye, you put it in the middle of the stage. Your feet stepping on made an echoing sound that resonated in my bones. The breath you drew seemed eons long. The speech that followed, loud voice and rhetorics that would put Demosthenes to shame, was nothing less than a revolutionary call to arms.

Crime passionnel

Why is it that kissing someone in the rain is universally acknowledged as romantic? Why is holding hands at sunset considered to be more beautiful than doing it at any other point in time? Why is it dubbed ‘caring’ when someone hands you their jacket, only to be miserably cold themselves? Why is it always 2am that makes us think about someone? Why is seeing each other in your dreams deemed better or more heartfelt than seeing each other for real? I would rather not get horrible wet hair sitting in between all the places we should be touching. The cold and wet would just make the kiss all wrong, rain running down our faces and sticking our eyelashes together. But I don’t want the rain to do it. It has no place to think it can do what we could do too, with nothing but the resonance of synced heartbeats. I’d rather kiss your warm and lazy lips awake and know they are still able to move with mine, even when the brain behind it was still but barely conscious. I liked knowing that kissing me was almost an instinct. I’d rather be opening a bottle of wine at sunset, and only have our bodies touch through sipping from it’s neck right after the other’s lips had kissed it, or through the accidental brush of fingers over and under each other when we would pass it along. I’d rather let our souls entwine than our hands. We’d establish that by talking nonsense till the sun went down, sitting completely independently so we left room for our smoky breaths to dance with each other in the middle. I’d rather have you warm than for you to give me your jacket, because when I curl into your chest I want to be able to melt into your bones, like butter in a pan, and vaporise. I’d rather think of you as I take my coffee at 4pm, or when I see the sun come up onto a building in the morning, its perfection reminding me of your face. I’d rather not sit up at 2am, awake and lonely, and be obligated to think of you because the world is dark in the absence of alternatives. I’d rather have you right beside me than dream of you. Because it is the imperfection of reality I crave. I want the bits of your cheeks that you didn’t shave properly, because you were lazy or you were afraid you’d cut yourself since your hands were shaking with the thought of meeting me. I want the lines that start at the corners of your eyes because you spent your early mornings thinking about me and trying to squeeze your eyes together, hoping you’d juice my image out of them. I would rather have you with your hair in your face and the scars on your back than the way you appear in my dreams. I can never quite recollect the way your veins feel under my fingertips or the way your muscles move under my nails when I’m dreaming, all imperfect. I say we revolt against romance, and we create moments that will put it to shame for feeling superior to everyday life. Give me reality. Give me imperfection. Give me life.

The Constitution of Heartbreak

No one tells you how it tastes, do they? No one tells you how bitter regret grabs your tongue at the back of your throat when you walk the streets at 3 in the morning. No one explains why it is the loneliest you’ll ever feel as you walk away from another person you would never love, but you had tried for a few hours. No one tells you why you'll do it again tomorrow. No one tells you how startling the paradox is: that everyone who walks the streets at this time of day isn’t there because they particularly want to be, and that although you populate the kerbs with like-minded spirits, it only seems to make everyone even more pathetic. Everyone looks at each other and thinks one thing: ‘I don’t want to end up like that.’ It’s a street full of tragedy. You realise you are reduced to someone a younger-you would have defined as exactly that. You’re shivering although it’s not colder out there than inside yourself. You’re only thinking of taking a shower and of taking these goddamn heels off that are killing your feet; but you’ll have to wait until you get home because there’s probably glass on the sidewalk. Traffic lights change for no one in particular, and in the strange changing coloured lights you can see someone walking in the shop windows. You look at her and she looks at you, and you imagine you must come out from behind her, because the person staring back surely isn’t you. Your eyes never looked that sad, your brow never frowned that way, your lips were never swollen like hers. No, she must be a brief companion through the night, a fellow traveler walking beside you and blocking your image. She couldn’t possibly be you. You promptly decide against using mascara from now on, because the way it has painted the colour of this girl’s soul onto her cheeks so visibly, like it branded her, is too violent to watch. Because yours isn’t as black yet, is it? You put your hands against the cold glass and she does too and it grabs you in the middle of your spine and squeezes. You study your new face and when you start feeling sick with the realisation it was you all along, you blame the alcohol and leave. You leave to find new arms or a bed that will warm you up to yourself again, hands of a human or the kiss of the bottle. You walk home past other addicts and thieves, and snicker at how well you fit their description and figure this too should be a felony. That would make the bad neon lighting and the cigarette buds that coughed out their last burning breath less intriguing, maybe. Or no, perhaps, it would even make it sweeter: because it makes you feel dangerous when you decide to commit the crime. It quenches the thirst for rebellion. Breaking the law would be almost as satisfying, I think, as breaking hearts.

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