“You are my inspiration and my folly. You are my light across the sea, my million nameless joys, and my day’s wage. You are my divinity, my madness, my selfishness, my transfiguration and purification. You are my rapscallionly fellow vagabond, my tempter and star. I want you.”
George Bernard Shaw
Sorry George but… Fuck ALL that shit, just leave me the last 3 words.
Hope it got you laid dear boy. Those pretty words you strung together like proverbial pearls materializing around a girls neck, or whatever it is you were into.
Don’t tell me what the poets are doing
On the street and the epitome of vague*
I have built my own tiny empire of words on…words.
I live here among my people.
I call them darlin’, punky, honeybabychile, puddin’ and habibi.
If I say your real name it means I need you to focus, we are in danger, or both.
My foundation is solid, the words I say are the words I mean.
I don’t throw compliments like confetti, I find a good truth and say it out loud.
I forget that is not a universal language. It’s just mine, and spoken amongst my people.
Liars with mouths full of flowers? Those are not my people.
I can’t eat gilded lilies and no, you can’t come in.
Sadly, I must venture out now and again.
To survive on the outside I learned the language of fuckboi.
There is a low and high dialect. Ranging from ‘sup’ to “I love you, my lady of the stars”.
Gimme a pretty mouth saying ‘sup any day, at least I know what I am dealing with.
Otherwise keep your forked tongue behind your teeth (Drag the Lake)
Or stick the thing out so I know what you are.
The last two that crossed the border spoke in the high speech that really sounds like truth.
It wasn’t.
It was an older code, but it checked out.
Tonal language. The words are the same, the inflection is different, meanings change with the tone.
In Vietnamese the same word means ‘to walk’ or ‘hooker’ depending on the syllabic emphasis.
To them ‘I love you’ means ‘I love how you make me feel.’
Epitome of vague*, the both of them.
They should get together, have a bottle of wine and wax poetic about something they have never actually felt below the surface.
To love someone you have to
a) let them in
b) actually give a flying fuck about the other person.
The Poet told me there was no way that we would see each other and magically fall in love…
but honey… you said you fell for me a long time ago you make a living writing about it.
So you don’t even believe you?
Oh father of lies, favor me now. (Stephen King)
Actually, fuck it.
I fell out of favor and landed softly back in the real world.
His words withering rose petals strewn on a path to nowhere. (see? I can do it too.)
The other one would quote the old ones and pretend he knew what love was, but he’s just a babe in the woods holding hands with the ghosts of Roberts, Frost, Browning et al.. Come back when you’re 40 and have a better understanding of that involuntary muscle in your chest you try so hard to control. Or don’t.
It was Twain by the way, not Yeats or Keats.
“The two most important days in your life are the day you were born, and the day you find out why.”
You have no idea.
I don’t either, but I never pretended I did.
I feel like I am here to love, loud.
But I’ve been wrong before. Maybe I’m supposed to write or make furniture.
Who knows?
I used to be the Queen of SappyPoeticMemeLand. Had a collection of the things, each more precious that the last.
I’m getting sick of memes telling women what real men do.
As if love comes with instructions. And if it did, men wouldn’t read them.
My love doesn’t look like his or his or hers.
If women, as a collective whole, expect men to read our minds and understand us (and admit it, we sometimes do) should we not be expected to learn their language as well?
It’s the sentiment and effort that matters.
If some women had their way the sun wouldn’t be able to shine through all the sky written declarations of true love.
I just saw this shit ‘a real man will call you, not text you and tell you that you are beautiful, not sexy.‘
Um, mine texts me every morning. Calls me sweetcheeks and sugartits and its awesome.
I call him gorgeous boy, and he squirms at the compliment and calls me a dork. When he does, it is with affection.
We both smile when we text, talk, kiss and fuck. What else is there?
The first time he called me I assumed it was a pocket dial. It wasn’t, he was driving and couldn’t text me back.
It’s the little things.
He can tease me and touch me all he wants, because I know without doubt that if someone else tried to do it they wouldn’t last long.
I feel safe.
His spoken language is simple and straight forward with whatever you call man sass. His body language is a different thing, always touching me somewhere, keeping his body between me and the world.
I have my own language. Everyone does. I’m all truth, movie quotes and song lyrics peppered with southern belle and a hint of dirty pirate hooker.
I talk a lot more than he does, but when he speaks I shut the fuck up, listen and invariably smile.
The silence, when it happens, is comfortable.
First thing we’d climb a tree and maybe then we’d talk
Or sit silently and listen to our thoughts
With illusions of someday casting a golden light
No dress rehearsal, this is our life*
*The Tragically Hip
