When you speak your mouth drips honey and your hands swarm around the breath of your words like bees. And the girls, there are so many, flock towards you, make-up melting down their cheeks from your bonfire heat. As I watch you at parties, one hand dipped in the locks of honey blonde beauties and the other cutting through the smoke in the air with tales of nothingness, I am reminded of a time when it was my skin your hands moved across. When you held the door, when you held my drink, when you held my hips, I mistook you for a gentleman. I always thought your fingers, long and thin, belonged on piano keys. And maybe they did once play something other than the girls that slide through the gaps of your fingers like soapsuds. And maybe there once was a fleeting second when they lingered on the flesh of someone who loved you back. And maybe you once were brave. Maybe. s.f.
Every doubt vanished this
afternoon when my heart
left my brain on the shore
to take a dip in the water.
My stomach, a mess of
nervous excitement. One
million butterflies swimming
underwater. I don't recognize
this feeling until I see it bobbing
in the harbour. A small blue boat,
its name stretched out across the side:
s m i t t e n.
A butterfly trapped in a snow globe held by hands that don't understand
her delicacy. Battered by an angry blizzard, deafened by the same old tune. Her only companion: a sweet snowman who could often be found covering her shivering wings with his scarf. One day the globe gave way to tile and she found herself dancing in a warm breeze that restored all colour to her washed out wings. The wind blew her kisses and the flowers told her she was beautiful. Her stomach full of nectar and her wings painted gold. Every height was hers. The sky. The moon. Even heaven. But she never cared to claim the stars. At night she flew back to the box that housed the remains of her shattered glass cage to sit upon nose of her sweet love. People have said that having wings will make you free. But what good is freedom without a friend to share it with?
I painted my front door the colour of happiness
in the hopes that if joy ever drove by
with the top down, she would see
that I could use her
Despite their many warnings, she still ran with scissors.
Treading down the streets, she cut her long hair,
and threw her locks to the birds.
And as she snipped away all the screwy beliefs
that wove themselves into the fabric of her being
she caught her reflection in the sharp metal.
And oh, how she beamed.
Tell me how
after a winter's worth of ice
down your throat
I still find you, far from frigid,
ushering in the frostbitten bodies
of those who betrayed you
into your sweet tropical embrace
You don't tell the Atlantic Ocean to behave
- Eve Ensler
you washed up on my shore,
furious and thrashing like a beached whale.
When you looked at me,
with your eyes filled with booze,
my heart sank into a memory
of a time when I still loved you.
Snapshots of you and me,
sharp and vicious,
slap me like violent waves.
As I squeeze the sand between my toes in anger
I pray for the day when thoughts of you
feel as smooth as beach glass
and no longer cut my hands.
I know you have tried to hide your
secrets deep under the ocean floor only to see them
wretched up by a wave onto the beach by morning.
How many times do I have to remind you that spitting
curse words doesn't make a sailor?
How many times do I need to tell you
that cupping your hands
over my mouth will not silence this storm?
Who but you would dare to squelch the screams of the Atlantic?
Watch now as everything you have built on
wavering grounds is swallowed whole by hungry blue mouths.
Like a child witnessing the angry whip of a wave
against his grainy castles, you stare at me,
perplexed as to how after all this time
you are just now discovering
the strength of water.
A small pang of excitement in your chest.
A whisper to go forth.
Tonight is a surrender to all the knowing in your soul.
The probability of a penguin and a polar bear being spotted together is next to nil. Why? Because polar bears set up their homes in the Arctic and penguins spend their lives wobbling around remote desert regions or the frigid plains of Antarctica. It's an unlikely match to say the least.
But today an illustrator who has downed more than his average daily intake of coffee (five cups all consisting of one milk and five sugars) has decided to raise his middle finger to the geography of colder climates and draw the two animals having a lively conversation whilst cuddling in the snow.
Sometimes the only thing that brings two people together is imagination.
When you took my hips into your hands
and dipped my body backwards
I cracked like a glow stick
and shone the softest shade of pink.