The Ornamental Tree

Love wrapped up with sex and sex wrapped up with love. I cannot see the ending and the beginning and the rolling colours of you upon my mind and you in my life are desire criss-crossing across the sky. So far away and a strangers shadow that I follow I feel as though I’ve known you all my life. Stitching in and out the threads of time and you still remain at a distance but fill the vestibule of my heart. In days gone by being a fragrant plant in my hunger was enough but that didn’t make you enough and made the beautiful skins of which you really were peeled away like an anguished onion. Once upon a time whatever or could have made you cry might have been statistically pretty or images upon the pillow and waves of my mind. All that was feminine curled up like a cat in my mind and was a self-saving drug of the mind. To cut out ones sexuality is to cut out the stem of humanity and do so impossible. But there are times and places that are beyond mere rapacious thirst.


Languages and cleverness and warmth Wisdom and innocence and all my badness and goodness and everything else curl around each other. If love means anything its this place where arrogance and grandiosity fall away. Where does this go on the love calculator? Am I spider crawling towards a fly? Are you more than skin and bones if your intelligence feels sexy? Droplets of your emotions drip out annually onto my hands. I go for them like a starving cat foraging for crumbs. Where is the alarm bell for delusion? Where can I know where I know I ma not just another asshole. I’ve only got artefacts of you and your name comes at the end of the alphabet.


Blow a kiss in my ear and whisper the meaning of what it is at the same time. I came home and climbed up the tree of who you really were and fell asleep in your sweet understanding. With you and with this I can know intelligence is not a place of ruthlessness and not a place of counting the ways of how people can curl their cynicism around each other. On a moment like one of these drinking up darkness which has become second nature and I have become a sadist to myself rather than a masochist your communication brought back something I had forgotten. Memories of places and feelings like spring gardens felt like they were dying stars.

An Angel with problems who gardens and no doubt brushes her teeth. Playing games of guessing how many foibles you might have doesn’t distract from this bizarre trick of the mind. This is hopscotch in the night and it’s a relief to know your human. But everything I could do would be a mistake. The person you love is an animal and the desire saves no one from the fallout from hitting against your domestic reality.

Your angel is not real.