Where our heroine pimps a poem. Cos she can.
So, I'm still up, and it's cold, and I'm listening to anord on the radio, copying photos of my knitting on to Photobucket, and trying to come up with songs from movie soundtracks to play on the show the week after next. I really should be writing, but otherwise, the sun's a ball of butter.
Um...and yeah. After several months, I'm finally getting up the courage to post a poem what I wrote for Matt. I started writing it in a random pizza restaurant in Oxford, England, back in September and I finished it just before Valentines Day. I was feeling kinda weirdly about posting it...cos well, it's about Matt and I, and it's private and romantic and a little sexual in places. But, I was reading over it just before, and...I kinda like it. So, I thought I'd share. Cos I do love a bit of shameless self promotion.
*deep breath* Here 'tis.
It began with a poem,
which I quoted through the ether.
It was about the time
I spent in Ireland and it repeated
itself a lot.
You loved it. We went
on a date and you read me one of yours
about a junkie
dressed in rainbows. You hadn’t finished it.
Later, I
read you the one about Jesus and Mary M.
You kissed me hard and called me a
little genius.
I liked that.
We loved our words.
There were the night when
I wore coloured tights,
like the women in love,
which you slowly eased
off my hips. There were the nights
when I’d caress you
and recite Bob Dylan, word
for word
into your bare shoulder.
The nights
when you cupped my breast
and told me about Holy Book.
And the night I introduced you to Dostoevsky
quite by accident.
It was art.
I peeled away the towel
and your hands sculpted me,
caressed me
like clay. Your tongue flicked soft
like a paintbrush
over my lips until
they were red. You
called me your Botticelli girl
and slid your fingers back
and forth.
You gave me songs
about cryptic crosswords and cranes.
Carousels, calendar girls, cancer patients.
And Chicago. You
gave me songs, passed warm, like
sugar, between my lips, fed me
until I was round
like a guitar.
And then
we were live.
I bobbed at the knees, in my
ballerina tights, a black
a white blur in the dress that looks nice.
You held me
and smiled in my ear.
I wish to write for you
every day.
In blues and greens,
in syrup, and lipstick even,
on our wall. And say
that your shoulders are
freckled, your eyes are green,
and you snort when you laugh.
I will keep it simple
and describe twining
your curls, like garlands,
through my fingers, and your hand,
soft and curious
against my waist. My arms around you,
our hips
together, nose to nose. Everyday
activities.
Until then
this one’s for you.
Oh yeah, and this is only the second poem I've finished since...December 2006. I will post the other one but it needs a bit of tweakage.
In the next few weeks, I shall post:
* Some sendspace links of the show- once we work out how to get recordings off the studio comp
* Knitting pr0n
* Photos of my favourite things in Wellington, and
* Photos from The Trip. Yoss.
Aw, and our show was awesome. I played a song from Avenue Q. Double Yoss.
Um...and yeah. After several months, I'm finally getting up the courage to post a poem what I wrote for Matt. I started writing it in a random pizza restaurant in Oxford, England, back in September and I finished it just before Valentines Day. I was feeling kinda weirdly about posting it...cos well, it's about Matt and I, and it's private and romantic and a little sexual in places. But, I was reading over it just before, and...I kinda like it. So, I thought I'd share. Cos I do love a bit of shameless self promotion.
*deep breath* Here 'tis.
It began with a poem,
which I quoted through the ether.
It was about the time
I spent in Ireland and it repeated
itself a lot.
You loved it. We went
on a date and you read me one of yours
about a junkie
dressed in rainbows. You hadn’t finished it.
Later, I
read you the one about Jesus and Mary M.
You kissed me hard and called me a
little genius.
I liked that.
We loved our words.
There were the night when
I wore coloured tights,
like the women in love,
which you slowly eased
off my hips. There were the nights
when I’d caress you
and recite Bob Dylan, word
for word
into your bare shoulder.
The nights
when you cupped my breast
and told me about Holy Book.
And the night I introduced you to Dostoevsky
quite by accident.
It was art.
I peeled away the towel
and your hands sculpted me,
caressed me
like clay. Your tongue flicked soft
like a paintbrush
over my lips until
they were red. You
called me your Botticelli girl
and slid your fingers back
and forth.
You gave me songs
about cryptic crosswords and cranes.
Carousels, calendar girls, cancer patients.
And Chicago. You
gave me songs, passed warm, like
sugar, between my lips, fed me
until I was round
like a guitar.
And then
we were live.
I bobbed at the knees, in my
ballerina tights, a black
a white blur in the dress that looks nice.
You held me
and smiled in my ear.
I wish to write for you
every day.
In blues and greens,
in syrup, and lipstick even,
on our wall. And say
that your shoulders are
freckled, your eyes are green,
and you snort when you laugh.
I will keep it simple
and describe twining
your curls, like garlands,
through my fingers, and your hand,
soft and curious
against my waist. My arms around you,
our hips
together, nose to nose. Everyday
activities.
Until then
this one’s for you.
Oh yeah, and this is only the second poem I've finished since...December 2006. I will post the other one but it needs a bit of tweakage.
In the next few weeks, I shall post:
* Some sendspace links of the show- once we work out how to get recordings off the studio comp
* Knitting pr0n
* Photos of my favourite things in Wellington, and
* Photos from The Trip. Yoss.
Aw, and our show was awesome. I played a song from Avenue Q. Double Yoss.