Motionless

spend lazy afternoons eating air, boys humping boys across parade squares

i want the motionless boy... over there.

spellbound.

now for the prosaic.

born in a night, to perish in a night? i'm drugstruck.

in five months

Esprit, pure white and cleverly deconstructed, lost on a cab --- 69
Grab, white with green motifs and darted seams, love of my life --- 129
Grab, mulberry and mint, perforated randomly down one front --- 119
Collage, purple corduroy, shrunken-fitted with flared collars --- 45
edc by Esprit, olive velour, embroidered applique across chest --- 99.50
Levis, corduroy-denim hybrid in chartreuse and dark grey from sheena --- love and persuasion
Inc., soft cream velour-cotton hybrid, ragged edges --- 50

the amounts i spend on warmth.

for a second, i thought i had you.

watch as my unrivalled jawline cuts a graceful lethal arc and severs their deformed visages. witness the hitch that's my protruding hipbone form a guillotine for disengaging their flawed limbs. i'll defend you the only way i know how, with beauty so magnificent it hurts to behold. "mummy said not to look at the sun. but mummy, that's where the fun is" and i'm so bright, and so beautiful... i'll blind 'em.
to jinesh. think he's not as happy as he should be in camp - jealous sergeants.

fuck sentimentality and to hell with romance, constructed notions so fugly plebs feel better about themselves and their grimy coupling. they're sore they don't have me, and that's because they can't have me, doe-eyed ethereal fairy that i am. wait. make that ineffable being that trenscends all taxonomy. i give new permutations to the golden ratio and beauty is just a six letter word that can't encompass me in all my spellbindingness.

February

you won; i lost; we lost.

hope is sustaining, yet it drains you more than tears.

Second Meditation

a new year renders the old ashen. memories and nostalgia are locked in monochromes and for that all the more eloquent and poetic. the last two months were exhausting to say the least. post-coital days that unwound in nicotine and eeked out in the most painful seconds. i had my share of beauty but they didn't always take the form i wanted.

Tommy and his near-anorexia; feline grace and perfection he purrs draping over furniture. so beautiful; lengthy strips of hard stretched muscle in his arms and neck cords to firmly chiselled visage, yet he remains pale and breath-takingly fragile. he is tea. clear and clean with a tingling aftertaste. he is lightness; I lean against him to stop him from going. when he goes he will be a ghost, a whisper and the lingering scent of Giorgio Armani. (day i left him he dressed in linen khaki, an image born of and fading into translucence if not for the presence of a singular crimson slit along the alabaster (curtsies to noir) of his arm. the red stain against his fairness made his skin look so stretched out and breakable, so aristocratic. my breath caught in my throat - the sensuality and perversity of its provocativeness.)

Matthew is the dog, irrepressible charm and rowdy arrogance, he marks his territory. beauty is his burmese torso that feels like porcelain (it makes me ashamed of my seemingly rough fingers; when they seek to caress against procelain they appear to violate), crystallised hard by hours of tough physical work, the beautiful dip of his spine, blue-lit by moonlight. he is black coffee. full-bodied he hits you full in the mouth immediately. he is heaviness; he traps me with his body. uncountable twilights i lay entranced in his resonance and think, this must be it - true beauty caught in a moment which i try feebly to etch onto my mind - but you surpass yourself with every breath, your unfrozen loveliness distilling itself over second by second, maturing like fine wine as fine men should. his voice is love songs unwritten. when he leaves he will be a shadow, an echo and a heady taste before dawn. (and my mind is in a whirl; i think i love him still.)

and then there was pj, of the v-shaped well-tanned body that is one exquisite curve continuing down his briefs unbroken. players, both, so politics. before each others' seduction we clutch wisps of ourselves selfishly for we fear to give, as if in giving, one loses. this is how we grapple to own every orgasm, the upper hand over every argument and to be the first to relinquish. permanent fling, ironically my sole gravity.

also kamal, apple of the zoukettes' eyes, my foray into the underbelly of society. lol.

dalliances aside, coquette bitch as well. his is a model's body just waiting to happen. his gym visits are irregular but you can feel the muscles that are taking shape in his arms and his broad shoulders. army should bloom him good and proper.

