Come support what we do on June 15th!
. I say less by the day but feel more. .When seeing a guy with his tongue down the throat of a seemingly-random girl on a club photo gallery I like to romanticize their story and pretend they stayed up all night on Westfield’s roof talking about moving to San Fran while knocking back Red Stripe. .The 1975 feel like I do, they just share it better + with 80’s bass/gorgeous beats. .I once cried to This Will Destroy You so hard I had to hold my breath under the covers as my mum passed outside the door and wouldn’t think I was dying. .I miss missing a girl when ordering regular chips with Mayo at some dead city takeout. .I think your body treats dancefloor not with care for music selection, but need. .Mine is re-learning how to screamed-lyric-shoe-shuffle-unison-headbang-sweat-and-sweat. .It still has flickers of move-for-girl-skin. .I am more ready to love than I have ever been. .This is not a practical /financial/own-place/fully-found-myself statement, but a heart one fired at both myself and the world.
Will you be the mug of Redbush tea I settle on the carpet? While I fool with my grandfather’s record player trying to get the needle to stick, will you be the laughter at my forgetting how to work this thing? Will you take advantage of a living room empty of parent or MTV Bass or distraction of youtube on laptop?
I have this book of Rumi poetry by the tea and a red pen for marking the lines I really need to read. Will you be my red pen? Will you press yourself over the images that help me forgive my reckless nature?
Like how unfamiliar I have become with staying in on a Friday night like this one. Like how these fingers are quietly fooling around with a record player at 11.53pm and not sliding down the dress of a body that is just body, that is ache and take, is Gucci and Guinness and too-much-tongue.
Is not Redbush and cross-legged on carpet by poetry and vinyl collection. Is not two cherry bakewell’s fetched from the kitchen to share and mess up my mother’s hoovering. Is not teasing me over how desperately I want this record to play because it is from the 80’s and I want to hear music romantically again.
I have not yet held you, but already you are laying over these pages. I feel you tugging at my shirt collar, not like club night corner, not like wewillbefuckinginunderonehour, no, it’s more tender than that.
I’ve got the record playing now, those synths are swallowing me softly, now the tea is spilt and Rumi is telling me to not waste time on words and to search for poetry across our skin and it’s so good to be touched without Drake beating down my back and I hear you whisper that you are so scared too and I shush you gently not because I am avoiding showing you how terrified I am of all this closeness again, it’s just there’s this part on the record coming in with quiet piano and a lyric where the singer tells us he is sick of crying on the stairs and listen, I know it’s a lot to ask, but will you just be my heart right now?
Will you sigh at how you completely relate to what he is telling you, how it is romantic, how you have been there, only now there’s two of us, you who are suddenly my heart, and me„ and all at once we fit inside this small, small living room perfectly and we don’t say another word for the whole rest-of-the-song and maybe there are tears or just breathing or kissing or nibbling on cherry bakewells or listening or just
My past, has been swept into rivers.
You history lesson in good time.
Taught via back flip.
Every dance move on your tongue
a language I wear out my mouth
trying to figure.
Your heart is without asterix.
It knows nothing of censor.
Remember this when drunk.
Remember this when now.
You feel the way God should.
Weeping at the slightest thing
even if you did not make it
with your own two hands.
You beautiful 3am
on night bus
with love song
How I love thinking of you
Bury your hands
in the goal mouth dirt
of Normanton park.
Cup my childhood in your palms.
Listen to ‘Nemo’ by Nightwish.
Hear the education
of a 17-year old boy
learning how to feel.
Let tears smear your cheeks
as my mother irons pre-school uniform.
Express the private love
I unzip quietly in my bedroom.
Watch my father hunch over second-hand organ.
Do not tell me he is a spent instrument.
Just. Remind me how to hold him.
Sit closer to me on the late bus.
Touch my leg every 13-seconds.
Let me know
you are still lonely
Anonymous asked: Jim! Loving the poetry, can't believe you have produced so much! Will you be at the June QUAD event? I hope so, haven't seen you perform in ages.
Thank you for the kind words but I have no idea who this is! :)
If by June Quad event you mean the open mic poetry night, then absolutely!