The Journey Down Your Body

With the onset of evening

We threw our lot together

Like sailors just landed

Safe out of the storm.

With the door that closed behind us

We set our own horizons;

Our clothes slipped off like scales

With one kiss that tipped the balance.

This landscape of sheets

Where you lay yourself down

Arcs itself to your skin

Like it’s you it was missing;

Your scent nestles in

To the weave of the pillow

To tease me tomorrow

Long after you’re gone.

The journey down your body

Begins with this kiss:

Lips tugging like lovers

Swept up in a wave,

Keeping hold of each other

In the rush of the tide

And tumbled together

As they break on the shore.

The salt of your sweat

Like the waves that we swam through

Collects in the hollow

Where your neck meets your shoulder;

I linger there, lapping

At this warm salt stream,

But the pull of your pulse

Makes me want to dive deeper;

Like a sweet undertow

It carries me lower,

Sweeping down your skin

In a torrent of kisses

And surfacing suddenly

With salt on my tongue,

Cresting the wave

That hovers over your heart.

The journey down your body

Is a lesson in patience:

A time for all things

And all moves have their moments,

But all moments are one

When your heart strings together

Each beat of this dance

That keeps our worlds spinning.

You arch your back in waves

To the rhythm of my kisses,

Your chest’s rise and fall

Each yielding up treasures.

Your breath marks the point

Of each wave’s passing,

Gasping like a swimmer

Just breaking the surface.

And down again, gliding

Round each curve and hollow,

I follow the current

That shivers down your spine

Until it comes to rest

On my lips parted, open,

Pausing for breath

At the deepest part of you.

The journey down your body

Is a journey of inches:

Each inch is a tangle

Of spirit and skin

That I’ll tease with my fingers

But never unravel

While I’m working out my way

To work my way in.

I dive into you,

Eyes closed, fingers reaching,

Feeling my way

In this warm, soft darkness.

Your hands pull me down

‘Til I’m lost in you, drowning,

And every breath stolen

Is breathed back into you.

Each ripple of your body

Plays over my fingers,

Drawing me deeper

With each fluid moment,

And each secret place

Where I lavish my kisses

Opens out like a shell,

Its pink silk glistening.

The journey down your body

Draws me under the surface:

Each advance and retreat

Is a gambit of trust

Where the rules are unwritten,

And every new lesson

Erodes the division

Between reverence and lust.

Clinging to me like a swimmer

Half-settled on sinking,

You let the waves take you

And pull me down hard.

In the rush of the tide

We sink deep into each other,

Hearts beating together,

Lost in time, underwater...

…and out as the waves

Slowly slip away in whispers,

Leaving us stranded,

Our hands clasped together

Two shipwrecked survivors

Lying back in the breakers,

Worn smooth by the water

That tumbled us together.

The journey down your body

Etched itself into my compass,

Charting out oceans

For my dreaming mind to roam,

And when I venture back

From the journey down your body

Your smile tells me

I have found a home.

Butterfly Umbrella

The umbrella has butterflies on it. A little nod from Delirium. Hail, Eris. Hail, Discordia. You won’t have to take the pink one out with you after all. It’s red, too, for luck – hopefully enough to outweigh the fact that you opened it indoors. Its insides remind you of spiders’ legs, all hunched up ready to spring, and the light in the handle probably hasn’t worked in years. But still, it’s something. A little gift to keep you out of the rain.

The rain has stopped anyway, by the time you get downstairs. And you can’t remember what you were going outside for. Fruit, maybe. Good resolutions. The street is slippery. You get the usual stares. The walk there is the trickiest bit, trying not to talk to yourself out loud, lips moving just enough to let the words out without giving the game away. Cracks in the pavement, deliberately ignoring your own rules, wondering if, had you been born with brown eyes, everything would have been different. Someone told you to never go back. You fell in love with this country and it seems to have broken your heart.

The smallest things bring the tears to your eyes. Like watching him play ball with her the other day, smiling the way he used to smile at you, everyone having fun and you on the outside, wandering around, looking for someone to play with. Or the fact that after all these years you’re still just a stone’s throw from breaking, stumbling from one glass house to another, homes that are never homes. Trying to pick bits of broken personality out of the disorder, carve out an identity that everyone can live with, make up a new story to explain away the scars.

