David Stevens

Posts Tagged ‘love’

The Partridge Family

In Uncategorized on November 22, 2017 at 9:50 pm

The Partridge Family

I think I love you

But what am I so afraid of?

Cancer.

Drunk drivers.

Faces at the window.

Child abductors.

Prison.

Public speaking.

Rectal bleeding.

All the usual stuff.

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Lost in Venus

In Uncategorized on February 18, 2017 at 11:57 am

Sniff of chlorophyl

whiff of ether

Look down

fronds part and unfurl

cupping

leafy embrace

cool breeze

tugs you in

sinking the green

moss is velvet

plant yourself

lean in and

skin unfurls to mask you

the perfect kiss

inside out

you are draped

try to make sense

of distant calls

lose yourself in

the wind blowing

through her branches

are you dead

or are you

loving the alien?

***

 

lost on venus

lost on mars

press up against

foreign atmosphere

do you lose yourself

if you love the alien?

 

The scariest day of the year

In Uncategorized on February 11, 2016 at 7:27 am

The scariest day of the year is approaching fast. Will he…? Won’t she … ? Don’t they …? Should I …? is it legal to … ?

I’d remove Valentine’s day from the calendar, except my powers don’t extend quite that far … yet. The gifts are tacky and / or market forced upon us, everybody feels a little squeamish, and desperation hits town like a tsunami.

Here is the perfect solution. We are of course all literary types. What better gift then than an entire volume dedicated to lerve? And not just lerve, but lerve in all its strangeness. Weird love, Alien love. Impossible love. Deadly love. Buy it for yourself. Buy it for someone else, and if they respond weirdly, its ok, you were just being like, all ironic and post-modern.

But buy it you should, post-haste. “Love Hurts.” You know it does, and you know you want it. Its speculative fiction, and its about love. What’s not to like?

Love Hurts

Love Hurts

For the lover’s month of February, there is a promotion over at Goodreads which you can check out just by left clicking on this strangely highlighted text right here.

And in advance, here is a poem (for want of a better word) for Valentine’s Day:

 

Cute girl at the Indian take-away

She doesn’t just have eyes for me,

the girl who serves me Tandoori.

Her quizzical glance and little smile,

is not an exchange of irony,

though I do react,

I cannot resist,

when she swallows me in

with big dark eyes

and the world shrinks down to size,

a planet built for two.

I sip on my mango lassi

while I wait for my curry,

and I watch while she does it again,

one after the other,

with all the men.

At last I comprehend.

She finds us hard to understand,

she speaks English but is not fluent

in Australian.

She stares straight at me

with huge eyes like an owl’s,

trying to comprehend

my flattened vowels.

Totally absorbed,

in the groove,

concentrating on how my lips move.

The tremble of her little duck pout

is just her working out

the words I said

by whispering them again

in her head.

“Tandoori chicken roll

on plain naan.”

“With mint sauce?”

“Of course.”

Smile.  Yearn.

Counselling the Radiator

In Uncategorized on January 26, 2014 at 3:36 am

I hate
the way you radiate
energy and power
how you excrete
heat
and make weird noises
on the hour.
Your functionality
does not excuse
your lack of personality.
You are not everything to me
when that is what I demand
of everything.
You do not radiate love, radiator,
nor compassion or understanding.
So like a man
to think you can get away with fulfilling one mission.
I don’t want you to fix everything.
I want you to listen.

Young love, with scar

In Uncategorized on November 8, 2013 at 7:12 am

I thought you had a really cool tatt,

until I saw it was a line of sores that

you had been picking at.

I liked the way the blood caked.

I liked the delicacy of where your skin flaked

from last weeks sun burn.

You were this weeks stomach churn,

my latest after hours ache.

At least your hand picked scar would fade.

Useless adolescent longing,

like there was a hole in me big enough

to hold the world,

knowing that I would never find a way to get it all inside,

that there would always be a part of me that was empty.

At least your hand picked scar would fade

eventually.