Beautiful notes of dirty poets

It is like something was running in our heads besides the car she drove. At a signal, she looked into my eyes like a man would always want to be looked by a woman and there were parts of me nervously on fire. She rolled her eyes and it was then all of me. I remember her stare and my dead slow pulse and the car with the loud music.

It is like something had turned on besides the radio in the car she drove. At another signal, she gently pressed her thumb against my skin, shoved her fingers in my mouth and I swear I could taste how my next few hours, next few days, next few weeks or whatever would taste like. I remember the night was velvet blue.

We reached the kind of hotel that people use for nothing but fucking on a really bouncy mattress that has seen several of lovers like us, bleeding between its five star snow white sheets. The room was royal. A place that royally saw us, held its arms out like a God almighty, and said “Go crazy, kids. No one’s watching.”

It is like something we try to love what we cannot tame. Especially when it is an angry woman and the things she carries. She pretended to know my name and offered to play titanic. She’d been the ocean where I gone down on. It was my skin that crawled underneath her fingernails and it was me between her bent knees. She seemed to have left everything tender at her dressing table. I remember my heart beating out of my head.

It is like some dirty kind of poem you don’t tell your parents about. In half-light, she ran her fingers all over like she was reading words carved into my skin, carefully binding them together into a poem. I heard it playback in my head as I drifted into the most peaceful sleep. She left for home with haikus printed in black and blue on her neck and my name bruised onto her thigh. I remember either of us were dirty kinky poets.

Under the weight of the ground

This city has some shadows here

Those are calling your name.

I doubt if they’re calling it right

Because you’re shit unaware.

Far away, at the beach side

You’re foot writing the same;

While mixing tonic and gin

Without having to hide

As the clouds roll and make a thunder sound,

not even an inch of me gets surprised

that the sky is still the sky without you;

only curiosity kicks in about how is one

supposed to reach people

when all the telephone wires

are buried under the ground

Little lives

I want to apologise to all those ants and bugs I stepped over,

The spiders I smashed with some object against a surface,

The worms I misguided from their respective ways,

The bees I closed my windows on,

The cockroaches I sprayed away,

The chicks I savoured

And the lambs I gorged on.

For they were the small lives,

The little souls with

All the fucking right to live.

I’m not the best human being,

But I’m trying, trying

And trying.

I can only wish in that little time

of their lives they flew, they glided,

they hovered, they felt, and they loved.

And they loved the ones whom they flew with!

I’m not the best human being,

But for these sins

I’m dying, dying

and dying.

They never tell what you need to hear more

They say it’s hard to remember things –

where they left their keys,

when was the time they had their heart spilled,

who made them laugh so hard they cried,

or the name of an acquaintance,

or the pet place of their childhood,

or their grandmother’s anniversary –

but no one ever did mention about

how much effort we put into forgetting.

I, for that matter, feel exhausted

from this effort to forget.

There are legion of things

that have to be forgotten,

and a major part of me

is incessantly just

trying

to forget.