Your head throbs with last night’s drinking, conversations you shouldn’t have had. You remember the walk home but not the reasons why. There’s an aftertaste of rejection at the back of your throat. Another evening wasted. Another night alone.

It gets old, doesn’t it? All this falling apart. Like you’re always in tatters, waiting for another loose thread to snag, wondering when the unraveling will be complete. Neurosis as flower, tearing off petals. And what will be left at the end of it all?

She loves me, she loves me not...

Time will tell. But it’s time to go home now, with the fruit in your bag that signifies your good intentions, and the butterfly umbrella, a talisman to remind you that it’s the little things, just the little things you need to make you feel loved.

Romance of the Hands

They no longer remember how they found each other. In this dark, pulsing universe there are no beginnings, just long, slow moments that roll them over like waves, an endless ebb and flow that keeps them constantly in motion. Their fingers touch and twist, curl and cling, seeking out every curve and crevice of each other, teasing out each sigh and surge and smile. Every ache and arch and press of desire is played out in miniature: she draws close only to pull away, playing lightly at the end of his fingertips’ reach; he hunts her down and she allows herself to be enfolded, enveloped, pulled out from her hiding places into the warmth of his palms. He holds her to his chest, heart faltering, murmuring a blessing as his lips brush her knuckles, the warmth of his breath raising the hairs on her skin. Then back to the dance: fingers entwined, tangled into an embrace that twists and shifts with the lights on the ceiling, pushing, clenching, stretching up and out and round until there is nothing but the light and the magnetic tug of skin on skin.

“Who are you?” he murmurs, surfacing for a moment to search for some coherence of vision, eyes snapping open, seeking her face.

She places her hand on his forehead in reply, folding eyelids down gently, drawing the curtain on their newborn intimacy.

With eyes closed, there is only this: the lights, the bar, the dancers disappear and they are left alone, absolved of all need for narratives or explanations, free to explore every crook and corner of each other. Her soul flutters on her fingertips: she presses it to his lips, lets him take her into his mouth, one finger at a time, his teeth closing round her like rings, cages, as she ventures in and then pulls away. He lays his hand like a web across her face, a blind man tracing temples, forehead, lips: Behold, thou art fair, my love; behold, thou art fair. She breathes him in, his sweat, his scent, holding it in her lungs before pouring it out, feeling the chill on her skin as he breathes it back again. They are twined together now, arms wound round like vines grown into each other, roots taken hold. Their sweat falls and shimmers in her mind’s eye like droplets of dew on some secret garden. Her teeth tug at his lips like the flesh of some fruit that will not yield its sweetness all at once, but mixes in something bitter, the sharp salt tang of blood on her tongue.

As dawn comes they make their way past stumbling dancers up onto the rooftop, where they lie on their backs, arms spread wide to the sun. Sunlight glows red through still-closed eyelids. The voices of others drift like birds high above, swooping down from time to time to be swatted away, threadbare iconoclasts intruding on their sanctuary. No words need be spoken: their fingers made their vows, traced the paths of desire like lovers in the dark, learning every inch of each other without making a sound. Now in the light they need only a touch to discover themselves to each other, the feel of each other’s skin grown so familiar in each lingering moment of this long night. Their feet find each other, toes clasping, soles pressed together as if in prayer, while above them green fronds stretch out across the sky, and when at last they find themselves alone, he draws her close, pulling her into his arms to face the morning hand in hand.

Black Jaguar

“Take a look at this”.

The guy waved me over. I’d been steadily sort of avoiding him for the whole trip, unsure whether or not he was one of those people I was supposed to know but had been too drunk to remember. Beer can in hand though: always a good sign. I was still half-cut from the night before. Been inflicting myself in the nicest way possible on the woman downstairs and her teenage daughter, but it was getting increasingly difficult to keep up appearances what with all those night me and their husband/father figure spent in girly bars in Patong.

A fellow drunk was more my scene. I wandered over to his side of the deck and stood next to him on the rail, watching the Singapore coast guard’s less-than-stellar attempt to come alongside.

“I could do a better job than that,” I opined, “And given current blood-alcohol levels that’s really not saying a lot”.

“Hell, so could I,” an American drawl came back, “And I’ve never driven a boat in my life”.

That answers that one then, I thought. At least I’m not supposed to remember you from last night.

