Tag: creative writing

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INFORMAL FALLACY

Clouds lick my skin
with their wet tongues
of raindrops,
and I watch pages of my book
transform into sinking boats
of black-on-white paper.

They say the air is the freshest
after the storm,
but I don’t need a reason
to be calm,
unless I’m around you –
a gambler of life.
Like a cowboy,
who walks on dust
without leaving footprints.

I have such an urge
to spring-clean my mind,
to get rid of all the cobwebs,
forgetting about

The spilled milk.
The soiled soul.
And the reason,
why I still write
with the scent of you
on my skin.

I lick raindrops
off my bottom lip,
as if you were wiping your kisses off
and only then I realise –
it’s
still
raining
and
I’m
wet.

– Chatty Owl –

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NO TITLE

You want to slam the door
and let the locals hear the noise
of your vocal cords,
but you know that
once you’re on the other side
of that door,
you won’t get invited back.

You act all surprised
and say things like
“But we never argued”,
“Yet we are now”,
I reply
and it’s a bitter irony –
we are fighting about fighting.

“You’ll be fine”, I say
and you grab my shoulders
with both hands,
pleading me to love you,
but sex is not love
and I only spread my legs for you.
Occasionally.

Time heals it all,
but you are so impatient
waiting for it,
that you check clocks and watches
all around you
more often than a hasty handle
ticks from number to number,
in hope
that maybe it’s
all-good-now o’clock.

Well it ain’t.

– Chatty Owl –

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POLLINATED

You say you like me unpredictable
and wet –
like an English summer.
I smile
and watch you
watching me
slipping out
of your favourite shirt.

Your eyes adjust to my body,
soaking in images,
and I know
that
it’s because your biggest fear
is to forget
names and faces.

That’s why I turn around
and
hide away.

Little dandelion parachutes
fly around my hair
while
you breathe in
the scent of my past,
saving those evaporating wishes
as they tickle your mind.

Like your body
tickles my imagination.

You open your mouth
to tell me
that you cherish those days
of my juvenile insecurity,
but my eyes are begging you
to not say anything.

I’m just waiting for your kiss.

– Chatty Owl –

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A DATE

Kisses -
they don't cease to stop.
Minute after minute,
until
dark coffee from my cup
turns into your drink now - 
from my mouth.
We are exchanging glances,
but I wish to be swapping fluids instead.
Shame seems to leave the room
and
all that's left is pure attraction
for each other.
Instincts of carnivore.
My mouth is warm 
with your fiery words,
our hands are full of each other,
and I can't stop asking,
if you really love me.

- Chatty Owl -
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BOUNDARIES

Yes.
I eavesdrop,
and like a bird of prey,
I watch you from afar.
I sieve your glances
through the filter of my liking,
making judgments,
wondering,
if I’m still present in your cup of tea.
I know how you take it.
Still.
Your day is beautiful with chaos,
while my mind is beautiful with you.
I feel my thoughts leaving
my
fingertips sometimes,
in a form of hasty written words,
but I never regret those escapees –
they have been held prisoners
for so long.
I’m invisible.
Untraceable by your senses.
I undress my soul for you
as I watch you reveal your body.
We are naked,
on opposite sides of the fence,
that none of us erected,
so in a way..
we are both
within the reach of a hand,
yet unloved
by each other.

– Chatty Owl –

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IT’S ALL IN TWO

Hand in hand
with frothy beer.

Bottle-tops missing
as is my top too.

I squirm uncomfortably
on the sand
as you return the favour.

And I drink
barley juice
out of your mouth.

It’s all vitamins anyway.

Bottomless happiness
surrounds

your mind,
my body,
our longings.

Deceiving words
and
chalky food
is a substitute we found content in.

Enrich my world
with oily passion.

Dripping down saliva.

And you will see
that
“she sells seashells”
of your prickly past.

With echoes.
Not of sea,
but of your sins.

Im topless.
Shameless.
Hiding nothing
but my eyes.

You squirm now,
on the sand.

Withering relationships
and
sinking ships of love.

Forget the seashells,
pebbles,
cherry knots
and
me.

