El Hombre Y Su Flor

 

el hombre y su flor jennifer juan


Yours

You fell asleep as I fell in love,
and I loved the longing,
obsessed with obsessing
over each luscious line,
across your forehead,
and out your mouth.

I knew your tales were as tall as your frame,
your humour as blue as your dangerous eyes,
your intentions as pure as a puddle of mud,
and your feelings for me were fickle, perhaps.

I still stayed,
just in case I was wrong,
eyes closed,
on your lap,
an obedient optimist,
without the strength,
or inclination
to be anything but yours.


Selective Amnesia

Regret burns as it trickles down my throat,
chased by the chasers and shot by shots,
nothing will let me forget.
I can’t see what I’ve done,
through a curtain of crying,
and an image of myself,
so innocent,
that I assure myself I’ve yet to lose.
If I were to admit to my affliction,
and under the drunken distraction,
I already have,
but if truth were to dive into denial,
and swim past my defences,
my heart would break,
as easily as yours did.


El Hombre Y Su Flor

I prayed for rain,
when I didn’t trust myself
to grasp what I needed.
Nature knows,
and it’s in your nature
to keep my head to the sun,
and my ego fed, and ever growing.
We grew,
our roots
infecting every inch of earth we found,
when I thought
I had burrowed beneath myself,
far from the beaks of birds,
and the might of man,
you nurtured a near dead heart,
until I flourished.
Floral, fanciful and free.


Journey

Undressed of my old life,
and alone,
at the mercy of future’s fashion.
Where to?
What for?
I stood,
on a travelling cloud towards clarity,
until I found myself at the front of the line,
heading for the unforgiving uncertainty.
Perhaps there is a door,
now I’m dressed up, nice and new,
and I will find a handle,
and get a handle on what happens next.


Bonita

God and good times
live in every inch of you.
It never clashed,
because you were born to be loved,
and to step two three, step two three
and enchant the bad boys at the bar.
Dancing turns to diamonds,
when every man on the island
is under your spell,
but your focus is familia,
and your face is so familiar,
at the chapel and the clubs.
The darling of the dancehall,
and the honey of the heavens,
you’ll party until life turns up the lights
and you’re played out to paradise.


Brexit Stage Right

There is no dainty divorce,
no hands held under the table
as the ink dries,
and the leftovers are torn to shreds,
so each who is “right” gets a piece.
Dress up your disdain,
for those you’ll leave behind,
for a few more years
of way back when,
and political correctness gone “sane”.
Yet, your “sanity” is frivolous,
and logicless and limitless.
Long ago,
an innocent R was unrolled
as it arrived at your door,
in an effort to please you,
but it was met with your own.
Your R is less lax,
frightening and frightened,
of the unknown,
and the uncharted.
Take it back,
was the plan for the never been taken,
while the never yet lived,
will never get to live.


Where Does Love Live?

Lovesick,
pistol whipped by passion,
less is more
until the door closes,
and the world is not witness
to the the damnation
of desperate love.
Hearts wrenching,
and racing
at the thought of each other,
hearts running
and retching
at the thought of another.
Where do we rest us,
our messy, maddening moments?
In our thoughts,
outside the door,
and in our bodies,
when in private.
Another day,
another hideout,
we’ve been to all three Charing stations,
each marked with kisses on the map.
Searching for sanctuary
that exists
outside knowing looks,
and incriminating emails.


Old Boy

Remembers our rhythm,
or lack thereof in his case.
Foundations of fondness,
insulated by innuendo.
So endearing,
so enchanting,
but never vintage enough for the season.
Such a young boy,
was my old boy,
too young for my old heart,
but old enough to know he can’t fix it.


Ask

For you, I will.
I’ll never ask it of you,
until you ask it of me.
I’ve thought, of course,
narrowed down the narratives,
played Sherlock,
Shakespeare,
as I pinned you down,
wrote us down.
I’ll give you a happy ending,
physically,
artistically,
even though I’m not the touching type,
both physically,
artistically.
I might never get you,
but as long as I have you,
I’m not sure I need the instructions,
the destructions could be waiting within,
and I’m better not knowing,
the damage I could do.
For you, I will.
Quite what, I’m not sure,
yet if you ask it of me,
for you, I will.


Not Quite Twins

Each pinnacle reached,
by dismembering my memories,
and crushing new culture where it doesn’t want to fit.
Each morning,
I gaze at each gift
from those who came before me,
that adorns a face I have wished away,
in daily betrayals of who I am.
Butchered the beauty unrecognised,
and painted myself untrue for the world.
This is becoming a speech,
also wished into new form,
until I forget the self I was born with.
She has vanished,
elusive and annoyed,
until I dream.
At night, she uncloaks,
unveils personal truth,
that covers my cunning contour,
unassimilated and unassuming,
she is the purest love I have ever known.


© Jennifer Juan 2016
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