Posts Tagged Women
She was a cold, mirror smooth lake
in the cloud tossing tempest that raged around her,
and I stood wet and weather beaten on her rocky shore.
How could she be so disconnected?
Ahead lay the divide that ran from top to bottom of their lives,
Defining the move between their doom and their fortune.
So millions of people lived their paths,
Not knowing that far above,
White winged Josef and the raven winged woman
Flew towards the light.
If only the minions also had that sight.
Is it not odd in a world of
That a female Praying Mantis
Still eats its mate.
That it’s possible to die
By digital excess,
Or also lack thereof.
On a dating website tonight,
I paused and considered what I saw.
Images of people frozen at
Very particular moments in their lives.
And then writing an advert to promote it.
Someone messaged me tonight.
I was shy to link to her too soon.
When I did, she’d destroyed her account.
Admiralty129000 I will never know you.
And this space I’m in
That comprises me and a screen.
This is how we interface now.
And yet she was there. She was.
She messaged me.
And then she didn’t exist anymore.
I know I’m not supposed to admit this.
It’s neither dignified nor manly.
Because men only think about one thing.
And they’re not allowed to cry.
Pillars of society,
We joyfully join the scrum.
Pretending indifference to the quiet voice.
We have to scorn the quiet voice.
That’s what it is to be a man.
Quiet voice that in quiet moments
Allows us to wonder at the unfurling clouds
And the emerging beauty of spring.
That oh so gentle curve from neck to shoulder
That might simply be beautiful rather than just sexual.
Even that small voice of a child.
Any intuitive interaction
That might be seen to be too gentle
To be masculine.
Women’s preconceptions preclude these sensitivities.
I know. I’ve seen how the bastards always win.
Taunted by thigh and tit and scorned for responding
Unless we’re fancied or are able to be ruthless enough
To ignore another’s value. Like bastards.
However good you are in bed,
Or how large your heart may actually be,
The bastards always win.
And seem welcomed for this.
Even as they pretend to wail,
I scorn those crying women.
I’m dying. My feet tell me so.
As I pace back and forth
Between hope and despair.
There’s no stairwell to heaven here.
There’s no way to wisdom
Or any such feast.
Just meagre scraps that fall
From processes I don’t understand.
And as for love,
There’s no such thing.
Instead there’s a place in an hierarchy
That deserves regard or doesn’t.
Take your heart and crush it underfoot.
I might have loved you
If you hadn’t looked at me like that.
When I confessed my nature
Didn’t fit the modern way.
Silvered moon over the gleaming Danube.
Twinkling Budapest lights.
Where are you? Someone.
It would be good to nuzzle your lovely neck
Whilst seeing this.
Through air cold as ice they ran,
over pretty leaves of gold and brown,
crushed more dead by each soft footfall.
He caught her, laughing, and swung her round.
She saw his eyes and lent back
against thin hard vertical bark.
He cupped her face tenderly either side
and ran his hands gently up to course
her hair through his fingers.
Taking hold he pulled her head back
to show her beautiful neck
with delicate strain like his arcing cock.
And she looked up and saw the arcing trees
bending away towards the stars.
He bent low and kissed her throat,
and moved up to whisper in her ear
how sublimely beautiful she was. And she was.
As she was kissed, she watched
and saw amongst the wind drifted trees,
the silhouette of a flying bird.
She saw its eyes as black,
watching her as she writhed
in silky analogue motion
that jumped with each digital phase
of the bird’s flight frozen
as in a freeze frame film.
And so she saw his passion granted,
as part of a universal flow.
She saw and gave and came
as the birds saw and knew.
She arced her graceful back
and squirmed across the face
of the man who knew her in his lust.
Flying up there with those knowing birds,
over the moonlit silvered trees
and through the star splintered dark,
she looked down in her ecstasy
and saw two people entwined
in their confusion and their
lust tempered by love.
Well I watched you leave.
Even if no one else did.
Walking slightly too slowly perhaps,
Through the foggy small talk
Of gossip and football.
I don’t like it either.
You nested your hair
Into the exquisite nape
Of your neck
As you wrapped your scarf.
Then you left and ghosted alone
Into the cold dark.
If you’d turned to glance,
I would have smiled.
Then I saw past you
And saw her looking at me
And I betrayed you.
So flimsy are the
Fantasies we cling tight to,
Risking our being.
How do I train myself
To ignore that smooth silken curve
From neck to shoulder?
Those gentle swells
And that swinging curve
That slices through the world?
That sensous soft hair
Falling down her astonishing back?
How do I stop wanting this in her
Now that I’m of an age
That truly appreciates a beautiful woman
But is too old to be allowed
To know her?
