kind of like clapping

i walked your street, it was morning

like a public holiday

daylight’s fingers

messing with my inner winter.

i could feel the flower bed, fox’s house,

the place where santa was. ‘we know you,’

they say, turning like little doors.

the hill under the house is tall

the wind rattles its joints. outspoken leaves

litter the yard, still scattered

with past conversation.

the cupid angel sits and waits, the numbers

tumble round // waiting for an answer.

as if i didn’t know --

in the dehydrated first gasp

of post-wine morning

i forgot, i think, to pretend.

heavy in their sockets and tired

of their duty. i'd laugh off the worry

if it wasn't stuck like mould.

in the office she took my card

avoided my smile, sent me back

to my seat where i sat and remembered --

the time we were running

(for the train? not sure) my shoes

broken and anyway. 

i've been here before, the letterbox knows --

my brain, a soft pool of uncertainty.

quiet street, the cars have turned away

and the dogs all lie fence bound.

cloud break makes tanbark look warm,

but i know that it’s not.

i skipped the puddles, her scattered talk

on things, i mean, everything--

thought you’d left

turned to window

saw nothing but cloud

i think.

sleep drips from the foliage.

i slept next to your nightmare 

in the bed where we smoked the hash

feeling all the feelings put on hold.             ‘they’re not threatening, anymore.’

you said about the dream catchers, the crow’s skull interrupting my frequency.

i put my foot down, felt the floorboards, reminded myself of time.

drank the jar, swallowed you whole, there wasn’t much to say.

i trembled around the room, struggling with jewellery,

tripping on my active imagination. thinking back, three weeks ago, i came

with an extra heart beat.             //            left with a smoothie in my hand.

i walk through the trees, she sits with a cigarette,

asks me if i’m okay. for some reason i’m a part of her family now,

i’m struggling with all the things i care about.

in the kitchen you told me of our past lives, i was so happy to listen.

when i woke up in the supermarket, the milks were singing cruelly

and the day seemed preemptively dark.

i learnt the words off by heart and bought a bag of spinach.

the song carried me home, my feet limp in the air, the trees joined in the chorus-

night time waits for no one.

from one bed to the next my hands shake along, counting all your concerns.

the figs were split and dried, the tree was heavy and indifferent.

he came in drunk and hugged the dog and lay

facing the wall                                               i was crunching biscuits

between my teeth and looking

for an excuse to stay. i ran back and forth, in my mind’s eye, between our conversation

and reality. out of breath i collapsed on the grassy hill

of my imagination and i imagined

us sleeping side by side. 

our ankles touching. 

in the morning blue and grey, clammy sheets over sweaty limbs,

climbing out to find myself and standing tall in the mirror.

a lifetime of night time, the dream catchers release us, if only for a day.

i walk along, carrying books, trying

to come back. i'd like to go back there soon.

freewrite@12:13

menopausal temperature fluctuations

swilling around like coffee dregs

trying not to touch the sides

soundless movement that fucks around

your insides.

plugging in and out 

of love

and feeling the walls around the others

and feeling the floor

of my womb

and the muscles

spasming

in a joyous celebration

of their relevance.

piss

brown and murky - satisfactory

            the blank white page is the only thing

that i find truly dirty. perverse. upsetting.

to settle

is to acknowledge your lack

of fixidity. fixedness. fixidation. the middle word is correct.

the others are lexically

irrelevant. yesterday

great heaving sobs

like a backpack full of writhing mice

made me reconsider

my state.

on the oval, where i wasn’t

the children cartwheeled, she said.

how nice it must be, to have such mobility,

to have such a day

full of movement.

on the train,

i made eye contact (decidedly)

and the results varied. most were unwilling.

on the train,

i made a decision

to never grow so old again.

and i’ll catch the buses

and the buses

and i’ll wipe the vinegar down. i’ll wipe

the makeup off my face and wipe

the doorframe fingerprints. i’ll open and close

the water bottles, i’ll pull the hair

out of hair ties, i'll pull

on coats under blaring sun and sweat

in the evening breeze, i'll

take what i'm given i'll ask

for more - i'll take what i'm

after i'll

lessen

the price i'll ask

for directions i'll ask

for help

i’ll write down

email addresses i’ll write

down words 

and words

and words.