You and me
We should be poetry
We should be prose
The way our breathing slows
And our hearts beat
Like wings on Bourbon Street.

You and I
We should be together
Birds of a feather
Flying like time.
We always had rhythm, you know
We just never had rhyme.
We committed a crime together
And should’ve served time
Been brought to justice…
But it was just us
Perfect in our alibi.

We may not’ve had rhyme
But at least we had reason
We committed treason together
And should’ve been tried
We should’ve been been true
Me and you
On the corner of Bourbon Street
And Fifth Avenue.

You said that I could find you
In the space that lies between
The reality that binds you
And the traces of your dream.

You asked me, “Can you dance
To a poem by Baudelaire?”
“La danse,” said I. “C’est la poésie
Avec des bras et des jambes.”

Your hands made a ballroom of my body
Your fingers tap-danced on my skin
Oh, and how I moved under your melody
Like a waltzing gypsy violin.

I pull the land on which you live
Closer to where I stand

In one smooth motion
I narrow the ocean
Uniting our shores
Until yours is mine
And mine is yours

No more miles
Between our smiles
Just a sliver of the sea
Like a scar in the sands
Keeps you and me
From holding hands.

Jou lag
Weef ‘n lied
Deur jou liggam.

Jou glimlag
Skryf ‘n gedig
Op jou gesig.

Jou trane
Teken ‘n toekoms
Op jou wange.

Jou hart
Klop ‘n ritme
Van verlange.

When I met you I became obsessed with them – made a ruling of my life by them.
A page filled with bullets making up points of how I wanted to do right by you.

Listing ways I could improve myself – prioritising objects I wanted to
own so that you’d love me -
Microwave
Television
Branded clothing.

Things I would deny myself –
Chocolate cake
Friends
Walking barefoot.

Page upon page of numbers written in their margins –
Laugh more
Eat less
Don’t show jealousy.

Letters and numbers swimming in my head
Deliciously coming together to form
The me I wanted to be for you.

One day you came to me like a stranger
And I saw my days were marginally numbered
And the bullets had blown up my only shot at keeping you.

Everything scattered then – like fridge poetry.
And you just left me there….
Listless.

- 17/01/03