And as eyes speak volumes
I draw near and move my hands up
Your silken back,
Drawing closer to wrap
My neck round yours
And scent your softness,
Drawing you tight to me
And knowing that sweet digression
From love to lust and back again.
Where is this essence that’s needed
To fill my void unseen
But felt so strongly?
Cheek to cheek goodbye tonight.
Been a long time since I felt that softness.
Cynicism crumbled away like crusted stone around a jewel
And desire became honourable at last.
I’d forgotten that
The warmth of real and gentle affection
Could be so transformative.
I love you.
The way your arms bend in at the elbows,
And your incredibly small nose,
And cascading hair
That flows round your delicate shoulders
Like liquid gold.
And your larger than life eyes
That hold knowing and questions.
But then I see the lies.
The synthetic face
And the titillating thighs intended
To make desire a thing
You can play with.
As life flows by me,
I’m starting to know
The deeper water
From the vortices.
That last swig of vodka and coke
Made me shudder.
She the woman in my mind turned away.
Hypocrite in search of something better than herself.
But it’s better that way.
Ever decreasing circles I follow
Seeing more of me as I see less.
But now I know that less is more.
That woman is a beast never to be trusted
As despite her plaints she has a simple switch
That converts her heart to stone.
Wanting a woman.
Lust and needing to make that arched back sigh,
And to know soft intimacy
And smooth thigh though
Is so different from the want to hold close
And wrap around protective and caring.
Soft hair and sweet nose
And big eyes that demolish me.
So as a man do I follow my lusty desire
Or something else that cares?
And more to the point,
Does she want to be wanted or cherished?
Both are best but why would I invest
So much in someone who can turn the whim
Of any man and who just takes
And expects to control why I am?
Wet concrete steps reflected red neon lights.
Walking behind her past cold marble pillars
To the warm orange light of the foyer.
We walked up the stairs and the pleats of your skirt
Splayed like fingers spreading to cover you,
As you swayed in that inimitable way.
Then the crowd flowed in with babbling mouths
And I lost you in an ocean of grey suits and sequins.
These days long now watching setting sun
And remembering the sway of those splayed fingers.
Splayed fingers arch back
As arched back lifts under me
And mouth gasps serene.
Watching you across a red checked table
In a coffee bar.
Two cold coffees sit between us with
Scum hanging down the insides like fungus.
Grey wisp cigarette smoke rises slowly
From a black plastic ashtray in the middle of everything.
You rest your chin on your hand,
Slender fingers splayed prettily across your lips,
And you watch me closely with ocean deep
Blue eyes peering into the depths of my mind.
You smile and the world congeals.
All through that night,
As the curtains billowed inward on warm wind,
My fragrant love lay draped
Across stiff linen sheets
And sighed as she turned.
Through the open window I saw
An owl fly across the mellow yellow moon.
Sometimes you wish love
Too intense to be received.
Ever be secret.
Was it the golden Sahara sands
That flowed around me?
Or was it the sighing soft wind?
Her voice flows fluid
And languid and liquid,
Caressing around the curves.
Was that really the simple sound
Of a woman singing?
She lifted her skirt.
My passion rose unasked for.
And she rose and left.
I saw you watching.
Shy smile looks the other way.
Now we’ll never know.
A man showed his heart
Women laughed their derision
So he became man.
How could I live with a woman?
They take over every room and habit
And everything I do
Is subject to
A kind of long cynical criticism and moaning no matter what I did, without any discussion.
And then there’s how I snore
And they don’t. No really.
Or fart. I’m forever forgiving
And forgetting and being chilled out about
And not seeing how her excessive makeup wouldn’t look good on a trout.
And don’t get me started
On the constant insistence on being part of
Every aspect of my life
Even though she professes
To hate and despise all of it and not like my friends or my drinking habits.
And then there’s sex.
All the faffing about getting her going.
Stupid things like candles and
The right sort of over priced restaurant.
And being treated like a lady even though she’s a feminist and everything I do is always wrong.
I’d rather the company of blokes.
Tell it straight. Joke or no joke.
Be honest and accept each for what they are.
People fart. That’s the way they are.
No constant reassessment of who we are by the moment according to where we are.
Women meet you and like you and then
If you’re lucky they love you and that’s the end,
Because they’ll then devote themselves
To changing you into the someone else
That they really wanted but couldn’t find but you had the cash and seemed malleable enough.
To watch a pretty woman work her wiles
Is like watching the sun rise over a beautiful landscape.
As shadows rise and fall and colours wax and wane
And wide eyed glances undermine any pretense of mine at defence.
I confess I’m a complete sucker for a pretty face.
There’s nothing I can do.
Women rule the world
And us men are mere putty
At the sight of creamy thigh
Or breast, and all the rest.