so sue me phobes. strip love off its constructed layers - romance fidelity monogamy words commitment marriage clingyness gender infatuation - and you are left with lust; there is lust in love and love in lust. lust does not undermine love. Love is fundamentally an attraction to beauty, the primordial human gravitation to the sublime. Beauty itself is subjective, and beyond that, personal – it is relieved of the need to be justified to anything else but your own soul.

hello voyeur bitch.

jaff sucks, your aura encompasses the world. colin and gang tack stolen pictures of you onto their jetset luggage. aveeliteford wallpaper their offices with your campaigns. gucci and chanel fought for you. the lilt of your smile moves mountains. michaelangelo loved you before he met you. you are the case study behind the gr. kate was lambasted for inducing anorexia in thousands of impressionable teens in the 90s but you knew it was your sillouhette. remember my jacket.

Resonance

but how could it be?
that when i woke
my hand
was
tightly
clutched
in
yours ...

Education?

maybe this is graduation.
i acquired a taste for the most exquisite (killed by silence); you learnt to sleep to lips stroking (strokingstroking) your countenence
in
cess
san
t
ly .
fuck you matthew, fuck you.

I will dissect your anatomy with words.

unrefined rant

"I've been thinking reallly hard, can our relationship last? If we are to go steady? I'm afraid i won't be a good bf to you.. I'm starting to work long hours n i can't be there for you when you need me! We better get to understand each other before we commit ok? I do love you too! But i have nothing to prove it!" - a million subtexts but it reeks most strongly of the classic "it's not you, it's me" breakup situation. With this message he assumed that - 1) I love him already before he even does me 2) I want commitment - wickedly shrewd and accurate guesses which unfortunately undercuts my status to that of the weak and the clingy and the needful and his subsequent superior position is awful. It's all correct inside I'm sure, but I'm lightness when it comes to dealing with him; I absolutely do not cling. Absolutely. Two things I need constructive opinions on : subtext subtext subtext! and how do I reply in a way that elevates my position and will not ruin completely what's already direly broken?

Aching

It's over; save me, save me... ..

Don't Laugh...

but this is how we finally resolved the salient issues regarding ventilation, limb storage and high asphyxiation risks associated with squeezing two bodies onto a narrow couch.

First Meditation

(Imagine yourself a possessor of something beautiful, say, an exquisite glass prism - it captures the sun in it and fascinates and enchants and delights you endlessly with every rotation. This is when you fear the night, and you fear how it might shatter without warning at your slightest negligence.)
This is one of those artists’ things perhaps, like sharp-pencil fetishes and getting spasms of delight at stacks of blank paper – the incessant opportunistic urge to lock beauty in time for ourselves. In close proximity to Matthew I feel I must take up a pencil and sketch that visage. Not daring to ask explicitly, I end up stealing glances at him while he is looking elsewhere and twiddle strokes that outline his profile in the air, secretly behind my back so he cannot see. Profiles like his are infinitely sensuous; I can draw it with increasing fluidity over the preliminary sketchy strokes, memorizing every ridge and crevice of that ultimate single line as if I’m running a finger down his skin for myself. When he is asleep beside me I trace his features slowly with my fingertips, my tongue along his eyebrow, his eyelashes, eyelid, his hairline down his cheekbone, the jaw-line that tapers into a strong chin, his sleeping smile at the corners of his lips, and I imagine it on paper. His countenance is not that of light, delicate watercolours or smoky expressionistic charcoal; he makes me think of mountains and canyons, heavy and rich in atmosphere and color. Even the aural flow of his race reminds me of adventure – “Burmese”, like some big cat (impression accentuated by his sinewy long torso; I will craft him in warm pastels, style: impressionistic. The moonlight filtered through the blinds dramatizes the contours of his face and set them sharply in ethereal blue and black, his deep brow, the firm, manly, perfect Caucasoid features that make me liken him to a Greek god, or Michelangelo’s ignudi, a living piece of Classical art to (be)hold. When this is over I must lean in to inhale his heady scent, imagining it fusing into my lungs and veins, merging with and staying in my lifeblood. I will remember the rhythm of his breath I felt on my cheek too: tempo sixty four, marriage d’amour. When he isn’t around I satiate myself with writing his name, as if that will do, a million and one ways over in graffiti, the way he likes it. I cannot control myself.
Matthew; unparalleled beau(ty).
What do you want, you will ask me someday. I want you to make me your diary; you must write your whole life on me, into me, with your pen, your fingers, your lips; I will keep all your secrets and you shall label me yours. Barcode me, tag me, claim me; I will bear your name if you ask. Smuggle me into paradise.
(a beat.)
but if you’d prefer Lightness…
(a beat.)
I will wait. I won’t ask for talks or movie outings; I shall flirt and let you flirt and wish you would bid us stop; you shall think I remember you only as the generic taste of mouth as you do me. I will be your catatonic love-joy sex toy diver; I will love you in silence.

