Innogen

I hold the
tin can telephone
in my hand and
I wait.
You are too far away from me now
But you still
hold the line.
The string tightens.
I hear you call for me,
again,
Metallic soft mumbling
Resonates up the
silver sides of the tin
I’m listening,
deciphering, what you’re trying to say.

“Can you repeat it?”
You can’t explain it and
I am a bit hard of hearing.

We tried many times
with that old
Tin Can telephone.
metal now rusting,
Tongue Tied,
String goes slack-
you’re gone.
But I keep the
little metal tin can
in view hoping you’ll call back
And try again.

I hold the
tin can telephone
in my hand and
I wait.
You are too far away from me now
But you still
hold the line.
The string tightens.
I hear you call for me,
again,
Metallic soft mumbling
Resonates up the
silver sides of the tin
I’m listening,
deciphering, what you’re trying to say.

“Can you repeat it?”
You can’t explain it and
I am a bit hard of hearing.

We tried many times
with that old
Tin Can telephone.
metal now rusting,
Tongue Tied,
String goes slack-
you’re gone.
But I keep the
little metal tin can
in view hoping you’ll call back
And try again.

The inertia of her
goes and comes back-
The eastern tide.
She was ‘At sixes and sevens’
With herself.
But, with love, I tried-
Mopping up the mire pouring
out of her
onto me.
Over brimmed the table
Onto the floor
Sponge swollen, weeping.
With desultory and cursory
She goes away- old habits.
Had wrung me dry.
I don’t know
What else to say

I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a wife and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn’t quite make out. I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn’t make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet

tw homophobia

so my mum said to me a few nights ago re: me not being straight ‘I don’t really believe the whole girl thing’.

like thx b lmao didn’t think I could hate ma-self more. Let me add another blanket of internalised phobia xoxo

sunbathe:

me citing a source: i said what i said