Porridge

Can I remember you before you became ?
Can I remember you before I was disillusionned?
I remember when you had no shame and I had no pride
Remember you when you were the coolest in my school list
When you still listened to french rap
You became a cop

Do we still own our childhood?
Are we still something, years after the fact?
Am I still intitled to old times' sake?
You are.

At some point in the night, I've watched too many series.
I can't go to sleep now, I've been up too long.
This night is not for resting, it's for waking the dead
This is where we belong now, in the unread
Peas porridge cold, facebook message, 3 years old.

Miss Heard.

It happens to me, or rather I ___.

That uppon a thought of a joly day get suddenly ambushed and become a prey.

I'm walking down a mundane street when I notice a stranger's feet.
What happens to my mind? does it walks on innocent and gay?
No it stops. It lapses!andlapses!andjumps!and screeches.
My fingers don't curl.don't.bend.they contract and pulse and I scrape my sides.
I'm being watched so I stop.
I walk.
There's a few meters to go to that second a few hours ago when I commented on my lover's foot in my vagina. It's not something I care for nor something I scare, let it be known, heavens forbid I actually admit to having fantasies.

I'm answering the phone to another fucking caller when my mind drags up
the drudgery of finding a rhyme to end this concertina.

I have to. I have to write about this disgust also. Disgust myself with my what things I've or said and done.
I'm besieged with thoughts of my enamoured time in the shower with my lover. Slitherin skin.
Oh this one, I love him, I admire him, I'm intimidated by him and I love him again.
For every ten lovers I love dearly fondly non-commitently and sanely, one!floats!by.

Drags me weary and makes me wary. Wary of his delicately bearly therely stroke of my thumb. How my lungs lunge when they lunch on his.  Of my flute he plays as he fondles my nave.

Oh this one I would gladly write letters to and blog post our animal nights together as I soothe my bruised pubic bone today Monday in the office. Full of dirty dishes and dripping kisses. But most gladly of all, I'd wake a foreigner's god, to be rid of the cursive curse of saying, in a soaken mess "me too" when I misheard "let's undress".

driftwood words and pumkin thoughts

I can say, right now, with reasonnable certainty, that nobody is thinking about me.

My mum is in the room, sleeping on the bed on the floor, gently breathing. My brother on his phone, my grandmother asleep too. My father, I have not thought of for a few days at least, I know he too is sleeping a few hundred kilometers from here.

David, sleeping or having sex. My other close but faraway friends I haven't spoken to in a few weeks. The ones I made on my journeys are icing sugar someone breathed on. Deliciously light and floating but impossible to retrieve. Maybe some guy from Okc is thinking about me.

And I think back to my short time in the Pyrenees, where eating pumpkin, leeks and sauté potatoes with soy sauce was the glory of the evening candle light wooden dinner table. Surrounded by these people I wanted dearly to impress, to love and to be loved by.
My heart -not that physical, blood riddled one- but that eery one that errs through my body. Seeks harbour in the least fortunate places at the wrong time of night.
That heart, is driftwood. Driftwood is so peaceful in our mythology of words. Yet so sad. We only see it once it drifts no more.
I wasn't thinking about my heart, during those pumkin fueld evenings where we worshiped the dirt on our dining table. I was thinking of sleeping, of making a fire, wondering whether I was pulling my share in the automnal tasks. I was moving slowly in my sleeping bag during our morning medidations.

A rythm is made of zeros and ones. If it were just ones, just positives, it would be a constant, unnoticeable thing. And life is the same. That pumpkin time was a one. Our hearts, physical, fall immobile to zero between every one. It's my heart, the eery one, drifting to a halt sometimes that makes me realise that at other times it was drifting through my body. This gives me hope to continue in the zero part of my life,  knowing, I have to go through this to get to one. It gives me hope at some hours anyway.

What do the thoughts become, those words we think at the cusp of sleep ? Tonight I wrote my driftwood heart down, others, I don't.
Tonight no one thinks of me, just as I don't think of them.