THE BOY WITH THE ORANGE IN HIS POCKET

African Sun and My Axis

How sweet I roamed from field to field
And tasted all the summer’s pride
                          - William Blake, “Song”

You lost some love
I lost some life
We both find solace in each other’s eyes. 
Conjoined, placenta burst, safety-blanket burnt.
All we have is each other,
and this universal human condition,
of loss and love and the in-betweens of what was. 

The radio sings of, “summertime sadness” and I try to, “hold back the river.”
I think about the previous night,
where we spent our time making pretzels from our arms,
and glue from our hands.
You traced, “compassion” onto my palm,
and your lips onto my cheek.
You were the African Sun, and I caught the heat.

Now, I look around for you.
Your green eyes, your tanned skin, your voice.
Every thing out of your mouth sounds like sex.
The scent of your cigarettes spiral my subconscious,
and you ask, “have you dreamt of me yet?”

We hold hands at every chance,
and eyes at every glance.
You leave me left-handed love-notes on my legs.
“I’m lost in your words” printed on my thigh.
You mention, “serendipity”, I reply with, “absolute”,
and the sky between the tree-branches becomes our favourite view.
You carved our initials into bark,
and the trees around the city became our TradeMark.
The grass- my bed, your chest- my pillow.
Our routine each evening, welcomed change between the seasons. 
Silent twilight, and the sun goes down,
the World is here, but nobody is around.

You ask questions about my mother,
I ask, “what happens when we get home?”
“The greatest, She.”
“An entire weekend.”
“We speak on the phone.”
“I’ll send you poetry.”

We exchange thoughts, and sighs, and late-night taxi-rides.
It takes a celebration of the life of a friend, for our lips to meet, and our kiss to stem.
We drown the noise of party people
with the sounds of our breathing,
and they watch from a distance.

The next morning, I hear whispers in the rain,
and spend all afternoon avoiding your gaze.
I let you in without a fight; voices around me question if it was right.
We bring all our words to the table, but we sit in silence.
The tension is almost too much to bare, my ink burns through paper, as I realise I’m looking for a page we can both meet on.

The evening brings showers and apologies,
we empty all our pockets, we unfold every crease within our souls, and we lay them on the table before us.
Honesty is a practise, and this we can manage.

We cross bridges to art galleries, and take secret photographs around corners.
We cut corners, and kiss through cake, we sit together at love’s table,
and we, are comfortable,
we are safe.

Nights bring us closer, as we synchronise sleep.
You press stars onto my body, your finger-tips at my neck, eyes turn shut, we both hold breath. 
Explosions in the sky, and in our bed, a little death. 
Nights bring us closer, as you sleep by my side.
I pen deliveries for dawn on your right arm, and kiss you goodnight.
We hold each other, as our bodies become blankets in flight.

Through clouds and cultures,
through waiting in line and departure times,
this is only, “see you later” this is not,
“goodbye.“

---

YDA.

you’re separating salt from water 
every time you throw me hands, 
and then pull back.

my blood is singing because of you.

don’t ask me when i close the windows,
because i get cold too, sometimes. 
even when i am burning blue,
i get cold too, sometimes.

you don’t mean this.
you don’t mean this.
you’re in searching,
but you are blind. 

i have a song that smells like you.

are you still scratching at your chest?
did i scar you?

i have 72 songs that smell like you.
and some others i forget the names of.
do you remember them all? 
don’t answer.

you don’t answer. 

i spat in my drink and thought of you,
left it by my bedside and thought of you.

you used to be so warm,
and now you’re sitting in the sun
with a skin of ice
that refuses to melt. 

don’t tempt me.

you are on the other side 
of choking on dust. 
use your thumb as a stump
and block the sound of my 
screaming.
it is easier for you. 

run back.
run back,
to what i left on your paper.
you write good words
but actions speak louder,
and silence is the loudest.
killer.

i want to tell you i hate you,
but we only say “i hate you” to the people we love
and i am so tired of telling you things
that your lostness cannot hear.

save yourself.
you will hurt too, sometimes.
​
don’t tempt me.
the female phoenix is my role model
and i will set you alight if you let me,
and i will set you alight if you don’t.

we were adults about it

i sit in the flames of missing you, and my iris burns red. 
cigarette smoke kisses bite my eyes and 
i wonder if your missing me is any more beautiful.
i don’t question if your mind travels to thoughts of me.
only quizzical of frequency and intensity. 
how often is often and how true is true? 

my journal found grace in conversion to a prayer book.
there are train-lines and lip-balm prints on throwaway coffee-cups that remember the trace of your collar-bones, the blue veins in your forearms.
i carry memories and flashbacks 
on my back, in my fingertips, on my tongue 
like a donkey in the sun and as hard as i try to walk straight, no trips, no stumbles, i fall 
regularly and spill 
sentences on innocent bystanders.
people just want hellos and goodbyes and small-talk.
not you. 
never you. 

you wanted to know everything. 
even now. 
we try to package big-talk into 10 and 20 minute bursts of fleeting, transient conversation. 
“missing you as always.”
“never not missing u”
“speak soon miss you like the sun misses the moon. Xx”
we are disgusting. 
we said it ourselves. 
nauseating, and we love it.
we said it ourselves. 