So who’s the fool?
“Who the hell do you think you are?”
I’m not sure whether I was more taken aback by the question, or by the character who presented himself before me. Dressed in suede boots, black tights, a sequined T-shirt and some sort of translucent cloak, he’d interrupted my meandering path from late closing nightclub to home by suddenly jumping out of a dark alleyway.
I stopped. I didn’t have much choice. Swaying slightly, I looked at this person before me, stood there in falling drizzle, with laughter and the shouting voices of other revellers falling away behind me into some distance that hadn’t been there a moment before.
“Well who the hell do you think you are?” Spoken with more bravado than I felt. I was swaying back and forth. Not a good state to be in when challenging anyone, let alone some ranting pervert in a super hero costume.
He didn’t answer, and I started to feel really uneasy. One of the orange street lights was flickering, and the alleyway from whence this apparition had silently emerged kept alternating between sheer black, and ancient brickwork that ran with old water and rusty drainpipes.
Suddenly there were three parts to the world. There was my drunken perspective. There was the world of other people, laughing and shouting and calling to each other and going home together. And then there was this thing in front of me that clearly belonged to a different universe. He, or whatever it was, stood stock still and stared at me with an unmoving stillness. Irrefutable, irresistible. Not available for comment.
And his question hung there in the space between us, easily defeating my hastily muttered response. Because even I knew that his question was bigger than mine.
I was going to say that time stood still. But that sounds like such a cliche. That is what it was like though. I became aware. There, alone, I saw the orange of the heavy bellied cloud passing curious over the city. I saw the glossy windows of shops and offices that lined the road that made my direction, frozen and waiting for an answer to the question. I heard those people behind me, in a disconnected and staccato way that made no sense – they became mere sounds without language, distant and meaningless. And this apparition stood there before me, completely still and staring and waiting for an answer.
The only thing that had clarity, and was comprehensible, was the question.
And then the people behind me caught up and passed me, arm in arm and laughing and joshing and singing and ignoring me standing in their midst as they poured past me, like water flowing past a rock in midstream. There was me, and him, and them. And then they passed on, seemingly without noticing me standing there.
And the last person to walk past was Julie. Arm linked with some bloke. Teetering slightly, and leaning her head towards his shoulder. Neither said anything. They just followed the crowd. He walking stiffly, she languid and seeking comfort. They walked in silence. A crystal termination to the the crowd that preceded them. A silent and reflective backstop. A full stop.
I watched all of this as though I wasn’t really there. As though I was invisible. Stood there swaying faintly, hair drizzle damped and a drop of water forming on the end of my nose. Julie receded and finally disappeared round the corner, still hanging on to her upright man in needing quiet, saying nothing and being led.
I’d been well intentioned. Friday night. Single man. Pub with friends. Club afterwards. But the friends had melded away somehow, and I’d ended up sitting watching everything alone. Detached. Unhappy but unable to admit why I felt so bleak amongst people so apparently happy.
I’d turned towards the bar and accidentally bumped Julie, who was waiting to be served. And for a very brief instant as our eyes each registered the other’s in passing, some recognition of loneliness occurred. Just for an instant. And in that instant my otherwise serene sea surged and blistered and boiled with suppressed emotion and, just for an instant, my eyes watered. Just for an instant. And then the de facto social behaviour kicked back in, and I looked at her more coldly. As one stranger does to another. I’d seen that instant in her too, but the protocol insisted that it be ignored.
She was beautiful. Just utterly, stunningly beautiful. In all sorts of different ways, glimpsed in a flash over a single second and then cast to one side. And I watched the barman instead. Then, in some slow time way, I turned to meet her eyes again and she did too, and there was a small smile. But the heave and chaos of everything around us pushed in and our communication was drowned out, and we looked away again.
Flashing neon light flickered and soaked the air about me and everyone and everything was moving. The barman was so fast, and everyone called out to everyone else, and laughed and joked, and sound lay like a blanket of writhing worms over the entire pulsating place. Except for Julie and me. We stood free from it for a moment, aware of each other and nothing else. Quiet and detached awareness in a single moment. A flash of understanding. Incongruent state. Smooth water in a roiling sea.
Then the sound ocean came flooding back like a tsunami, washing anything genuine away, and leaving only the broken stumps of something that could have been said.
She bought her drink, and I bought mine.
“I know you don’t I?” God could I not come up with something more original?
And she turned and smiled such a smile that outshone the universe, reducing everything to grey light and everyone around me receded and became silent as I waited for her reply. In that moment I knew how utterly unhappy I was. How my life comprised mere existence. A sun with no horizon to rise above. In just a few seconds life quickened and compressed and simplified and reduced and I knew far more than I’d ever known before. I realised so much more than I needed to know. The glistening white mountain peak that was my supposed life turned into a tumbling avalanche sweeping all illusion before it and landing collapsed in a heap at the bottom of a slope I thought I’d conquered.
