miss-tabitha-devereaux - Hello Poetry

He occupies a place in the ballroom of my sleep I hear his footsteps moving in this man I could not keep Of two decades, new flames arise and fresh obsession bleeds, I live in him, and he in I we’re bound in thought, not deed And if, by chance, I meet him and error should set fire to the life I have created my lust would not expire He’s the itch I should not scratch the price I cannot pay so I **** him in my ballroom and dream the night away

0

Jan 24

Jan 24, 2026 at 6:54 AM UTC

The Ballroom

He occupies a place in the ballroom of my sleep I hear his footsteps moving in this man I could not keep Of two decades, new flames arise and fresh obsession bleeds, I live in him, and he in I we’re bound in thought, not deed And if, by chance, I meet him and error should set fire to the life I have created my lust would not expire He’s the itch I should not scratch the price I cannot pay so I **** him in my ballroom and dream the night away

16

I bite at my cuticles Instead of screaming I scratch myself Excoriating skin Building resilience I think I watch the flush of menopausal acne Creep up one side of my neck And obsess, instead, over the marionette lines Forming at my mouth I can see age spreading Across me Consuming youth As though it were a right Dispassionately I exercise Lifting weight and spirits For a while Cursorily I remind myself To design a life To make it what? Better? What is ‘better’? That question of ‘what does it look like’? Success happiness joy Stick those three on a decal Then stick it to the kitchen wall It won’t make it come true. It’s just future landfill graffiti.

0

Jul 15, 2025

Jul 15, 2025 at 3:21 AM UTC

Hot mess

I bite at my cuticles Instead of screaming I scratch myself Excoriating skin Building resilience I think I watch the flush of menopausal acne Creep up one side of my neck And obsess, instead, over the marionette lines Forming at my mouth I can see age spreading Across me Consuming youth As though it were a right Dispassionately I exercise Lifting weight and spirits For a while Cursorily I remind myself To design a life To make it what? Better? What is ‘better’? That question of ‘what does it look like’? Success happiness joy Stick those three on a decal Then stick it to the kitchen wall It won’t make it come true. It’s just future landfill graffiti.

30

A pig, skin rippled into frigid furrows, on the tail lift of a van outside the butchers the driver, a dispassionate pallbearer, hefted it onto his shoulder and the pigs eyes caught mine clouded with the question of a fate it had not anticipated.

0

May 28, 2025

May 28, 2025 at 6:03 AM UTC

The Pig

A pig, skin rippled into frigid furrows, on the tail lift of a van outside the butchers the driver, a dispassionate pallbearer, hefted it onto his shoulder and the pigs eyes caught mine clouded with the question of a fate it had not anticipated.

7

Everything at once and at once, everything Crashing outwards then folding, dissolving, pulling inwards. He drove from me a torrent, calmly observing my undoing. He balanced my pleasure on the razor’s edge, reading my responses as the blind may experience Baudelaire. He keeps me in the palm of his hand.

0

Oct 30, 2024

Oct 30, 2024 at 1:58 PM UTC

The Diviner

Everything at once and at once, everything Crashing outwards then folding, dissolving, pulling inwards. He drove from me a torrent, calmly observing my undoing. He balanced my pleasure on the razor’s edge, reading my responses as the blind may experience Baudelaire. He keeps me in the palm of his hand.

