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Poetry by Luvlymish

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* * *
Being a girl is pretty messy,
It's not too bad at first - paint gets everywhere,
You're a tomboy then an artist oh, but it does get worse;
If you manage to circumvent being held to be pretty,
In some artistic or sporty way,
You are destined to bleed or be pitied
And in the latter case expected to just fade away.

Bleeding, no matter what they tell you, is messy,
And every month you'll miss something,
You'll be lucky if it's one thing, it'll start early or pretend to have ended,
That's when you'll wear something that can't possible be mended. - Have you tried to get blood out of lace?
I mean the horrid thick and goopy,
(Really it's kinda soupy), sort of underground swamp and dripping kind of blood?

Yeah, that kind of blood, out of lace?

Can't be done
So now there's that naughty pair of knickers can't be worn
Because being a girl is kinda messy.
Especially, it seems, when you want to get all dressed up,
And, it gets worse you know,
Worse than simply bleeding, natures sense of humour
Gets some earning their red wings
Yeah you know where I'm going
And it really does starting flowing in these circumstances,

It's bad enough the other three weeks of the month,
You're looking at a guy or girl,
And you can't help yourself thinking then maybe they turn and they're winking at you
Suddenly you're all a whirl, and maybe they talk to you
Or maybe they're drunk and that's when they choose to hurl so you clear it up
(It's messy being a girl)
Whatever the case your pulse gets quicker,
Much later, phone number or not in your hand you take off your knickers and
Yeah, whitened stains, drips that slightly bleach that pink until it's peach or worse,
Did it get crusty? Did you get so wet that things are smelling kinda musty?
It is messy being a girl,
But let's return to no-mans land - no further forward,
I don't mean the perineum, I mean the fear of talking about,
That rare or not so rare occasion when we get horny and the blood is still gushing out.
Oh that is fearful, and afterwards, I get quite tearful about cleaning up the mess and it is a mess,
Because then you're dripping when,
Someone takes you in his arms or someone kisses you with her lips
And then you're running your fingertips across his chest,
Kissing down her neck and wanting,
But then perhaps you stop,
After all who wants to? Well, you know, actually dip into the blood and ooze emerging from my cooze right now? Not me, and yet,
I really am very wet...
It's messy being a girl
Either way, stop or start, the goop and blood make for quite the worst kind of flood,
Towels, tampons, mooncup, nothing is going to stop the flow,
Everything is just pouring forth, ready to go,
No matter how carefully you put towels down or plastic sheets
Or latex or rubber (I won't judge)
The blood will get everywhere, upon that skirt,
Or on his shirt, down trousers, across the ceiling
(If she makes you come in that way that the British government find so unappealing)
It can go further you see, has extra lubricant mixed in
And being a girl is so damn messy.
* * *
Disarm me with your blue eyes then
And ask if I'm alright,
I'm not used to this, but isn't it what I saw?
Light years ago, your head in my lap
And rain on the canvas
You said you'd ask and all my thinking slowed.
A thousand times yes, I'm fine,
More than alright,
Today, tonight, tomorrow, more than alright
And wishing I could see you
Touch you again, a constant pulse
Within my body, asking when? When? When?
I'm more than alright,
Can I see you tonight? Can I run my fingers over you?
Prove that you're real? Can you kiss me?
Prove that we're friends? Only touch me
And ask me again?
Disarm me
With a look and unexpected words.
* * *
I'm trying to write for other people
But I end up only writing for me
I'm supposed to write things accessibly
But to read half my stuff you need an art degree
And the other half it kinda helps
If you've done Latin to GCSE
With the Cambridge Latin Course
I'm trying to write for other people
But I think I'd do better with a shortwave radio tapping in morse.
* * *
Wrap your hands around my throat
And don't kiss me
Pull my hair until I come
But never notice
And is it any wonder
That I believed you
When you told me
That the other women
Were only in my head?
* * *
A simple act of rememberance in the churchyard in Somerby,
A sunny pleasant day when the breeze is kind,
The living are far harder to connect with than the dead,
I have spoken with both today, both of me and mine,
A simple act of rememberance
A wave of long ago love under the sun
A librarian who nurtured me
And the girl who thirty one years ago
Became eleven for good.
Let me tell these dead of mine
What I cannot say to the living
Let me remember these dead I claim
And speak sadness into the kind breeze beneath the sun.
* * *
* * *
There are dogs barking in this street,
But none at her.
Mine barks at you as I translate
All the Cambridge words back and forth
That left me with no way
To describe, ascribe or proscribe
My feelings.
There are set declensions,
Neurotypicals tell me so
And I bam, bas, bat my way through
Because it has to be per via
If it's not in the street
It must be in the bedroom
And there's no other way at all.
It's not a fucking Latin course
She wasn't even Greek
And I'm the third fucking lesbian in
Your tragedy
But I can't call myself so.
I was taught your language by rote
And I still can't speak it
No matter how I o, s, t,
How I mus, tis, nt
I mustn't admit how lost I am
Because I'm not barking to Lesbia that I love her
I'm not dedicating trite verses to Beatrix
And they were stolen by men
For more masculine feeling
Which leaves you to say I'm lying as I try to explain
Because this isn't by rote
I'm not stealing
What I want is exactly what I mean.
I want to touch you, so I do,
I want to create with you, so I do,
But this isn't my way of falling in love
If what you mean by that is by the usual streets defined.
Canis est in via, sure and let's travel per via if we must
But don't mus, tis, nt the way that I feel
It's an alley way that passes by
That weird street of love.
* * *
So, tell me then Sappho, what is art?
And how did you think to write it?
Men inspire me and always have
But Catullus needed his Lesbia, Dante his Beatrix,
For women are the muses aren't they?
And men the beating, vibrant heart that do the bloody business
Of making art.

