Love superposed,
spins on a question: Yes or no?
Shut away-

away
away
away

Pandora, child you had it easy.

Lift the lid?

No.

Better to live with love in theory
than to live with no love at all.

I want you to see her-
but she winds, unwinds
on an old question-hook
she is pinned by it.
spins around and around.
paper-windmill - razor wire,
every rotation more freedom.
remove her for you?
no. she’d bleed-out in the knowing,
and a tortured dancer is better
than no dancer at all.

However delicate, translucent - they'll keep.
Precious lines neatly pressed, jagged inspiration rolled.
Conversation folded, folded, tucked away.
Ideas will slip to place or fall. Either way - still there.
Still there. Still there. Your words: They’ll sleep until tomorrow.

a place where:

peaks and troughs of human emotions manifest

a girl drops curiosity over a fort-ledge

a boy runs with kited-wonder, away from pinned blanket dreams

a man haunts a fading, falling edge of field

a woman breathes, just breathes

climbing into a car with a stranger (or not)

I wasn’t chasing adventure or fun

(didn’t expect to find a gold-star tucked in my knickers
for a messy foot-down *******)

I wasn’t after acceptance
or love

I wasn’t seeking thrills as I closed the door
knowing he’d had too much drink
or a couple of pills
or both

I was looking for a way out

When you write your broken so well it breaks me, what should I say?
Tell me, you’re good with words.

Or do I turn away, drop one of those hearts we all keep in our pocket,
aware of how small it is, worse still - how hollow?

do you wave to your mother with those hands?

whew

****

Last night I slept in a white-walled room, surrounded by pinned butterflies framed with old love. They were so beautiful I wanted them as mine. Sheets fell as I stood and looked at each in turn, watched my own reflection ghost over their glass. I unpacked them. Held Lost to my heart ‘til its wings moved with my pulse. Took Lonely in my mouth ‘til it was whole. Peace settled in my hair. Regret hid. Lust danced in circles on my hand.

I’ll walk clifftop.

Watch the sunrise fractured by a hundred different puddles, made whole again by the sea.

I’ll bleed peace and spill calm over ground that should’ve been cared for by now, and I’ll draw maps of the old season in battleship blue and a half-healed ****** crimson.

I’ll love them: Today they are mine.
Tonight I’ll give them away, and I’ll love them more.

I’ll walk clifftop.

I’ll pause. Watch the sunset rain copper-coins into a rolling-smoke sea, and I’ll miss him.

When rooms sleep and birds carry heartache to trees, when light
is gone and peace is woven into dreams: I will build myself a nest
and unfold the poem I stole. I will taste with care the words you
chose, and pretend you wrote them for me.

(I will love, I will love, I will love)

Birds cry and sing in the still-dark,
commit to living one more winter’s day.
In sleeping rooms their heartache finds me
building nests for injured things.
  
I will lock the door when I leave-
and carry their heartache with my own.
I will pilfer light from a low-rolling Sun and
siphon-off peace from the sea.

(I will love, I will love, I will love)

We angled ourselves to face Lyra-
I turned repeatedly to him.
Hid in a blanket-cocoon we
beat a rhythm of fingertip-dreams.

We angled ourselves to face Lyra-
I turned repeatedly to him.
He rained prayers and promises;
a sky-full of stars fell down unseen.

We angled ourselves to face Lyra-
I turned one last time to him.
Pinned dead-butterfly colours
to his mouth, his tongue, his skin.

They discussed Prom and silly boys who talked big, but
couldn’t tear open a ******.

They squabbled over pole-position in a race that didn’t matter- And
analysed events made cinematic in re-telling.

I leafed through a magazine:

One Girl’s Plan to Meet and MARRY A MILLIONAIRE (who isn’t a creep)
~How to dress to be taken seriously
Top Career Women Tell Their Secrets
~Hot spring fashion
The TRAP of Living Together
~CK One (selling equality)

For a moment I pictured myself applying lipstick, then thought better not.

It was all *******.

I shoved the magazine back in my bag- with Tess, exam texts, and
a clean change of clothes.

The bus stopped right outside.

He made me tea, and I read bedtime stories to his kids.

