Isolation
When I got out of isolation
beneath the February sun
I saw a robin and a great tit
trilling on the pulsing
branches
of a naked tree
The birds were unbothered
by my presence,
just carried on
as I got closer —
a private recital.
I was so accustomed
to these plump bodies flying
from me in panic
I didn’t know what to do.
Eventually
I did as anyone would
and took the phone
from my pocket so everyone
would know
As I withdrew the thing
the birds flew from me
landing on some branches
out of shot.
I stood bewildered
at my lack of control
and put the thing away
The robin returned
to its first place.
I just watched
the inside of its
open mouth
tongue moving
as it sang
rise and fall of its warm red throat
I remember it as red
I could not look away
I saw
how it would feel
to touch the
feathered bulge
and something
in me withers
without touch and
that’s why we take pictures
though it ruins everything
that one day
we might be touched again
Hopeful Monster
1.
A hopeful monster follows me,
begging as only good boys can,
fur curls and moves
like the sky in a Van Gogh painting.
It tries to dig beneath
the front door
arranges itself
upon the stairs
belly to carpeted step
snout through railing
right legs tucked, left legs hanging,
does not deviate from eye contact
and neither do I.
I don’t know what it is
anymore to want something as much
as it does watching me eat.
Outsource my longing
to this small beast,
fur like blue flames,
in the hope that one day
we can become each other.
2.
I watch the man come home I want
to climb inside his body,
freakishly pink as a Sphynx cat
aside from errant hairs
around his snout
and crown
and that second skin
he’s always wearing.
Sometimes I pity him,
his body’s become strange to me,
still I want it back.
I miss the days when I could reach stuff.
Lately the man’s been acting strange,
opening tin after tin of my food,
pressing his face inside and
finishing the contents with one inhale.
He doesn’t need me anymore,
all I ever do is watch.
Alone with your sleeping body
I could not rest, even after fucking,
jaw clenched, shoulders locked,
us tangled up in sticky heat.
How do you sleep like this?
Curtainless window open to the traffic
outside, lights on, bedroom door open
letting in the constant hum
of your fridge.
I think about leaving. Back home,
alone, a cooler, easier place,
environment under my control.
Instead, I sink into your spine
and stop resisting
the relentless noise and heat
—your fridge and the cars
form an orchestra—
organs growing heavy
muscles turning limp.
A green ballet dancer
hangs by its feet
from your window
the universe is
closing now
and I think I’m
somewhere
climbing a
ridge that
resembles your spine.
The orchestra plays on
in the distance
until it is swallowed
concerto to silence
and something in me resists
something in me releases
something in me can’t stop
______________
Len Lukowski is a writer, poet and performer based in Glasgow. His work has been published in Wasafiri, Huffington Post, The Quietus and The Cardiff Review. He sometimes plays in queer punk bands. His debut pamphlet 'The Bare Thing' will be published in 2022 with Broken Sleep Books.
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