anorgasmia

Apr. 11th, 2012 12:55 pm
metaphorliteral: (in the process)
The reason I can't come any more
might be as simple as a side-effect of drugs--
because it's listed as a common one
whenever you're messing with serotonin,
and marked on every pill I take--
but I don't think that's it
because I didn't have this problem last year,
and my medication hasn't changed since then.

It could just be boredom.
There's nothing surprising about my own body
when I've had it for twenty-six years
(thirteen of them sexually curious)
and anyways there's nothing unexpected
when I'm the one doing the touching,
but I don't think that's it either
although maybe it'd help to invest in a new toy.

I think it's deprivation. I'm starved for touch
from friendly exploratory fingers,
clever generous mouths,
the weight of a body atop mine.
I'm desperate to be manipulated
by someone kind (but maybe a little bit evil),
hungry for contact, for reciprocity.
It could be that I just need someone else's hands on me.
metaphorliteral: (we bleed the ink of subtle allegory)
You could be just what I need.
Play with my neurotransmitters,
toy with my hormone levels,
make my heart beat faster.

You're a dopamine rush,
100% approach motivation,
a flood of oxytocin,
a direct line to my amygdala.

You're better than antidepressants,
more pure than medical opiates,
the sweetest high I've ever tasted.

Neither of us keeps eyes open when we kiss.
Every embrace is a double-blind experiment.

You could just be a placebo,
but even sugar pills work sometimes.
metaphorliteral: (typewriter)
I can't be honest with you
looking into your eyes,
which isn't to say that I lie
because I never lie to you--
except for when you ask
"what are you laughing about?"
but the words I can't speak to you--
that's the source of my poetry.

One day, my beloved muse,
one day soon I will hand you my poems
and you will understand
why I laugh,
you will know the truth
of why I smile when I see you.

One day when your golden hair's gone grey
you will take my chapbook from the shelf
and remember the woman
who laughed out loud
and honestly loved
every terrible pun you told,
every wry twist of your lips,
every time I couldn't tell you something

and poured out poetry instead.

xenophile

Mar. 29th, 2012 10:16 pm
metaphorliteral: (typewriter)
I'm talented at seeing things from others' point of view,
but I don't know how the world looks through your eyes.
You're a foreign language, mellifluous and incomprehensible.
You're a different species, the last surviving gentleman.

You're a recipe with one unreadable ingredient-- I can't get you right.
So I ask and ask and try to interpret the look on your face,
checking eyebrows and lips against my mental lexicon,
deciphering your expression and frequently getting it wrong.

Forgive me when I say "you look tired" or "are you okay?"
Forgive me when I study your features like a map.
Forgive me when I get lost in translation--
I may be an expert at reading people but I'm a novice at you.

Talking to you is like walking on the moon--
exhilarating and terrifying, cut loose from gravity.

lullaby

Mar. 29th, 2012 10:12 pm
metaphorliteral: (play crack the sky)
close your eyes, dear one
let me quiet your mind
lay your fears to rest
talk you through the dark hours
convince you you're all right

whisper legends in your ear
catch your favorite constellation
and hang it from your ceiling

to watch over you while you sleep
metaphorliteral: (in the process)
Is this the legacy I want to leave?
A year's worth of lovesickness,
the slow progression from thwarted desire
to almost-fulfillment and back again?
What will my heirs think of my college notebooks?
Will they know the source of my inspiration?
Will they blush to read about his kind hands,
or roll their eyes, dismissing my words as hyperbole?
Will anyone take the time to pull out my yearbook,
searching through faces until they find the one?
Or will they decide it's someone it wasn't?
All the passion, the frustration, the longing,
misinterpreted, utterly misunderstood?

Does it matter if I'm misread?
My clumsy interpretations of the masters notwithstanding,
so what if no one can pin down my Maud Gonne?
I'm no Yeats, my muse starts no revolutions,
my love ignites no firebrands, just the solitary torch I carry,
my little candle guttering as summer draws near.

Still, maybe one day he'll pull out my chapbook
to show to a daughter or a son with an artistic bent,
or take it down from a shelf once he's gone grey
to remember the woman who loved him so long ago.

a new high

Mar. 29th, 2012 09:59 pm
metaphorliteral: (we bleed the ink of subtle allegory)
I cling to sobriety like a last resort
rather than a first line of defense.

Intoxication has failed me once again,
wine tying my tongue into knots instead of loosening it,
weed dragging me down rather than getting me high.

I'm swearing off the lot of it.
I'm pouring liquor down the drain by the bottle,
I'm throwing baggies onto bonfires and walking away.

Only one thing works any more.
I'm strung out after one hit, trembling for want of it,
shaky like a junkie just remembering that trip.

Just put your arms around me and let me feel your warmth.

Kiss my lips once more and send my head spinning through the stars.
metaphorliteral: (in the process)
Touch me.
I won't ask twice.
Let your hands go where your eyes wander.
Do what you like.
I'm saying yes.
Yes.
Please.
Please me.
Don't overthink it.
Let's make this happen here and now.
Want me.
I know you want me.
Don't you know how I want you?
Take me.
Make me yours.
All I want is to be yours.
metaphorliteral: (play crack the sky)
which is why I crave your gaze on me.
You think I'm beautiful when I don't
love myself quite as much as you do.

Assay my fears, take apart my doubt,
let me look through your eyes to find I'm lovely.