After:

We drank white-wine in the garden, kissed and found peace-
Searched for stars in a sky the colour of storms.

is it possible we touched?

that you spilled into me
thoughts like cigarette smoke?

silver threaded, exhaled in a rush

is it possible we spoke?

turned to whispers
the dark corners of our minds?

twined my words with your songs

is it possible we loved?

will again, you and I- immortal?

fingers unfurl a thought into words
slide sensation between dream
and nostalgia

hard lines and distinctive strokes
hide as much as they expose

stand back to see the whole picture

We're home early and
he didn’t start a fight,
or get ill, or spill a drink
over a stranger.
I would congratulate myself-
Except the hall clock
ticks a countdown and
Scotch pulled from a drawer
just lit the fuse.
  
I rewind the whole evening in my mind-
try to find the excuse he’ll use this time.

~

it’s been a good evening. now she’s wearing her robe and you’re sat with a drink watching telly. you lean forward to refill yours but spill it. she looks nervous for a moment and you think that’s sweet.

she thinks you drink too much- now she’s wary. she felt you eye each step she took when you were out. you lean in and she remembers winning every day at school, a silly playground game they called Don’t Flinch!

your mates fancy her- you saw them flirt. now she’s blush-pink and pretty and on your couch. she told you she was wet before you could order another round, so you didn’t bother. it’s really early, but you’re home.

she avoided talking. thought she’d stopped you getting gone. but you got Scotch in a drawer she didn’t find. half a bottle in, your eyes tell how gone you are. she’s sussing if you’ll get hard or just pass out.

you run a hand down the centre of her robe. reveal sheer knickers you’ve not seen her in before. you drag your fingers slowly from those knickers to her mouth- ask her where she got them- she doesn’t know.

(she looks scared and you think that's hot)

~

wanna be her cutman?

you’ll trace every wound, grease
all her vulnerabilities
and the taste of forged metal
will flavour your dreams

she’ll dance with you watching,
a storm over canvas
and she’ll swing for those *******
like a silk-wrapped machine  

wanna be her cutman?

you’ll watch as each cut’s inflicted
then wait your turn to touch
to your hand she’ll ever-be Vaseline slick
or sticky with blood

she’ll hide vibrant colours behind
gunmetal hues but beneath careful fingers
her scars will tell truths- and
they’ll burn fire tattoos into your heart

wanna be her cutman?
you sure?

(you’ll wish dead every guy
has her over ropes or on canvas, but  
she’ll be eyeing those guys while
you’re fixing her up)

gloves-off, she
leans on her back foot
moves fast and hides tired eyes
behind a battle-blue arm  

from a punch-bloodied mouth
she spills and spits words out on canvas
makes way for cool air- tries to
pacify lungs before they explode, calm
a heart that longs to rebel

she needs to feel loved, but can
be understood only by tracing braille-like-trauma
on her Vaseline skin-
and if she’s not out for the count
she doesn't keep still

It was as though he’d touched me with cut,
bloodied palms.

His hands on my skin stung him
and marked me.

I carried the blame for being pretty
but salty.

I awoke at silly-o’clock. Made tea, and re(a)d.
Probably shouldn’t ree(a)d when I’m still sleep-blurry...

I re(a)d fork as frock. Thought- what the hell, to her mouth?
Didn’t seem that kind of novel.

I re(a)d Evil as Elvis. Thought- **** me, this guy’s really
got it in for dead rock n roll stars.

Spilled my tea laughing and ow’d.

It is painful being me.

Rain is dramatic, but short lived-
storms half-hearted.
Sun shines strong and low
through art-work cloud, and
finger-print-blooms rock and sway
on a whispering green-leaf sea.

October 2020 is the hot-sweet-tea
left outside my room, after the row I caused
when I was 15.

We bathed on the carpet’s edge, in October light
made warm again by pimple-glass and wishful thinking.
We played games and we whispered- as if quiet
could conjure Safe from thin air, and noise conjure Evil.
We occupied the in-betweens; the hall, the stairs, the path.
Drew and drew and drew, with red-brick and chalk and dust.
We chewed the skin around our nails, until our fingers cried-
And when Dark came early, he found us fighting Monsters
in the Artex with our jagged little minds.

My words can’t dance, unless the music’s slow and the mood takes them. Really that’s just kissing to a tune, creating a beat with heat and acceptance. My words can’t walk in heels. They can’t be still or follow rules. They strip then they swear when they slip at the end of a line, or trip face-first into a cliche. My words pile up. A heap of need. Never a poem.

beautiful words- less so
once I catch them
tangled in a thread of thought
hooked on Cupid’s bow
dragged back by reluctance
until they drown

they sit in empty chairs and speak kettle-whistle,
wishing us well.