untitled - i.e. a void, an absence.

matthew sucks matthew sucks matthew sucks matthew sucks matthew sucks matthew sucks matthew sucks matthew sucks matthew sucks matthew sucks matthew sucks girlfriend once you master the joystick (and hence hold the world at your fingertips since you can do everything else already) you shall be in charge of smashing his exquisite face in so completely he can't make me cry with that lovely visage anymore. i hate him.

untitled

matthew makes me smile this way -

I am coming straight to ur place... Can i? I don't wanna drink too much tonight... Must go to work tml... - 21:58, 24-Sep-04
X.Tugo u going al? I am evok see me mer - 00.08, 25-Sep-04
Come to find of... I o a t near to toilet Wide alre u! - 00:12, 25-Sep-04
Me want go accu... Can? Go hebo ache - 00:15, 25-Sep-04

and after that, squashed up but in comfortable repose on the papasan couch,

"your nose is so nice. can i eat it. i am going to eat your nose."

lol...

Artists' Vertigo

Giving in to beauty has implications that resonate through our cores; drool is dehydrating but tears are more.

Black Coffee

Saturday morning: a heady fragrance as he pushes my fringe away to kiss me goodbye, all before dawn. See that glint in his ear, girlfriend? It is now on me; it has the sun in it.

Afterglow

Walking down the streets on thursday morning you tell me this feels like sunday.
Maybe it was.
A vision.
Coffee Bean, love nineteen -
Tommy on my left with his delicate aquiline features and aristocratic fragility, almost anorexic in bearing (I wonder how he looks in green), Matthew on my right, reminiscent of a Greek god, square jawed and physically well-set (you could be a Greek god the way I worship you), beautiful and full-bodied like black coffee, and me in the centre in my highest heels, pale from the night before with smudged eyeliner and a lover-pushed back fringe (that means I didn’t stick out like a sore thumb that badly). Stolen from an innocuous mirror set in the wall, wrought in a haze of post-coital and alcohol, it was entirely splendid.

Linger

There’s still a little bit of your taste in my mouth There’s still a little bit of you laced with my doubt It’s still a little hard to say what's going on There’s still a little bit of your ghost your witness There’s still a little bit of your face i haven't kissed You step a little closer each day That i can’t say what's going on Stones taught me to fly Love, it taught me to lie Life, it taught me to die So it's not hard to fall When you float (flown) like a cannonball There’s still a little bit of your song in my ear There’s still a little bit of your words I long to hear You step a little closer to me So close that I can't see what's going on Stones taught me to fly Love, it taught me to lie Life taught me to die So it's not hard to fall When you float (flown) like a cannon.. Stones taught me to fly Love taught me to cry So come on courage Teach me to be shy 'Cause it's not hard to fall And I don't wanna scare her It's not hard to fall And I don't wanna lose It's not hard to grow When you know that you just don't know -Cannonball, Damien Rice

strange and beautiful

Today we did not wake up together as I didn't sleep, but I was quiet beside him while he was in slumber. How poignant can this get? He seemed like an apparition in the moonlit darkness, he is an ephemeral whim, poetic, beautiful and tragic. His earring glinted in the moonlight and it led my gaze down that familiar slope I'd tasted again and again.
(Give me more time and I will write my name across your skin with my tongue.)