Not Enough

Use Your Tongue” was supposed to be tanka-prose. But I fell in pure lust with one (or 3) line-breaks, and had to write the piece as free verse. The poem below would’ve been the tanka part of it. I’m still thinking of linking the two at some point in some sort of almost tanka-prose, or in an experiment in free verse with tanka in it. Write and see, I guess…

.
Not Enough

Hands are not enough
to hold my mind, use your words,
feed me cared for verbs—
my flesh will not thrive on grunts
while my soul is fed silence.
.

– linked to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads.

“Gaijin Geisha”, by Shelle Kennedy

Use Your Tongue

My eyes and hips, and that spot over my heart (the one you kiss to make me moan all my wants) understand body language. The rest of me needs
more.

Speak to me.

If you don’t remember to use your tongue, you will lose my heart…

…without heart, you
can’t have me.

Speak to me.

.
– for Hedgewitch’s Friday 55 and Poets United.

Need Not Love Weird, Just Me

my Piano Man (showing the photo of a bottle): “Do you approve?”

me (squealing like a delighted maniac): “I want that bottle!”

my Piano Man: “Dead Guy Ale.”

me (half-choking on exclamation marks): “I want it!!!”

A few hours later, my Piano Man came home with two empty bottles of Dead Guy Ale for me to moon over. One of said bottles now resides next to my typewriter. I can glance at it while I’m writing. Every time I look at the skeleton, I grin… remembering the silly exchange that made it mine, basking in the bliss of having a love who knows exactly how to love me.

My sweet Piano Man is not a lover of creepy things (aside from me, that is). But our home is full of what many would probably think of as rather weird—bones, thorns, ashes that used to be alive, enough skulls to make you wonder if “skull fetish” shouldn’t be a thing, hammers, axes, random sticks… and my Piano Man never makes them feel unwelcome.

Some time ago, while I assisted in a Coming of Age dance ritual, the crone leading it (waves at Yudelis), said, “May your weird find a weird to love and be loved by”. I remember thinking, That’s freaking brilliant.

Years later, after I have lived and love and loved and loved… I believe in those wise words more than ever: the success of a relationship doesn’t depend on how similar or different those involved are from each other, but on how well they can love one another while remaining who they are (or, perhaps, while growing together into what they want to be).

he honors my heart
with treasures stripped of all meat,
thoughts of weird be damned