I am the permanent pause that ends conversation. History was beat and bled to fit into a village, and I think it’s dead now. I think it’s buried. Other than home-schooling and a little pyrography, a healthy distrust of law and society- I’ve given mine nothing of my tangled identity. Maybe my grandkids will pick at the threads, weave a story worth telling. But those threads for me plait a line to be trod, abandoned, or toed.

I grew up hidden.
it was easy-
no one really looked.
Mum cut my hair,
to be more like them-
and teachers
shamed my voice
into silence,
before I’d even found
my words.

little girl, drawing.
chalk on the wall,
red brick on the path-
she’s more than quiet.
not all of it bad.

Together under a slow-folding sky
we write our future in non-existent stars.
Each breath I exhale is warm
against the soft curve of your neck- and
your fingers rest possessive
between my thighs.
Time gathers pace, the space around us
is suddenly too vast.
Static crackles- a bad signal, through trees
and swaying grass.
Your reaction is violent, fast and hard as I arch up-
I take you hurt, I take you angry.
I take you deep- and lick and bite and scratch-
Try to sign you out
from this whole-wide Universe as mine to keep.
Yet I leave not a mark on you.
No trace of salt, or blood, or broken skin.
And even as you wash me into feeling
with frustrated waves of heat,
I look up to find my face is not
reflected in your eyes.
Long before our tide recedes
I am clean and all alone.

This time together tumbles
like hourglass-sand.
Worn sun disappears between trees,
takes with it our colour- so
I undress you in the monochrome
of secrets.
Shadows feel hot beneath my hand,
and slip from sweet to salt-
Taste delicious as
I trace your rising-tide scent
with greedy kisses.
I encourage wave after wave until
you glisten
on my tongue, on my lips,
on my skin. Spent,
we find peace.
Tangled together- we whisper
tiny prayers to an unreality of sky.
Try to stave off our ever-after.

a kaleidoscopic version of me, twisted and shook
to look like broken stained-glass.
really just beads in a toy
lined with mirrors.

I wash-up two cups, find a spoon,
decipher his mood whilst I pour us coffee.
He’s not talking.
Dishevelled.
Frustrated.
Irate.
Whoever she is, last night wasn’t great-
The bed’s made up with clean white sheets.
She didn’t stay over.

I hand him his coffee.
He nods,
it’s a start but
there’s nothing set up and
I can’t tell where he wants me.
He’s paid for a day- I undress anyway.
And because it’s quite early, still cool-
I sit in a spilled-sunshine-pool
at the foot of his bed.

He studies me.
Traces my line with his eyes.
I keep warm,
drink coffee.
Wait.
He draws a deep breath-
takes my cup,
holds my face in both hands.
Says nothing, just kisses me hard
and pushes me back.

I unbutton his fly-
lick my fingers,
let them glide,
slide.
Rise up to meet him.
He pulls out the moment he’s done.
His frustration feels hot
on flushed skin,
and becomes mine when
he walks away.

He gathers up paper and charcoal-
the tools of his trade.
Arranges my limbs,
places my hand in
glossy-soft-heat between
my slight-parted thighs.
Leans close, kisses me thank you
then whispers
Be still.

muse

When he and I fall, as natural light fades,
into *** at the end of our day-
We stay twisted for hours
in the chaos we make,
even burning good light the next morning.

muse

click of heels made dull
along pavements swept with rain
through rainbow painted puddles
past brick-bottle barricades

We fall together
into grass that needs cutting.
Still-warm-ground grazes hot skin
as we move. Align limbs, seek
each others’ mouth
then kiss for the first time in years.
I ache for you, an actual pain
that has me pleading
and arching, and nipping your lip as
you half-turn from me, teasing.
We laugh through our kisses, but
you are bleeding. I pause.
Pull away. My guilt swims in your eyes.
You cradle me to your chest-
weave kind words through my hair.
Then you tilt my head back, kiss my neck,
kiss my face.
Run the tip of your tongue down the length
of my throat. Take my hand and
press it hard to your jeans-
Your need equals mine.
Time is ticking.

I will gift-wrap an hour, let it exist outside of time and in a space
just for us. And when the end comes, it will vanish.
Leave no print, no clue, no trace- except for our memory
of touch, scent and taste. And an ache, a longing to return.
If I give, will you take?

