It felt so good. I need to be writing. I need to be under the water spout in a storm, overflowing, overflowed, soaked right through. I need to be reading erotica and shaking in horror at the lies you told. I need to be switching rings on fingers and fingers on ribs, rips, torn and soiled and sad and sold. Down the grass hill in a white cotton dress, skidding on cardboard, my knees to the moon, six year old crotch praising Jupiter. And your cousins face up there, your brother, your wife, all shooting waterpistols from the night.
Dear God I need to breathe again. Lopsided looping through storm ridden streets, your colours faded and washed as I pound them into puddles. And under bridges where the trolls are dark I'd take a bright red lipstick and write on your walls. If you could see through yourself to listen.
I need to be swimming under a deep dark log that falls on my head, steers my corpse, leads me living to the underside.
And couldn't you breathe more if your gloves were mud.
But really cool, cool, fresh.
This is what I need.
Under my skirt and under my shirt and through every kiss of you we drink.
Maybe if it snows this winter I'll find a missing tooth.
And you can keep it in the very depths of you, your lying cowardly heart.
Tie it in the bootie you keep around your neck.
Your anchor, the weight that ripped out your tongue.
Tie it to the loss of me because you knew only lies.
And then forget you and back to the cool, cool deep.
Where the mountains fly and the rivers have wings.
Where everything is a circle that we don't try to catch.
Under the deep blue deep.
Where nausea has no gravity and flies above our heads.
Where my fingers dip into places you used to long to be.
Where cotton hangs above us a shelter from the world.
Me and me and never with you.
Because beauty is found without you.
1000 metres and deeper.