Hoot hoot no more.

Im taking sandy beaches
elsewhere.

– Chatty Owl –

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COLOUR OF YOUR VOICE

I miss the colour of your words.
They used to taste like a rainbow,
but floated around
like a nighttime bug
and
turned to dust when touched
by lips of mine.
I swallowed your abc’s
like a bait –
with an enthusiastic passion.
I daydream about you,
your soft voice
and accent, foreign to my ears –
it’s to die for.
I told you once
and I’ll say it again –
you can read
a fridge manual out loud
and I’ll still get sticky wet
just by
listening to you.
Have I told you
that I imagine your hands
in between my legs,
when I read some
random famous poetry
and I burn bridges to my past,
so that you
are the only memory
for me.
I’ve never met you,
nor I ever will,
but my heart belongs to you.

So does my body.
Come, abuse them both.

– Chatty Owl –

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EARLY TOMORROW MORNING

You asked me,
if I enjoy
admiring the boredom of the room,
and this is how I knew,
that my indifference bothers you.
Sharing sheets for one night
is as much fun as
is borrowing the identity
of someone else
for a day,
but I’m not into stealing
fake emotions,
unless they are red
and
in a shape of a heart that I’m after.
Light-hearted sentences
land quietly on my neck,
tickling my cheekbones,
and this curved view of me
promises you a night
of no-taboo passion.
Here,
on the borrowed scent
of
your clean linen.
A glass in my hand
becomes a glass on the floor
because of a graceful twist
that I deliberately faked,
for I know,
how infatuated your mind gets
watching me
bend
for
you
this
way.
You always act like a gentleman
around me,
though I never understood
your motives
for this –
I told you
so many times,
I’d like you to be different
than the rest of them.

And they all were way too polite.

Radial bone
makes me so obediently weak,
when you press it against
my throat –
so much better
than anyone else’s fingers
grabbing my neck,
because you know
I can never obey the urge
to resist you.

You asked me if I’m close,
while my eyes questioned
why do you like me so,
and when the sticky sweat
was licked
off my lips
with a proud exclamation
of release,
all I could mouth to you
was,
how
would
you
like
your
eggs
tomorrow morning,
darling?

– Chatty Owl –

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BIRTHMARK

Faint smirk.
Hair up.
I hide away
in your over-sized shirt –
it’s all buttons
down the front.
Open.

I have no wish to do them up.

You notice my bones
and decide to force-feed me
compliments
about the colour of my skin,
that apparently
always fascinated you –
it’s creamy beige
with two distinctive birth marks.

You only saw one of them.

I flick
thin pages of the notebook
and see your fingers
tapping
a silent melody
on my coffee table.
I’d like to tell you to
quit it,
but it reminds me
of those better days,
when I craved
those fingers
to leave
little
pinky
bruises
on my hips.
This is why
I don’t stop you
from making me
drift off
into those
memories –
you tease me with them
and I tease you
by crossing my legs
in front of your face.

Cliche,
but you always bite your lip
uncontrollably,
when you accidentally see
what’s between them.

Let’s fight the silent war
of a mutual arousal.

– Chatty Owl –

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NOT SO LONELY SATURDAY

I forget names of lovers
and reasons why we got together,
letting my memories fade
into a petal-thin
black and white photographs
that I hang on a fishing rod
and use it as a bait
to attract new victims.

Nothing is more alluring to a man
than a failure of another one.

Patterns on my dress
swirl into never-ending stories
that I used to hear from others,
but anytime I find photos of lovers’ faces,
I’m struggling to remember all the reasons
for our abrupt goodbyes.

I know they were willing to give me
all the lust they had,
but I had nowhere to store
this overflow of love,
so I had to compensate my guilt
with words,
that were untrue,
yet they made us feel better
and by far
less awkward.

Sometimes
I list names of men
that kissed me on my lips
and compare them with the ones
that only kissed my forehead,
(like the father that I never had).
Or the ones,
that thought
the taste of my inner thighs
will make them more secure
about
what I think of them.

Six glasses of wine
and
all these words
turned into
a poem,
that
you
wont
read.

– Chatty Owl –