Wednesday, 25 March 2015

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.

Sunday, 22 March 2015

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.

Tuesday, 3 March 2015


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
in a joyous celebration
of their relevance.

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
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.