We have an hour,
wrapped in a green field, with a sleeper bench
which I straddle.  
The air is thick with the closing of summer,
the sun low, and cool shadows slip over warm skin,
make me shiver.
You are curious. It’s been a long time-
but you notice me shift forward, and
remember. You join me.
I’m wearing jeans that you love, seams
press as I slide and you
understand. I am already near. So long
waiting for you. Wanting.
You don’t interfere, just watch as
I unbutton, undress and
lean back. Sweet little circles
grow firm as pleasure pools hot,
like jelly left in the sun.
Then you are there, scoop me up,
we fall into the grass.
For a moment- we don't move.
I have missed us.

telly’s on, just enough noise.
my head in your lap, relaxed as you
play with my hair.
safe. so safe with you.
explore thoughts, map dreams.
your children sleep sound upstairs.
warm hands on
chilled skin,
an invite to press
in, to face you, to turn, to
trace words with my tongue.
your finger-tips slip under
the band of my jeans,
give me permission to need.

telly’s on, just enough noise.
my head in your lap, confused as you
play with my hair.
safe? so safe with you?
probe thoughts, tap dreams.
your children sleep sound upstairs?
strong hands on
hot skin,
a demand to press
in? to taste you? to burn? to
raze words with my tongue?
wet fingers unfasten
the studs on my jeans
give you permission to take?

telly’s on, just enough noise.
my head in your lap, ashamed as you
play with my hair.
brave. so brave for you.
hide thoughts, snare dreams.
your children sleep sound upstairs.
heavy hands on
flushed skin,
an invite to press
in, to face you, to turn, to
erase words with my tongue.
careful fingers push, just
enough through my jeans,
give me permission to want.

over again.

Sweet nothings bore me.

Secrets shared in the first ten minutes
are worth less than the effort it takes me
to hear them.

So say something new, in words
that burn my skin when they touch.
Must try harder.

He was cross.
I cried.
I’m putting things right.
Changing my life,
or changing it back.
Something along those lines.
Can’t think quite what.
She’s holding my hand
down.
Wanted to see if washing-up liquid
came out of the thing they stuck in me.
It didn’t.
Looks just like the top off a bottle
of Fairy.
Fairy? I’m making a fairy.
No, not a fairy.
I’m here to make an Angel.
That’s nice,
except I don’t believe in
such crap.
They’re pushing something
into my bottle-top-hand.
I’m here to make an Angel.
That's nice.
They’re counting down.
Crap.

We talk in spoons. It’s an alchemy of sorts, though we don’t seek gold or eternal youth. A whole world of research says this curse is real. Yet Medicine has Science bound and starved. We resort to picking the threads of work that we find, weave from it our spells and our hope. Pin to it her everyday dreams. And though they are flimsy her dreams are beautiful simplicity: A five minute walk, or fifteen sat on the beach. A trip out, but maybe stay in the car. Ten minutes looking at clothes online, or coming downstairs if the windows are shut and we close the blinds. It is all connected, strung together like beads. If she showers today, she can’t go for a walk ‘til next week. She stretches too far then I worry she’ll ping, and I don’t know if I could string her together again. For now some dreams are too heavy. She’s removed them, hidden them like treasure. She brings them out when she can. Handles them, turns them to see if they shine in the gloom. These dreams are more prone to fracture, to shatter at a set time.

Sometimes I stay on a while, once his work's done.
Depends on his mood. Today I’ll not.

Won’t let me see, but can tell he’s drawing me sweet.
He didn’t handle me into position-

Instead, worked an inch or so above hip and thigh
with invisible thread.

And- dragged across paper, the charcoal is pleading.
Often it whispers and moans.

The strokes that he’s using are careful, considered.
I'd rather go home.

muse

Heart racing,
breathless-
slick, the salt-sweet of us.
Hastily dressed
and feeling delicious.
Your fingers slipping
in, hard perfect rhythm-
Quick circles pressed
to the heel of your
hand. Whispered good-bye
forgotten, unheard-
Licked clean of
intent between
you and I.

we were all chatter and woodsmoke,
white wine in the sun-
age is a number slid from his tongue (to mine) and
(my whole world was rewritten that summer)
(his) touches (our) kisses (my) skin
moved with a rhythm, and age was a number
simply that, and no more
(though my number was small)
we felt safe for a while, then hidden,
then trapped.
age is a number slid from my tongue to his skin,
(from his skin to my thighs)
slid between us like sweat
(like a mantra)
weaving saliva-salt spells
(his) touches (our) kisses (my) skin
moved with a rhythm, and age was a number
simply that, and no more
(though his number was great)
we felt safe for a while, then hidden,
then trapped.
(then we were gone)

Sifted words with softly-softly meaning, fall.
And maybe, maybe are easy enough to sweep away-
but they leave a thin film,
like settled dust.
They leave a thin film- and
I have to touch.