meta-sketch
you’re a euphemism. your posture is wooden, your eyes beady and you’re bleeding judgements. it hurts because you’re a hypocrite. you’re so complicated, so volatile all i achieve is frustration in labelling you. you don’t even know who i am. in-fact we’re the most congruent couple in the cafe. you don’t look me in the eye, you’re so fucking cunning. you’re just sitting there, scribbling furiously under the ambient influence and i can’t touch you.
so i come over to your table. at first you don’t notice. i’m subtle. when you do you ignore me with mesmerizing profundity. i sit opposite you, reach across the table and with my purple hands, gently open your clenched jaw, feeling the wet underside of your lips. my hand, like a bomb, rests on your tongue and you’re really crying now.
i withdraw, pay for my coffee and leave.
hypothetically.
liquid compass
do you know of that originless fear
which visits even in the calmest eye
of life’s many storms?
have you felt the slide of it’s delicate fingers
underneath your clothes, on your skin,
over your eyes and in your mouth?
as you breathe harsh, wracking sobs-
in winter rain-
naked,
this chill cannot compare to the desolation
of what i mean.
i mean the paralysis which holds you
on the bathroom floor
in the small hours of the night,
the panic which follows disillusionment-
it happens anywhere.
you are hyper-sensed,
aware of a liquid compass
and insignificance-
everything you imagined as concrete
is distant
and all that’s left is you
and a clock
in the middle of a desert.
then, it passes.
you collapse and shiver with memory,
and the notion that what you felt
was the closest you’ve ever come
to ‘reality’.
do you know it?
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