Take this insecurity and turn it inside-out
until you don't need to tell me I'm pretty
because it's simply there in how you look at me.

be careful

Mar. 27th, 2012 10:15 pm
metaphorliteral: (we bleed the ink of subtle allegory)
I won't let emotion run rough-shod
over my poor bruised heart again.
I've wrapped it up in cotton wool
to protect it from barbed wire
depression and thorns of love.
I'll keep it under my bed, safe
among shoes and old notebooks
and dust bunnies with no teeth.
It's too fragile for everyday use
so I'll take it out on weekends
and holidays and if and when you
ask to see it, to hold it in your hands,
but only if you promise never
to drop or squeeze or mutilate it,
as you've done unknowingly before.
metaphorliteral: (in the process)
"When do I ever make things easier for you?"

It's not an idle question,
though you mean to make me smile.

You don't make things easy.
You won't meet me halfway,
and it takes courage to go the whole way myself,
but at the end, you're there,
and the press of lips is worth the angst.

You don't make it easy for me to do things,
but you do make my life better,
just by listening to my woes,
lips quirked, putting aside cynicism
to tell me that "everything will be fine,"
that "we'll be okay."
metaphorliteral: (typewriter)
There's a lot they have in common.

Both imply care, concern for well-being,
a desire for company, for nearness.

But "I love you" focuses on you,
while "I'm in love with you" is more about me.

"I'm in love with you" is something that happened to me
unintentionally, accidentally, mysteriously.

"I love you" is a conscious choice;
it's something I decided to do--
"I'm in love with you" is more involuntary.

They're at different levels of passion:
"I'm in love with you" is feverish, desperate,
while "I love you" is less hysterical, it's more bearable.

Of course, there's a difference in who you say it to:
"I love you" is for family, friends, even pets,
but "I'm in love with you" is mostly for people you want to sleep with.


All that said, I'm still not sure which one I want to say to you.

They're both true. You happened to me and I chose you.
You make me desperate, but you're bearable.
I love you, but I'm also in love with you.

Just tell me you feel either of the two.

daydream

Mar. 26th, 2012 10:03 am
metaphorliteral: (typewriter)
I spend a lot of time lost in thought,
constructing perfection from the everyday--
deliberation where there's been accident,
intention replacing cherished mistakes.

I dream of more love than I know what to do with,
though believe me, I'd figure it out soon enough,
and it seems like it could be within my grasp
if I could only find the words to make my case.

It's not such a stretch-- a step to the left,
a tilted head, hands interlaced, a parallel universe
where we could belong to each other.

"We love you. Come with us. We'll make it okay."
metaphorliteral: (in the process)
I speak body language like a foreigner.
Overenunciated and ungainly,
missing nuance and subtext,
accent marking me as alien.

It takes me time to understand:
eyes lingering on hands, on eyes,
misinterpreting the quirk of lips
or the set of hips, of legs, of feet.

Don't hold it against me if I get it wrong,
if I lean too close or touch too long,
if I smile and nod when I should frown
or stare...

I'm just trying to comprehend
what you mean
when you watch me quietly, hands open,
lips barely parted around a sigh.

for keeps

Mar. 26th, 2012 09:52 am
metaphorliteral: (in the process)
There's something sacred-- and profane--
about trying to construct perfection
from the ordinary and everyday.
Take these people you love
and envision something beyond
the weeks allotted to you--
Imagine cats and companionship,
support and dinner every night,
pretending to be heroes on the weekends.
Consider closeness, longed-for intimacy,
hands held, hair stroked,
holding each other up through the long nights.
metaphorliteral: (typewriter)
I'm picking the lock of your heart
carefully, slowly, taking my time,
keeping up pressure on the tension wrench

with lingering looks and slight smiles,
tripping the tumblers one by one
through drawn-out discussions and heartfelt hugs.

I'm counting the pins as I push them up
but I don't know how many there are
so I'm patient, because I know

that you are worth it, worth the time,
worth my sustained attention, my worry,
worth every tiny motion to set each pin properly.

Soon I'll be past your defenses, inside your heart,
where I will walk gingerly and speak softly
until you close the door behind me and let me stay.
metaphorliteral: (we bleed the ink of subtle allegory)
I couldn't deal with this love any more,
so last night I crept up behind it on our way home,
put a knife to its throat and slit it through
and stood there under the streetlight watching it bleed out.

The jugular pulsed out red onto the snow.

I left it gurgling in the street.


This morning when I woke up, love was there again
looking very pale, bandage round its mute throat
watching me with dark eyes and no recrimination.

I don't have the strength to murder it again.

re-set

Mar. 5th, 2012 10:52 am
metaphorliteral: (play crack the sky)
Last time it broke,
nobody set my heart,
so it healed wrong, crooked,
awkward, untenable,
forever skewing to one side.

Nothing to be done for it
but break it again
and hope someone with kind hands
will set it straight
so this time it mends true.
metaphorliteral: (we bleed the ink of subtle allegory)
A line of red fire low in the west
mirrored in a square of bloodstained gauze
and my heart laboring on its short supply.

I keep giving of myself
as literally as possible--
here, take it if you can use it.

There's something of me out there
making other hearts beat
sending my love through other lives.

It doesn't matter that I'm dizzy--
who wouldn't be at that realization?
My brain can't keep up at the best of times.

flight

Dec. 13th, 2011 03:40 pm
metaphorliteral: (Default)
Winged things are oracles.
If you are delayed and at fault,
a circling hawk can absolve you.
What the bluebird brings
is dearer than happiness
and far more rare--
peace.
Watch the insects--
moths, bees, butterflies.
They will show you hidden paths
and unacknowledged beauty.
Be bold.
The city pigeons can teach you.

When you are ready--
when you think you know
all the wings had to show--
then fly away
on wings as broad as a heron's.
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