My friends were miniature and talkative
We used to save worlds and run investigations
Whenever my mother asked where they lived
I couldn’t explain the concept of imagination
Those whom demanded respect when they spoke
Talked down to me with a blank smile and a vacant stare
They asked about my hobby but would not laugh at my joke
When I realised if I didn’t ask about them, they didn’t care
I used to see the souls of objects bursting from their skin
I would squint my eyes, to dim out the surrounding light
And witness blurry outlines; things externalising what was within
This little view I held was revealed to be my bad eyesight
Some children try to escape the world of propriety, but instead
Grow up to accept, spreading the word; “Peter Pan is, in fact, dead”
Response to Feedback
“It’s formless and pretty wordy”, you noted.
Fair and honest, as irrational
I responded to your criticism.
After the nine months I have doted
Upon you, it is inconceivable
That, not through the medium of film,
Prose, song or poem, I haven’t divulged
The cliché, sweet, long and painful tightness
You pierce my chest with ev’ry single day.
So, in perfected form and pace, I mulled
Over this, the piece I name for you, less
Than you ever deserve. I wish I lay
Beside you when you awake, or rather,
When I wake and you watch my unfocused
Eyes search for you, instinctively longing
To see the mountains in your iris or
The sweet surprise, your lips I’ve boasted
To be the best I’ve known, the dawning
Sun interrupting our rare time alone,
But I don’t condemn it, as it’s the sign
Of another uninterrupted day
With you. You kiss my skin to reach the bone
That you shake inside me, remind me mine,
mine alone, are your hands. This is to say
I respectfully appreciate your
feedback, but also, my desire for
A life with you has no rhyme, rhythm or
Tusk Tusk Tusk
When elephants hold hands they can’t hold legs. That’s just silly.
They have big heavy rocks for toes and tall wide trees for knees.
Their knees are kind of immovable.
That’s a sort of irony, isn’t it?
So elephants hold hands with their trunks.
They are small and slender and nice and sweet.
They wrap around and around and around until they headbutt each other, but no no,
they need to be careful they don’t pierce anything with the sharp bones.
Your hands are the tusks. Cold and immobile.
I can wrap myself around them, and around and around and around.
But they stay the same. Indifferent. Quiet.
But they’re what the hunter wants. So I’ll destroy the trunk to feel the bones.