We exchanged a bit of narrative: my sail to the equator, his golfing holiday; my life on the high seas, his days in the office. I began to feel the need to derail the conversation.

“I woke up in bed with someone twice my age this morning,” I commented.

“There’s hope for us all,” he said, or something to that effect.

We got onto tattoos, somewhat inevitably: how many have you got, the old get-your-tatts-out game. I pulled my shirt up a bit to show my backpiece, and he stuck his cold beer can against my back, hoping for the girly squeal that I wasn’t going to give him.

You got the wrong girl for that, mate, I thought. The guy I woke up with just put me to bed. You’re not getting any closer. One step forward, two steps back. One step forward, two steps back.

I’ve done this dance before.

But I gave him two kisses on the cheek, European style, in the spirit of drunken generosity. He tried for the lips, but I backed off, laughing.

There’s hope for you all, sure, but not all from me.

He shrugged: fair’s fair. It was worth a try.

Yeah, fair’s fair. It’s always worth a try.

The Singapore skyline came creeping up, and I started plotting the next phase of my escape: Indonesia to Phuket with no shoes and only a handful of soggy banknotes someone stuffed in my pocket shortly before I got thrown in the pool.

“I’ll give you a lift to the airport,” my new ally offered as we pulled into the ferry terminal.

“Alright,” I said, “See you on the other side of immigration, assuming they let me through”.

I played a little zigzag game with the barriers, smiling at the guards as they stared at my bare feet and feeling the universe still running with me: thank Dionysus, there was still enough alcohol in my veins to keep the world on my side.

On the other side of the gates my friend was nowhere to be seen: I was halfway to the taxi rank before he caught up with me.

“My car’s in the parking lot,” he said, “Follow me”.

“I’m sure my parents told me something about getting into cars with strange men,” I said as I followed.

“I’m not strange,” he replied. Pause. “Yeah, ok. You win that one”.

I just smiled. “Join the club”.

“You forgot your shoes,” he commented, pointing to my feet.

“Ah, they found a new home somewhere near the equator,” I replied, “They’re now an Indonesian fisherman’s pride and joy”.

We crossed the car park, me picking my way gingerly over sharp stones and wondering why they don’t make pavements smoother.

“That’s my car over there,” he said, pointing to a black jaguar sat shiny and imposing across the way.

I thought he was joking.

He pulled out the keys.

I slipped into the passenger seat, grinning. Yep, the universe was definitely still on my side.

There was barely a whisper as the engine fired up, and soon we were shooting through the streets of Singapore, en route to the airport and the next phase of my plan.

“Wow, silent running,” I commented as he put his foot down on the accelerator.

“Company car,” he replied, “I wouldn’t usually be so nice, but the airport’s pretty close. See?”

He pointed to a plane flying low overhead.

“I wonder if they sell beer at the terminal,” he mused.

I sat in silence for a while, watching the streets of Singapore roll by.

“Nice car,” I observed.

“Isn’t it?” he replied. “Watch this”.

He took his hands off the wheel and the car kept a perfect line, hugging the road, driving itself. Sitting on the cream leather seat I reflected on how easily one could be seduced from the path of eco-righteousness. But not this girl. Not today.

“Famous last words, isn’t it?” I said, “Look mom, no hands!”

“You may have a point there,” he replied, smiling and resting his hands back on the wheel.

The airport spun around in minutes and it was time to say some sort of goodbye.

“Do you have a business card or something?” I asked him.

He looked but couldn’t find one.

“Pen and paper?” I tried.

Again, no.

I pulled a blunt pencil out of my bag and tried sharpening it with my army knife, to little avail.

“Facebook?” I asked finally, figuring karma was already stacked against me ever seeing this guy again.

“Sure,” he said. I told him my name, suspecting he wouldn’t remember by the time he sobered up.

Our goodbyes said, I shook his hand and then opened the door, promising him a page or two in the story of my life, should I decide to write it.

Fair’s fair, after all.

Paper Lanterns

Against the dark
September evening
Paper lanterns
Made their own constellations,
Bearing up
Their weight of wishes
Wrapped up warm
And glowing still

Above our heads:
Wind-snatched and soaring,
Their magic spell
Cast bright and lonely.
From the dark
I watched you watching,
Held my breath
And wishes in.

