ludle

i always said you’d only love me until something better came along.

Ink linked our thoughts, 
our patterns and our melodies 
into something - 
something a little believable, 
something that stirred art. 

We took pictures 
of metal love lullabies 
in the early mornings, 
in the whiskey-tinged nights
that crumpled newspaper 
under the soles of our dreams. 

We nursed the memories
of the other’s face
in song, in poetry, 
in anxiety induced slumber. 

We were nothing on social, 
empty promises on paper; 

we were a burden to time. 

I was crafting words
while you were line dancing
your way into the arms
of something different,
something other,
something more than our nothing. 

Forgotten I write stories,
I still love

something

that will never be you.

understanding.

The crashing delirium of anxiety
crumpling like newspaper
declaring each eulogy
as a conquest to death.

The morning sun delights;
truth is ranked in heartbeats
with the bitterness of youth
cheered for its lack of authenticity. 

But perspective, my dear, 
is thinly sliced and layered on thoughts
that meet their reckoning
unapologetic - undervalued - unappreciated.

good ol' same ol' new, thank you.

You have found a new //home//
        a new place to call your own (well, somewhat)

the city streets are getting
      to know your
w
  a
   n
    d
     e
     [ring] – (remember your dream?)
f
e
e
t

and I said if you’re happy then
            “I don’t mind.”
                        “I don’t mind.”
                                    “I don’t mind.”

but see, I never knew that when I don’t mind -
how much : oh how much : just how much

I would come to          MISS
                                    YOU and your hello
                                    and your Faulkner
                                    your
                                    Ramen
                                    noodles

{mostly you}

… . .

I am packing thank you notes
into the muscles of my left forearm:

Thank You notes
            I will never write
                        :: if I did ::
            you will never read
                                    READ            
                                                            we
                                                            are
                                                            still

reading the same subject line:
RE: Valentine -
Love,
            I love you, love.
                                    Love.

                                    Love,
                                                I love you, love.
                                                                        Love.

Now, every new day seems to be
another day further away
from the last time we had time,
we made time
for more than
hi and
good luck.

Now, it takes much longer to hit
          – Reply – 
when I can’t cram so much of me
into so little space
[so much space between us]

I am packing thank you notes
into the muscles of my left forearm:

Thank You notes
            I will eventually write
                        :: if I do ::
                        you will read
                                    READ            
Love,
            I love you, love.
                                    Love.

to - day/morrow.

Growing upwards, 
looking down from 
the doorway to heaven - 
shoulder pads shaken 
by the shrieks
of your swan song, 
your eyes victors 
in the haunting of words 
I dare not confess on paper…

My night turned scarlet 
in the blushing autumn morn 
of an April reborn, 
April 27.0 - 
improved but not new, 
navigating the silence 
of your chest.

My breath is a down payment 
for all the days of flower picking
from the carnage of your dreams.

This is not the doorway to heaven, 
it is the stairway to sorrow 
but hold not the attention 
of my lips - 

I am already in tomorrow.

niks so mooi./nothing as beautiful.

Daar is niks so mooi soos wanneer iemand voor jou staan, jou masker van jou gesig afhaal, jou in die oë kyk en saggies vir jou fluister;
“Ek sien jou, hoor jy my? Ek sien alles wat jy wegsteek en alles wat jy terughou.  Ek sien jou.”
en dan liggies die traan wat oor jou wang rol afvee nie. 
Daar is niks so mooi nie.

There is nothing as beautiful as when someone stands in front of you, takes your mask from your face, looks you in the eye and softly wispers;
I see you, do you hear me?  I see everything you hide and everything you hold back.  I see you.
and then gently wipes away the tear that rolls over your cheek.
There is nothing as beautiful as this.

desember reen in april/ december rain in april

Ek weet dat ek moet ophou soek, 
maar jy het jou dagdrome 
soos wilde blomme in my siel geplant 
en ek water hul met my trane 
wat vloei soos Desember reën 
wat eers in April val; 

jou drome is in volle blom
maar ek het lankal reeds verlep.

*** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***

I know that I need to stop looking, 
but you planted your daydreams 
like wild flowers in my soul 
and I water them with tears 
that flow like December rains
that only fall in April;

your dreams are in full bloom 
but I have long since wilted.

this is what it is like to kiss a man with a beard.

Whist! -

Listen to the electricity zzzzinging, 
bzzzt bzzzt bzzzt bzzzzt
the red lights flickering, 
the autumn rain approaching 
one -
    one -
        one drop at a time

and you,
slumped
 & waiting
against 
a
graffiti
wall, your shadow 
on the floor                   next to you,

you brought your guitar 
and your Derby hat to keep 
you warm - to keep you company;

you strike chords and hum a tune 
to your shadow, to the raindrops, 
to the zinging electricity that make
the red lights flicker -
you start singing to

          the      man          
    /            in            \
         t                n
          h e  m o o 

I walk over to embrace you, 
to kiss your chorus, your ears, 
your lips and your guitar - 

this is what it is like to kiss 
a man with a beard, 
this is how you wish on
p
a
s
s               cars
i
n
g

and long healed scars.

let the water flow, let the fire rage.

Raindrops crashing against 
smooth sizzling skin
his tongue lapping in waves
against the raging fire
of my desire
as though this furnace 
at the apex of my thighs 
has become the oasis
he sought, surviving the drought.
The high tide rising from 
deep inside his core leading to
the storm of his guttural groan
stoking the flames inside of me
uttering heated moans
as his lips and tongue push me
ever closer to the apogee…

The tumultuous culmination 
of tempestuous ocean
meets fervent fire;
a tryst to inspire.

apart.

What a beautiful tragedy it is 
to live my life weaving 
in and out of yours, 
creating a tapestry of stars 
with our fingertips 
always parting… 

It could have been wonderful 
had I loved you
and you loved me 

but all we are, I daresay 
will ever be 
are different patterns 
of the same tapestry - 

weaving in and out 
of the other’s heart;

good together, 
better apart.

a product of contemplation.

Written and submitted by lulu-llama

There is something to be said about the ability
to write at ten in the morning on a winter’s day
with fingers numb from cold but they keep typing
keep writing, about nothing and everything.
They pay homage to the cold evident 
through the windows that lead out onto the garden
and the windows that lead into your soul.
Eyes dry and heavy from far too much whiskey
and too much time spent staring at the same word.
If you take the time to think about it too much
you can almost see the decomposition of fibers
and the flow of your blood that refuses to linger
in one spot for too long, afraid of missing the
beat of even a single throb of your heart.
You start questioning what it is you are doing
in this one place, at this one time -
Has your life become a systematic arrangement 
of words and phrases, rows and columns of pros and cons?
You ask these questions and yet, you sit there writing
as though each and every breath depends 
on the letters that attach themselves to meaning
without the excuse of writing for a love interest.
You rub your dry, strained eyes with cold fingertips
and you keep writing to prove that you exist,
even if you don’t believe in everything that
spills forth from your hands.

You use the time you spend on writing
to unravel the thoughts between the phrases
that echo through your skull -
keep typing, keep writing.

I believe that some people grow into their madness so eloquently that it replaces their personality without anyone noticing and these people are the best kinds of people, because they become their madness instead of trying to fix it and that, to me, is an absolute thing of beauty.
—  Luci Black, A thing of Beauty
strength.

Your strength does not lie
in the ability to grow a beard, 
in the deepness of your voice
or the complexity of your words -

it lies in the silences before 
you close your eyes to sleep,
the moments when 
nobody is watching
nobody is listening
nobody is reading
when it is you and you alone.

Are you strong enough 
to hold yourself together?

instinctively poetic.

Poetry drives my instinct;
I am brave in words, 
I blink back tears in verse 
and there is no shame 
to my frayed nerves. 

In poetry I find commitment 
to my wayward soul 
and the bitter darkness 
in my heart is reconstructed 
around a burning light. 

Poetry drives my instinct, 
in these lines I am free.