Poetry for Moths

Is there a poetic way to say I hate you.

In my somber hour (A/5) When I feel your absence most, (B/8) I leaf past thoughts subdued. (C/6) The silver hugs my clasped hazel floret (D/10) As I flick by memories we hold, (B/9) Counting the eves anew. (C/6) Faultless golden wisps slipping off peach, (E/9) And heavy pouches of bruising insomnia (F/12) Embrace your pastel pools - the only full honeymoons needed. (G/15) Dawn leaves you with the quiver you seek to bleach, (E/11) And winter spares not your tumm'. (H/7) But lest you forget, soft gingernut, I prithee listen; (I/14) These traits of yours make ours the finest collision, (I/12) Because more sweet than you there are none. (H/9) Christmas, 2014 Washington DC

My first year at university was a struggle to say the least; I dragged six suitcases, a guitar, a bunch of useless adapters, and a ukulele across an ocean. I was allocated to a hall of residence "DRA", the big one outside of town. The soulless one, devoid of heart. It was also quite expensive, a reminder that weighed on me now that I had been attributed the fear-inducing "International Student" status despite being a UK citizen. My punishment for being forced abroad, for being exposed to cultures, plural. It would be an understatement though, to say I was excited. It's university. My first roommate seemed really sweet, and she invited me to a party. Maybe we could innocently tease the boys in our flat, complain about their lack of cleanliness, organise flat dinners, become a real girls group. A feminist trio, because we were three you see. Though I learned soon enough that we were one, me, and they were two. I missed the party I had been invited to, a...

Come along Nervous Shakes Of the solitary week, Always rich in lack of sleep. I am restless several nights, you know, With Nervous Shakes . Count the animals, count the time, Again, repeat, at least try. I know. But I can't. My sober sheep don't keep sleep. They provoke. Here come again, My Nervous Shakes. So I picture myself a romantic, Elsewhere and never alone Imagine myself an impressive, Outstanding in poise and prose. I guess our hands are touching, And I cup your red face, that I'm squashing With feeling. My feelings. I guess those are different  Nervous Shakes. Gradual but sure, they separate. And leave me only nervous. With a flicker of your hand, Strutting yourself, a peacock, "I like the way you stand, It's confident." The blood flutter keeps me nervous, keeps me there. But my sheep drown in their ecstasy, At last. One day I'll know Worth beyond that of teen years, That your compliments...

Water is a funny thing, It's never what it seems. Only now does the prospect of lying, appeal to me. I could get away with it, you know. I could throw myself into water. Water is gentle when it is not the ocean, I've heard that before. You can drink it. Yours however, is a violent drink. I still wonder, if this is what you chose A hurricane overdose? In the ice cubs, and resting on my tongue. It melts from my lids too. For you, it seems a choice; go or stay. As if it's easy, or simple to say. Look up at me then, and my lava eyes, At the water that clouds my brain, With dew. Stand up for yourself then, Present me with the choice you've made. I'm lost. "I hope you forgive, that I die today." But how can I forgive you? [14]

Quille écarlate de la muse, Blesse-t-il d'emblée de vivre, survivre; Ou enfanterait la frappe incessante de la main inlassable, Du train constant de la violence intolerable, la peine? L'abus en Fil d'un âme sans amour trop ivre. Aurait tu étais souveraine de là cent ruses Involontaires? Me flouant ainsi dans coeur, d'encore Plus qu'en ton corps. Confère aux confrères souffrances souffertes recouvertes, Courroux linguicide de l'agonir d'injurer, de ta peur En vain. T'aurait-il, amertumant ta présence absente avec son insistance immuable, Pérsistance rétinienne perpétuelle et éternelle, criblée d'un contrat sous revolver? Essence tu n'en a point, aide tu n'en veux plus. Rose rossé tu demeures, alors. 22.09.2014 St Andrews

As  an undertone slips slippery slips off the corner tip of your auricle, your ear, your appendage, It shatters against a wineglass, a windowpane, Forgives itself as it dewdrops onto your memories, Leaves footprints on your lane. The lower tones, who said they can't be floral? That they can't heal like a bandage? How sweet is the grain, Of an undertone that departs from a limelight viola, A sound no more, it elicits a pant here and there, And a million silver sighs, It whispers to your core: Music. But you knew this. Mon. 04.08.2014 6:44 CCA Art Gallery, Andratx, Palma, Mallorca