An American in London

I like to think I'd be a part of Hemingway and Fitzgerald's posse.

Month: March, 2013

New York City.

I want to kiss New York City.

To wet my lips in the East River,

graze my tongue down Broadway,

and nibble on the Empire State Building.

I want to caress the streets of Harlem,

embrace Soho and the Battery,

and claw at Greenwich Village.

I want to be taken by New York City.

Give me a hot subway station

in the summer.

The sweaty patrons anxiously

staring down the tracks

for that moment of ecstasy

when they can finally enter

the cool breeze of the train car.

Soak in the averted gazes.

Bathe in the unshared intoxication.

I want to fall in love with New York City.

Laying in the grass of the Great Lawn

I want to feel the city love me back.

The surrounding buildings

protect and embrace me.

The screams of the taxis, declarations

of that love.

I want to feel New York City.

I want to be New York City.

Take me in, New York City.

Artist.

The artist who paints and strokes and wonders and wanders and gazes and grazes.

The artist whose eyes fix and stare and hone and are in and are out.

The artist whose touch is cold to skin but warm to canvas.

The artist who works and suffers and suffers through work and suffers to work.

The artist who is created by suffering.

The artist whose suffering creates.

The artist who feels love but not for another.

The artist who loves love.

The artist who loves pain.

The artist who loves desire.

The artist who loves creation.

The artist who loves destruction.

The artist.

Never my artist.

Never me in the eyes of the artist.

Only the me the artist has created.

Only the me the artist wants to create.

The artist who feels too much to feel for me.

The artist who moves too much to keep my grip.

The fickle artist.

The mad artist.

The blind and deaf and forever mute artist.

The artist who brings me nothing but pain.

The artist who I desperately cling to.

I crave the artist.

I need the artist.

I am an artist.

Artist, let us be crazy together.

Artist, let us suffer and create through each others eyes.

Artist, let us love who we think we are.

Artist, let us hate.

Artist, break my heart.

Artist, break my jaw.

Artist.

Oh, artist.

Nightmares.

Your shadow

the size of the demons

which lurk in my nightmares.

Grazing the wall

with a slow, graceful sway.

Dragging the light.

Manipulating the room.

Forming pictures.

More nightmares.

They remain after

you’ve gone.

A dark shade

hovering over white paint.

A blank slate

consumed by a black cloud

of monstrous figures

piled on top of each other

like a crowd of junkies

huddled around a fiery can.

But the junkie is me.

I rub my hands

in the warmth of the flames

and watch

as your shadow dances

in place of my own.

I withstand the cold.

I endure the smoke.

I welcome the nightmares.

It’s when they leave

that I will mourn their existence.

But until they do,

I will despair in

their imminent

death.

Haunted.

I am haunted by the universe.

It’s strength pressing down,

leaving my breath deep in my throat.

The arrows which prick at my back

lead me down alleys

or force me through open streets

filled with people with no faces

blindly marching

in uniform lines towards

an unseen destination.

My mind is clogged with thoughts

unsettling, foreboding.

Madness shakes me.

I want to

think without minding.

Touch without feeling.

Get on my knees without skinning them.

Instead, I think to

break my own heart.

I touch and grope and

memorize,

my knees so dripping

with blood

I slip

and fall on them again.

The blank faces have

no knees full of blood.

No minds full of

love.

Or hate.

No hands full of

memories.

How I envy

their emptiness.

How I yearn

for their ignorant peace.

And yet, I feel also

pity.

In their faceless forms,

their heartless,

bloodless bodies,

they will never know

the beauty

that lives on the outskirts

of the pain.

Madness.

Walls cracking and shaking

and dripping

with the blood of every wound made

under their intense white gaze.

They laugh loudly as my eyes

unsuccessfully try to focus on something,

on anything,

but the tight room is a misty haze

of nonsense which mocks

my futile attempts at reality.

A hand pulls at my arms,

my body, and lifts me.

Am I standing?

The floor ripples

like a shallow ocean.

It too finds joy in my suffering.

My feet are not mine.

My legs too cannot be found.

Lost within the sea.

My mind and body

two separate entities desperate

to find each other but unable to

grasp at control.

The laughing continues

as a body catches me

and throws me back down

on a hard, raised surface.

The cracking, shaking, dripping.

My head whirls, my eyes

unstable as my mind.

Madness.

Knowledge of madness.

Torture over knowledge of madness.

Potential.

The sound of potential lovers

whispering secret songs

in your ear.

Hymns written in

dark basements, in

closets full of

unread books, poems

seen but not heard.

The harmonies dance

in your mind

but the words are

only sounds,

mumbled and distant

beyond the music.

You strain

to hear tomorrow’s

promises

but are left only

with an arbitrary ache

in your chest

and that consistent

rhythm.

Despite the pressure,

you listen on,

urging the music forward

until the words are

words.

Until they are shouts,

and then screams,

and then you’re screaming too.

Voices again

becoming one sound,

monotone

and hanging in the air

like a hand left

on a throbbing

piano key.

It fades, leaving

a heavy silence

in your head.

The hidden truths

uncovered, seen,

and past.

Were you better

not knowing them

at all?

Thighs.

Thighs

in the grey light

of London morning

shine

pale and clean

after a night of

lonely dreaming

and cry tears

of forgotten touches

and longing.

Smooth and tender,

they weep

for love lost.

This empty morning

solitude.

Their creamy skin

an ancient language

long since expired

by time.

Known by no one

but the words themselves.

Spoken only by those

as forgotten.

White as the sheets

which trap them.

Still as the heart

which sustains them,

and as expendable.

Under a tree in the spring.

Under a tree

in the spring

the wind blows

making the grass

shiver like a million

bodies dancing.

Birds sing

or scream

or cry,

replying to the calls

of others

and flying

to aid or refuge.

Under a tree

in the spring

ants march up

their hills

carrying found treasures

and lost crumbs

to please the queen.

Dogs pause

to drop their nose

or lift their leg,

leaving their mark and proudly abandoning it

to frolic with the rest.

Under a tree

in the spring

I sit

and think of you

for the last time.

The winter came

and went

bringing joy

and then grief.

Under the sun

I thaw.

My body,

left frozen

by winter’s cruel teeth,

begins to soften.

The warmth taking

it’s time on my

feet, my hands,

my legs, my chest,

my cheeks.

Everywhere your skin

has ever touched.

As day fades,

so does the last

of the ice.

Blood moving through veins,

a clear brain,

a stitched heart,

under a tree

in the spring.