Monthly Archives: June 2013

First Kisses

Don’t forget your first kisses
Not one of them

I still remember
The one at the all-boys school
At 10pm
After we jumped the fence
Talked for hours
And under flood light
The ground span

The one on the train station over pass
At 2am
Too many beers
Sore feet
And too far to go anywhere else
But to your place

The one at your parents house
Next to the baby grand
On a much too white couch
Listening to a jazz man
This is the life

The one out the back of a house party
On white plastic lawn chairs
I asked
You laughed and leaned in
Our lips pressed and didn’t stop
For three months

I have many first kisses
Pushed into the pockets
Of old jeans
Hidden in the back
Of old diaries
Still hanging
Like fruit on connecting vines
That exist
Even now
When I see a familiar face

I love my first kisses
They are my gold

Paper Pieces


Down on that street,
The one that corners 3rd,
In between the knick knack shop
Of lost items from the 70s
And a costume store
Run by Romanians with tattoos
Playing Diana Ross from their outside stereo
I found a piece of you.
It was in that record store
With the crates out the front
Cardboard boxes in the rear
And tour posters of Sonic Youth from ’92.
In between the back catalogue of Bowie
Underneath the rare bootlegs of Prince
Right where I expected The Clash to be,
Making friends with Tom Waits instead
You sat
The idea of you with your paper wings
And paper heart
Placing a foothold into all the things
You could have been
Tucked into someone else’s
Burnt out light globe
You gave me the idea
Of making my own music,
Singing songs outside of my heart
The way you did
With your paper pieces
Now folded
Into my own organised catalogues
Tucked under my arm
As I leave with records
I will play by myself
On repeat

Words by Lisa Inger
Artwork ‘Origami Idea’ and Image by Caen N


Your fable words
Turn whispers
Into nothing more
Than childish stories

Try a devilish prose
And a scheming mind
To engage depth
Where the tales weave

For long ago lessons
Are not the light in the window
But the shadows
Impressed by dark

At the Manor, By the Fire

There was you and me
And there was a fireplace
Unlit, unscathed
In a house found by us lonely lovers
In need of wasteful memories
To absorb
An empty manor
Long disposed of
Caused our romantic hearts
To camp there on wooden boards
Next to dusty, vapid photographs
With which we didn’t dare
Touch or tamper

You gave me words
As we knelt down
Slid across the old oak table
By well versed hands
Written on paper you found
In a wastepaper basket
By the mysteriously ajar
Front door
The words crept across cream fibres
With gangly lettering
Like your limbs
And transient, clever language
Like your tongue
Words I mightn’t have thought of
That you gave me
Like a gift
I was supposed to use them
To entertain you

I took my own weathered
Old type faced page
Torn from a Spanish novel
I had lifted out of dusty Library shelves
And wrote you a poem
An ode
With these words you bequeathed
And my selfish hand
Exploiting my bothersome addiction
To your attentions
In order to woo you

I use your word ‘Symphony’
As I express shared whispers
I use your word ‘Ravishment’
When I say in little loopy words
Just what happens in the wee hours
I use your word ‘Enervation’
When I imagine having to
Utilise sight and sound
Without the promise of you in it

But it is not enough
I screw up the Spanish words
Into a ball
With my own ridiculous excuse
For poetry
In an instant ‘Innocuous’ is used
Inside my own head
To describe myself
I ignite my page in front of you
With a silver lighter
The paper flushes hurriedly
With dry crackles
And as I throw it upon
The once dead fire
It lights
Giving way to white and bright
In a place that had been dark
For so long
You stare at me
With that look
And take me
By the now raging fireplace
Thinking my embarrassment
Of not being good enough
Was actually an intentional display
Of bravery and courtship
For you

A Lover Tonight

The more hushed tones of a Saturday evening
Makes for a desperate curve in her hilt
A curve deep enough to lose a hand
The greatest bend her bosom can create

She tries, oh how she tries so hard
To get at his attention with claws and heaving
But still he waits upon his own leisure
Devoid of certainty and righteous in his defence

She straightens her live wire corsetry
Adjusts and extends her pin point stiletto heels
And returns instead to the ever watchful ever wistful
Imaginations of tomorrows lovers