But what if I could? Shit, I can’t so I won’t. Shhh, I did and I hoped. And it keeps coming back, circling round is it a joke, ebb and the flow, constant rollercoasting? Are you a shy man? A tense man? A rather nervous bloke? I secretly saw your hands shake on your piano as they filmed that video. It endeared me to you even more…
© Sylvie Hill 2013
DON’T TORCH IT
Carrying a torch for a flame thrower.
… Switch to a lantern’s got/get a handle on it.
The heat of the fire, though: intensity!
…Stay the lit path, longevity.
Cursing swelter in the sunlight.
…Cool, calm, balance by moonlight.
Carrying a torch for a flame thrower,
girl, you’re both going to get burned.
(Do you burn if you’re electrified?)
© Sylvie Hill 2013
APPALLED
I was appalled.
Fine, fair enough even if I was the one that started a conversation about that stuff.
It was my lack of a sex life I was allowed to talk about.
I was the one that started divulging how I was begging for it and gagging for it in a relationship that had gone south.
I was the one saying that after all my supporting him, least the guy could do is put out.
I was the person relaying the curse of the discarded and how easy it is to become adulterers
Because I was she who was talking of a he who didn’t seem to crave it as much.
So what the hell right did you have to ask if I like to come hard?
“Do you like to come hard,” you asked, just laid it on the table like the lighter you used to light our cigarettes.
Like you just flopped it on a base like a flaccid penis on a night stand or table
Probably you make it with lots of girls,
My friend could tell.
“You always go for the underdog,” my mate said, saying I should do better.
“Always the dark horse for you, girl,” he said as his mate got a little closer.
Confused me as I thought about the singer but then the ‘kind guy’ right beside me.
Here’s one good choice for a man who’ll care
And the other who I know could ravage me.
Kind man, beside, seemed to intrude on space, too near she.
Forward man seemed to hover back, at the same time already inside me.
©Sylvie Hill 2013
(Last Chance) Fill ‘er Up
Data half-way at Maxville, Herb’s Gas Filling station for the bad-impressionists on the first date.
“What are your dates” he asked. I replied: “one is with this guy, I think, but not really,” I surmised. “Yes, I see, at least we can talk in the rain now,” the man in Yellow said. I wanted to shout YES, SEND ME SPICE, I will Like. “Perhaps later” he might (you must!).
I’m not only silly, I’m occupied. “Don’t worry, I’m not your type,” he said. Free?
Ok then, guess I’m ready to go get my fill, meet on a data half-way at Maxville, Herb’s Gas Filling station for the bad-impressionists on their first date.
‘And you keep on driving through the city lights.’ Goddammit: SEE the fiction is on the mind! No car today, I’ll take my bike! You energize my ride (“don’t worry, you’ll crash soon.” Swoon. “I’m not your type … I’m not your type.”)
Last chance To Swoon Saloon? No. Last chance to get my fuel as blood pumps. I’m so alive across the pond, and half-way but not on the way to a data plan at Maxville, Herb’s Filling Station.
© Sylvie Hill 2013
BE: MUSE
“oh so it’s all my fault?”
Pretty much…
Being Muse: It’s a really tough gig.
Like when your neck is going to snap off going down on a girl so long but you’ve got her RIGHT on the edge so you don’t
stop.
If it’s good, then it’s your fault.
When it curbed, yes, it was your fault.
It’s a hard fucking job.
But stop complaining, it’s you who got yourself into this mess. Deal with it, suck.
Fuck, how?
Just go with it. Keep circling round, you know it.
So far, you’ve been good at it.
I know it’s hard to be used, my precious Muse.
But you’re the toughest sonofabitch I sort of know, so not concerned.
You’re insecure, too, sometimes flashing feathers and looking to prove, be not deterred.
When it stops being your fault
it’s that I don’t-won’t care so much.
Amused: It’s my schtick
Like when that lover called me “The Devil” for luring him in, ripping open his heart, getting what I wanted, then gave up. Moved on.
Be: Muse, enthused you bring red and blues and hughes’ hues to some silly girl you once knew a few hours over chords played by a married man. I got your back.
© Sylvie Hill 2013
LIKE
That look on your face when you’ve just made love
and are completely brain dead to the world around
Dazed face, Zen-like and hungry
A shiver-quiver memory brings you back, you’re giggly.
Just ‘like’ something, already.
If you do, we’d be sharing that tune.
Your presence is everywhere here but no one knows it’s you.
I’ve left clues.
I’m dying to tell you in person what my chest did
when I think you answered for the Code Red
I almost don’t want to have it said
that this wasn’t it or ‘what you write doesn’t make sense’
“Go to bed,” I said…
Just ‘like’ something, already.
I’m DYING to feel it again!
When the heat swells my insides out in excitement
Of acknowledgement, of knowing, of your recognition.
I never said you had to love me.
“If you met me, you might not like me.”
I’m playing a game, asking you to like something
never knowing if it’s by chance, or if you’re answering…
I’msoexcited by the power your return has over me.
Even happier to think you know it doesn’t have to mean anything.
“If you met me, you might not like me.”
But if you like something, already, I can love thee.
Yes, this has a double-meaning.
Make me dazed face, crazy from over there.
I’ve left many things you can like from here.
© Sylvie Hill 2013
PARC LAURIER
Oh, how I poured my heart out in writing to you in a long, long letter from a flat in Montreal with stone walls, and wooden floors along which I ran my hands to touch the soul. A bed all white and those drapes that swayed with the wind off a balcony full of foliage and flowers overlooking Parc Laurier! Oh, how I was feeling soulful and real and beautiful! I wrote you a long letter of my morning rising with the sun, sat on a back balcony in the Montreal style of wrought iron winding staircases and back alleys behind houses used by gentlemen on bikes or by foot, with their young kids! Oh, how I wrote you every detail of how I could walk — * I COULD WALK * — just down the street to pick up my meat, and my wine, and my cheese. Oh, indeed I wrote you my every word and every thought of this crisp, summer June morning in Montreal.
“I couldn’t read your handwriting, kidding ……….. I read 20% of it.”
© Sylvie Hill 2013
