Poem: Body Collection

Swimsuit

I remember,

Being little,

On the beach,

And my swimsuit going to her,

As she was older,

And running around,

In only my knickers,

Bare-breasted and free.

Maybe five years between us,

Maybe less,

But she considered breasted,

And me not.

Me free of expectation,

Her not.

There is even,

Photographic evidence,

Of my freedom,

Alongside all the grown speedos.

I wish I could recapture that,

And ride my bare-breasted waves,

Once more.

Why not?

Why not now they are big enough,

To pucker like grey matter,

Now I notice them with pride.

Purple Broccoli

When I shut my eyes,

My veins are packed,

With purple broccoli,

And my eyelids,

Smell of pears.

The paintings on the textured ceiling,

Of the inside of my forehead,

Are swirling,

Cloudy nights,

Full of cherubs,

That puff their cheeks,

To blow the world into motion,

Each morning,

And each night

.

Sticky

Fresh and sticky,

And mostly naked,

I look,

At my bone-white hand,

Grip,

My shiny-matte flesh,

While my mind is meant to be,

In that other world,

I love.

It is like a great, pale spider,

In calm repose,

Waiting to pounce.

I am so nothing,

And everything,

I barely even breathe,

The words swell in me,

Painfully,

And heat my eyes,

To a stinging temperature.

They bombard me,

All wrong,

And I have not called them,

They can do me no good now,

I am surrounded,

And blissfully beyond uncertainty.

Lest someone think

I won’t wear make-up,

Lest anyone think,

I care about such trivialities,

As external appearance,

Or think me,

Unhappy with my own face.

I won’t wear that,

Lest anyone think,

I tried,

At bodily expression,

Or that I even realise my body,

Is there,

And can be seen,

Lest I remember that it can.

I won’t put posters up in my room,

Lest people know what I like,

Nor categorise me,

Or box me.

I won’t sign my name,

To my work,

Or put it out,

Into the ragged world at all,

Lest someone think,

I think myself real.

I won’t say that I know,

What I know for sure,

Lest someone thinks me an expert,

And readies to correct.

I won’t say who I am,

Lest someone sees,

And thinks I tried,

Or lest I’m right.

Little White Gloves

I think I am starting to hate,

My little white gloves.

They sit on my victim skin,

All wrong,

When it’s the only thing there,

Jarring against the near nakedness.

A sign that I can’t be,

Trusted with my own body,

My own fingernails.

A sad magician,

Too into their craft.

The Back Of My Neck

There remains,

A dry patch of spiky pain,

A hot soreness,

On the back of my neck,

Despite my constant rubbings and ointments.

I cannot see it,

And I do not try.

I do not try,

To glance or gaze or stare,

At my own image at all.

I do not think it best.

I know I will not find answers there,

Or inspiration,

Or a solution,

Or an ending that fits,

And is true.

I can gaze,

I guess,

But it will not serve me.

Please Flower

Pressed lightly together,

As if my feet as one,

Are an open flower.

Inlayed with delicate grease paper,

Taken from the finest forgotten folios,

And ripped with great ceremony,

At every edge.

My toes when united,

Wear thick, rectangular glasses,

And peer at me,

From their high, pale, twinned towers,

With contemplative gazes,

And cause me to wonder:

Why must we want with association?

Why can’t I open my want?

Why can’t I know,

True want from true association?

Our Flesh

Our flesh,

It is so mystified to us,

So appropriated.

For us it is to be,

To be broken,

To be presented,

To be reduced,

Packaged,

Mortified,

Toned,

To be used.

In reality,

It is to be in.

To hold our form,

To be us,

In the three-dimensional space,

We invade,

It is our costume,

Loyal puppet of our every dance,

Our middle-man meat-suit,

In the translation of connection.

It is not us,

But randomly assigned to us,

And yet,

We owe it everything,

And it owes us nothing.

Coleslaw

Please,

Cut me up like coleslaw,

Dissect me,

And moisten my clipped nails,

Like paper maché porridge,

Serve me up like deli meat,

Fix me,

I’ll squeeze in so you can squeeze me out,

Mould me,

Perfect me in the roughest way you know how,

And then tell me,

I’m worthless to try,

To want to be.

Eat me,

Devour me,

Bite every inch,

As long as,

You are looking my way,

When I slice you back,

With my knowing wink,

And say:

“Jog on, loser.”