No arms enclose
My morning's shivers,
Wading through
The fallen lanterns,
And lord I wish
I'd had the courage
To steal a kiss
Under the moon.

Wednesday's Child

She doesn't want narrative today. Slices of pure lyricism shortcut from brain to skin without waiting for the words to form, a free association of mind and body that will leave scars she won't want to explain.

You're supposed to have grown out of this girl, remember? You're supposed to be bigger than both of us now.

Feelings drift like blind men's fingers, seeking out every crack and wrinkle in the day, raw skin scraping on concrete and sand, bones aching with years-worth of cold. Sleeping on rocks and under bridges, it became second nature to make herself scarce whenever she was not welcome. She became adept at moving on.

But today is not one of those second nature days. Today she shuffles, stumbles on her own belatedness, the things she passed up, the things that pass her by. Knows that she still doesn't know anything. Wonders if wisdom is worth the price.

Just keep walking. Tears can form and spill and dry. No one will notice. Just keep your head down.

Or wipe it all clean. Lie down on the tracks. Fall asleep in the snow. Let your foot slip at the top of the ravine. Lean a little further over, spread out your arms, just let it all go.

What did I say to you last time, girl? Your life shouldn't hang on the colour of the sky.

And she knows that these little things shouldn't be so urgent, but sometimes a smile - or no smile, or silence - is all the difference it takes for the sun to come out in her head. And she knows that it was never going to be easy, but sometimes she just wants to let it all slide...

And I know I'll have to go find her again, sitting out on another parkbench in the cold, singing to herself as the light fades away and the bottle goes from half full to almost empty, and the blood dries, and the people skirt round her thinking she's crazy.

It will be me that holds her. Me that holds her in, holds up the mirror, makes her smile to see herself after all these years still running away from home. And me that takes her back to yet another bed instead of that parkbench, makes sure she brushes her teeth and changes out of her clothes, sets her alarm for another morning. Me that tucks her in at night, with the extra blanket she wouldn't fetch for herself, and sings her back to sleep at 1 a.m. after the ghost-trains wake her up with their howling.

And me at last who makes a tale of it all, when she doesn't want words and the songs dry up inside her, when she feels so hollow she could just blow away.

I am the guardian of my solitude. Tomorrow we’ll have a long way to go.

The rest is silence. For today.

Doll's House

It was like they were made for each other. From the moment he first entered the room they knew. Him: a young fitness coach with winning smile and a body tanned and toned to perfection. Her: an alluring older woman with Bambi blue eyes and a baby face to match. Ex-gymnast too – more flexible than girls half her age, with kids all grown up and finding their own wicked ways. They both knew it would happen sooner or later: it was practically inevitable as soon as their eyes met. Neither of them could have stopped it. It was a match made in some kind of heaven: Paul and...

“How do you spell Alaga anyway?”

The author’s cover as impartial third person narrator was blown by her sister’s voice coming up through the attic door. She was drafting a marriage certificate for the couple, putting the license back into licentiousness one might say. Trust her to choose just that moment for a meta-textual interjection.

Her Sunday school teacher would be proud. She'd been worrying a bit recently about what the dolls had been getting up to, in a flurry of cusp-of-pubescent anxiety carefully inculcated via slices of Anglican-hetero-marital propaganda consumed before bedtime with a glass of water. It was a good thing she hadn't worked out what Alaga's kids were up to yet: the author had a sneaking suspicion that Flower Fairies and Biker Mice wasn't exactly what the good Lord had intended, even if her younger brother hadn't yet objected to the partnerships (he wasn't too keen on Poppy eloping with Captain Planet, but that was another story).

She didn’t, of course, choose that moment. It turned out that both the author and her sister were in fact just literary constructs devised by a post-modernist with an ingrown vendetta against naturalism, deconstructing herself in a Cambridge lecture hall in the 'writer'’s imagination, itself a composite of the linguistic and cultural capital bequeathed to her by said Cambridge education, which was of course merely an escape from an Essexist Christian upbringing full of hardcore doll-on-doll action that the authors of Help! I’m Growing Up definitely wouldn’t have approved of.

The author shrugged, caught red-handed, and closed the invisible fourth wall, leaving the dolls locked in pre-coital-sans-genital limbo. Their virtue was maintained by the manufacturer’s instructions. Hers would take a little more work.

Ah well. Back to crucifying Tiny Tears.