This all happened in an instant. Nothing more. Just a chance meeting of eyes. A glance and smile.
“I don’t think so.” she said. “My name’s Julie.” And then she turned to pay the barman. I watched him. I’m a man. I know men. I saw his eyes. Perhaps he also saw himself in that moment. Perhaps he was also forced to face himself.
All of this came flooding back to me as I stood there, damp and drizzled on and ignored and standing there still in the middle of the street. Once Julie and her partner has disappeared round the corner, there was me and the soft drizzling rain, and the silently flashing neon lights, and nothing else. The weird super hero had gone.
I woke and the real world rushed back again, quieter this time.
I carried on walking, deep in thought but seeing myself walking, from above. I rounded the corner. There stood Julie, all alone in the wide road, vapid commercial lights around her pulsating blurred through the falling rain. She was still and bowed and sad and longing. Everyone else had long since moved on, and she stood there in silence. She’d seen me and she’d waited for me.
I didn’t stop. I carried on walking towards her and as I approached, her eyes lifted and met mine and I reached out and gently took her in my arms and wrapped myself around her and we both stood there still, in the flickering lights of vainglorious butterfly shop windows and held each other very quietly. Nothing needed to be said, and for the first time in my life, I knew what it meant to be happy.
Tonight I’m listening to the music of Rachel Lauren. Not only is the music beautiful, she is too. Her dark eyes, her smooth skin and soft hair and her figure. And her voice is warm honey. Even when I can’t understand it.
She leads me to wonder about how well suited the two sexes are to considering the gentler, more subtle aspects of life. Perhaps Rachel Lauren is better equipped to see and to explain these things than a man would be. Given that she seems to be part of them already. How much does this define her femininity? How far is Rachel’s warm, passionate, liquid soothe from the cool, crystalline and perfectly patterned logic that is supposed to represent masculinity? And how can such things be equally well represented by two such different expressive forms?
What defines masculinity? When is a similarly gentle and tactile comprehension as Rachel’s masculine? Where is the divide that renders such sensitivity feminine or masculine? Is it possible for both to see the same perspective, and yet still melt into each other as snow into warm water, by virtue of their difference? And can each still retain their identity?
Are our views on gender too limited? Can a man be as responsive to, and expressive of, sweet beauty, of thing or of feeling, as a woman? And is the difference between them simply that one appears as warm, fluid blue ocean, and the other as well defined and rigid snow and ice, even as each are made of water? And the melding of their respective comprehension creates a pleasantly temperate context that is capable of nurturing both.
Or are only women sufficiently equipped to respond to subtle beauty given that they create so much of it? And men should only look on and do their best to understand? Or is it that men, being outside, are best placed to see and to recognise gentle beauty for what it is? Is cold snow, fixed and watching, better placed to recognise the complex fluid motion of the warm blue water that’s lapping at it’s edge?
The incessant clatter
Of the need to seed
Lives with every moment
And I see the world around me
Fat and frantic with process.
If some tarty doll in split skirt
With promise of juice and smooth skin
Can raise desire and feelings
That strikes the pose of the lonely,
What is it when I wake before dawn
And want my arms to wrap
Like the branches of a tree
Around some sweet safe thing to keep it mine?
How do we play with ourselves?
Confusing sex with love and loneliness.
Where is the space and what is it
Between the two?
We’re driven by nature
To procreate and that cruel woman
Does state the rules
Shall be ambiguous.
Well there’s a surprise!
So where do we stand
Us poor men whose finer reason
Is pawned by pictures?
How do we chose
Between the she devil that flicks
All the switches
And the other leg?
We’re pawns in a game
Where the rules are all written
By those who would then
Make us weak
Whilst demanding we rise
When it suits them such
That they languid lie
And whine their way
But oh so nicely.
They’ll do precisely
To make sure we stay
The way they want
By spreading those thighs
Slithering sliding smooth
Went the snake in search
Of the knowledge cake.
Over rough tree bark,
Onwards and upwards
Towards Eves fine heaven,
The stretching fingers
Of sky leaning twigs.
Between that space
Between earth and sky
A sun for an apple
And a poke in the eye.
I saw the true nature
Of the source
Of the lie.
She was just a passing storm
That’s remembered but nothing more.
Some scudding cloud that dropped its rain
And blew it’s wind
And ruffled my life
And is gone now.
Smooth shiny waters now sparkle
At my bow and I know
That all things come and go.
And I’m calm,
And in being so,
Make my sea so.