I suppose my question is this, Sappho,
What makes a Muse?
I'm fairly certain that we don't choose them any more than those we fall in love with.
And after Keats, Rosetti et al a woman almost fallen,
Is the perfect choice, because isn't this all about sex and sexual tension?
I hardly like to mention your hymn to Aphrodite was religious
Better to go about my business.

The two men who inspire me most, Sappho,
I would happily take to bed, were they free, which they are not
But I suppose that I forgot it's the tension not the sex itself.
Perhaps I should mention, I've had a lot of sex,
And fallen in love, once or twice,
It is not every one of those who makes me write.

So, Sappho, I am left with my question,
What makes a Muse?
What makes me write it down?
What made them go from collaborator, to inspiration?
A moment out of time,
One took his clothes off, the other spoke,
And both ignited me.

Sappho, did you ever try to explain it?
And watch the disappointment paint itself across their faces?
That the simple act of dogs barking
Was enough for you.
That one spoke, the other stripped
And in fact were both just some bloke
Who caught me in the act of seeing Gods.

I see divinity in plastic bags in the wind, Sappho,
And to some that isn't art.
In fact I can hear one of my Muses start to complain
Even as I try to explain it is his face I disappoint now,
His love of oils and Raphael, whereas I work previous to that
And further on, the other rolls his eyes
And corrects my grammar.

Oh tell me Sappho, what is art?
And what is poetry too?
And when you told her you loved her did she love you
Or was it only held in your heart, your head,
Did you write what words you'd said
Or only those you never spoke?
Caught in the act of seeing Gods by some bloke for two thousand years.

Sappho, I've returned to the start I suppose,
What is the bloody beating heart of the business of making art?
In Emin I think I found it all,
That contrary part of installation which is open to all
And rejected by all but a few,
Oh but I owe Tracey too, I crawled into her tent and saw
What I didn't know I was looking for: her, and that was my numinous wonder.

Men inspire me Sappho, when they turn to look,
And there's the contradiction,
There's the art, the heart of the matter,
I do this by the book - reversed,
They have not rehearsed their gaze, but turn it on me,
And I do not deny them, an act both expected
And rejected within feminism and art.

Oh don't you start Sappho,
Your fragments are just as divisive as your wit incisive
And installation is inclusive and portrayed as exclusive
And round we go,
So, tell me, because I'm sure you know
What is art? And who the muse?
And how can people say they pick and choose?

I am looked upon Sappho,
And I stare right back into oil paintings and frescoes upon walls beginning to crack
And you and I and we will be forever divided,
By a couple of thousand years of respect
But I've found your numen in the dogs barking in the street,
In a look from a bloke from King's Lynn
And in naked conversation by the other's feet.
* * *
There should be a word for the light in your eyes
As you tell me about your day
Or you need a poet who can describe the skies
That moment blue turns to grey
At the very beginning of a storm.
I need a word too for the fluff of your hair,
At the back where it's blonder than blonde
The word is between light and fair
It feels like the start of a song
Heard in the rain when the fires have smoked and gone.
* * *
I find the profound in the solidly mundane
Love itself is an everyday miracle
Perfect in the surreality of two minds
Being in sync at that exact time.
Life is brief and I appreciate
Perfection unsought, moments unplanned
And happenstance,
I am not a creature of grandeur.
The perfect moment is created by human eyes
And the most beautiful thing mine have seen
Is a bag caught by the wind
Even your Renaissance was the rebirth
Of the desire to catch the real,
Mans musculature standing in for a God
Seen by his children.
The numenous is in the everyday
The uniqueness of man
Is man himself
And I love you for a single moment,
Before you'd even opened your mouth
Your eyes looked up from my lap
And our minds were briefly together
Playing the story out.
* * *
Alice and Christopher together on the sofa
Is there any better way to doze?
Tired, their eyes begin to close
Christopher and Alice curled up and couldn't be closer.
* * *
* * *

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