i write about you like i’m getting paid.
generation y not make a career out of pain.
i miss you so much my heart hurts my eyes are sad.
21st century fossil fuel desperation,
set fire to my feelings and make your money’s worth. 
facebook love and whatsapp life,
it’s never enough but we’re paying the price. 
​
we could not have been more clear,
transparent windows to the internal.
it was decided.
we were adults about it.
mature minds and romantic hearts.
purgatory is a place for sinners,
and i don’t believe in horoscopes.
but cancer and libra sound wonderful together.
you and i, who would’ve thought? 

cracked whispers on sunday afternoons are one thing
and signing dotted-lines are another.
we did one of two.
we were adults about it.
mature minds and romantic hearts. 

atlas’ map distance and clocks hand time 
and 6 degrees of separation says you’re still mine.
but that’s just a theory.
you’re better at those than i am. 

say it again: “from a far away land xxx”
i’ll tell you again: “never too far, our souls are aligned.” 
we are disgusting. 
we said it ourselves. 
nauseating, and we love it.
we said it ourselves. 

---

i wrote a(n almost rap) poem about you and it made me feel hardcore for a solid minute.

late night, studying, 
papers i got, i’m stuttering, 
on you, i’m fumbling. 
this signal- unreliable, 
these wires- are down 
under 
your intentions, they’re there, 
but your hands, they’re not, 
so when i think about us,  
i don’t know what we’ve got. 
cos you tell me you love me, 
i know you mean what you say, 
but my words are too shaky, 
i could never ask you to stay. 
so now i’m picking memories and moments 
and you’re picking fruits, 
and some people pick games,  
but i don’t- i mean, i won’t- do that to you. 
so tell me how you really feel,  
i mean, really, really feel, 
tell me if your mind plays over moments  
like a broken tv reel, 
tell me if your dreams cash in on us,  
a fucking record deal, 
tell me if your heart spins on hope,
that, what’s it called, wheel? 
of fortune- miss fortune,  
workin on the “mrs” though. 
only been 4 u, 
been about you 
since you walked in the door. 
from the jump,  
director’s cut,  
kept it 100,  
you know that’s love. 
you know what’s up.
that 90’s rnb shit,  
frankie and benny’s,  
then ben and jerry’s  
and some sweet kick. 
see, you got me reminiscing,  
and i get so sentimental, 
protective of my heart,  
i don’t give this thing like rental. 
so i’m sitting over here,  
can of red bull to my left, 
hit 5am, and my bed still bereft. 
stayin up, thinkin bout you, 
now i’m just being frank  
ocean in my room, 
got these tears to thank. 
hope you appreciate that. 
been tryna stay lowkey 
bout highkey feelings  
and it’s wack. 
you’re still young,  
but a caveman with technology, 
bout to google this  
new internet slang,  
then something bout 
girls who study poetry and psychology. 
yeah, bryson tiller got me in my drake type feelings, 
and it’s whack, 
been a minute since this hotline bling’d 
so we’re due a chat. 
what would i say?  
man, where would i start?
“screw you” or “screw this” 
russian roulette with my heart. 
or “screw me some more”  
it’s good for my art. 
you’re a bad paint-job,  
a dog-toothed edge, 
forget about eton,  
you’re a london mess. 
my favourite headache,  
sunshine on a plate. 
now you’re living in yellow,  
i’m living in blue, 
i need some  
andre 3000  
green light tune. 
and i’ll admit it,  
sometimes i keep talking, 
and i don’t know when to quit it, 
but i’m talking for the both of us, 
to god looking over us. 
so tell me, what would you say?  
where would you start? 
you said you’ve been writing, 
now give me your part.

---

an undecided homecoming

heartbreak is a white devil.
there will be hell 
and there will be heaven;
your home is between the two.

white sands of lombok,
grey skies of july.
a germ, a blush, a nail in our back.
wind on my wristwatch,
a blooded mess by your eye.
breakfast by clear blue,
purple rain on your parade.

tell me, 
are you happy now?
i was shaping you stars when you started searching for 
space
at least tell me you are happy now.

cut your hair.
don’t call me later.
dark wombs and darkrooms;
your home is between the two.
tell me,
do they kiss you warm?
do they kiss you when it’s cold?
will she be there in the morning like i would?

this piece began in august,
and now we’re in october. 
you know i live for the stranger things,
i never anticipated it ever meaning us.
and baby, i’m the realist.

i woke from my sleep,
and thought of you 
again.
12 long weeks
like twisted fingers in my spine that remind me of you, and us.

do you wanna get off? 
does it sting a lottle?
let me see your neck.
you keep drinking from bottles.

dirty hippie,
you will always be the boy with the orange in his pocket,
and i will always be.
home is between the two.

---

04032017

we linger, still.
tried so hard to get rid.
said i was clean. i was wrong.
it’s different now.
i’m a firefighter.
i’m back in school.
i’m an emotional gangster.
i’m a fool.
hearing you in song,
i had to write.
love can’t seem to leave us;
changes clothes every night.
you work on your resume
i say work on you.
didn’t mean to make you cry.
guess it happens like that.
boys cry
6 months late.
i ask for help, 
i can’t be the one
to hold your silence, your cold hands, your tears in a cup.
i love you still,
i’m just not in.