Dubai nights, private mornings.

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We went to a party on a boat last night. Drove a long time to get there, with fantastic music blaring, and a great friend singing with me and laughing. I often think that going out and meeting people is a great solution to being alone, feeling marginalized, needing human warmth, finding love…all of that.
Then you realize that if you feel that way, you are going to feel that way even amongst dozens of people. Even dancing on a boat. Even in the gorgeous breeze of the waterfront.
I prefer my own company. Sometimes.
At 5 am, bad poetry happens.

5 am, Dubai is a highway.
For me, where ever I am.
Dubai,
5/2/2010

Her short ruffled skirt flew in creek breezes of paper cups lounging
vodka is finished and thin is this attendance
people do not converge
on boats we visited after late late hours of
forced laughter
everyone wanted to touch her breasts
curves fake and pointed perfect, she was cigarette tipped in this night
plastered a smile on glossed pouts
where those who are lonely looked for too
many bottles
and we don’t have enough bottles
and we don’t have enough breaths for these cigarettes
and I don’t have enough years to keep my smile on,
to nod at strangers on boats who do not
look past what we cannot offer each other

I remember you on a couch, lean legs stretched, a face to haunt all that comes after
I burn slow with mornings of sheets like maps to eternity
I burn slow with conversation like water, ebbs
and wanes in streams of thoughts you
could slaughter
and be rebirthed in your arms, a habit accepted
a home beyond the rivers of Dubai
dry
with no movement
we dance on a docked boat
stagnant like my curls trembling
the heels slip on cheap spilled red wine I retch
solitude and drink in breath of those stars
we share regardless of
travel
look at her ass we say
I’d like to touch her tits we say
she wants to come home with you, he says
lick his neck in a gesture of plea
accept the rotation of bodies in and out
of momentary rapture
and I burn slow with your eyes dark
your glances heavy
the weight of spoken ruptured flesh we made poetry
the creek ripples to taunt and say
I reflect light
I flow unhampered by desire
and I
I shatter at fleeting aches in regions hidden

and there is no love here
and there is no love here
and I drown slow with the tides of departure.

2 responses »

    • You totally have a point. I need to start looking for more visual material. have been thinking about it. not so easy when its poetry.but thanks for reading and for the suggestion. I hope to improve.

      Like

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