14

Some people come and go in our lives without incident, while others leave an indelible mark. H was one without compromise - and quite often without humility, displaying flaws so apparent on a single meeting that he may as well have had them printed on a t-shirt or pamphleted around the area wherever he went to avoid anyone having to discover just what a heinous ******** he really was. Conversely, he was also the most unfailingly generous person I’ve ever known when it came to noticing the actual or potential for good in others. A complete dichotomy of one seemingly split down the middle, irreconcilable in so many ways. H also made me laugh like no-one else and some of the stupid things he did continue to. One evening, he decided he wanted a chicken club sandwich from the Oakley Court Hotel (famous as the exterior for the Frank N. Furter castle from ‘The Rocky Horror Picture Show’). It soon became apparent that absolutely NOTHING but this particular sandwich would do. The hotel wasn’t far from H’s house, but neither of us could drive owing to having been revoltingly drunk since lunchtime, so we called a taxi and took a Tupperware box with us. On arriving at the hotel, making it very clear the taxi driver should wait for us, we stumbled into the bar, ordered a round and requested chicken club sandwiches to go. The barman stared at us as though we were from another planet. ‘You are guests at the hotel’? he enquired, through narrowed eyes. ‘No,’ said H, ‘We have recently arrived from Uranus and would like to sample your earth food’. That attitude, I asserted, wasn’t going to get us club sandwiches on any day of the week. ‘I apologise for my butler,’ I said, ‘He’s just got out of prison and his manners have lapsed. Please could we have two rounds of your delicious chicken club sandwiches’? Proffering the Tupperware to prove we didn’t intend to stay after slamming back the ***** tonics we’d just ordered, I added: ‘We’ve brought our own box’. The barman wasn’t having any of it. ‘We do not bring food to the bar after nine pm’, he intoned. H checked his watch, which he never remembered to wind. ‘It’s only just gone nine’, he argued, then gestured, foolishly to the clock on the wall behind the bar that showed half past ten. ‘Sir, I’m sorry,’ replied the barman, clearly being nothing of the sort and having recognised our insobriety the moment we’d entered the bar. ‘No food served in the bar after nine pm’. ‘But we don’t want it served in the bar’, said H. ‘We just want it placed into our lunchbox here’. Snatching the Tupperware from my hands, he looked around, presumably for the door to the kitchen. ‘Would it help if I just popped along to the kitchen myself and asked them’? The barman shrieked with a sort of strangled cry ‘Uh, sir, NO’. He regained composure, attempting, no doubt to tamp down the fear of whatever mayhem might ensue when this ****** idiot got punched by the chef for appearing in his kitchen demanding takeaway sandwiches. Unperturbed, H pressed on. ‘If we were residents, would that make a difference’? The barman pushed our drinks, reluctantly, towards us. ‘You would call room service, Sir’. H shot me a look. ‘No’. I said, firmly, ‘We’re not getting a room just to order chicken club sandwiches, that’s ridiculous’. ‘Is it’? asked H, seeking definitive clarification. ‘Yes’, I said, ‘That would make a chicken club sandwich, like, three hundred pounds’. H considered this for moment. ‘Be a ******* good sandwich for three hundred quid though, right’? Querously, H negotiated for a full ten minutes with the seemingly immoveable stance of the barman, and had now begun addressing him by the name on his badge. ‘Kurt, what’s the reasoning for not serving food in the bar after nine o’clock? Give me something I can work with’. Pondering for a moment, Kurt had the good grace to fully consider the question. ‘Because lots of non-residents use the bar after nine pm’, he gestured to the empty room behind us, ‘The kitchen does not have full staff at this time and could not handle all the orders from the bar as well as room service. Bar patrons would see the sandwiches and want them too’. H made the face that meant Kurt’s perfectly reasonable logic was about to be ****** sky-high. ‘Kurt’, he began, ‘How many patrons are in the bar this evening’? Kurt blinked, like a mouse asked where the cat is. He even looked around as though there may have been patrons hiding behind curtains or under tables. ‘Just… the two of you, Sir’. H leaned over the bar, looking left to right in a conspiratorial fashion. ‘Just the two of us’, he said, ‘And we’re not going to tell anyone if you ask the kitchen to make us chicken club sandwiches. Scouts honour’, he finished, attempting a salute and smacking himself in the eye. Kurt looked defeated. He was already reaching for the phone to call the kitchen. ‘On one condition’, he said, ‘You must sit around the corner where no-one can see you’. ‘Kurt, my man,’ said H, ‘I’ll sit on a ********* spike if necessary’. Two hours and two bottles of sauvignon blanc later, we realised the taxi was still waiting on the drive outside. As it turns out chicken club sandwiches do cost nearly three hundred pounds after all.

0

Jul 4, 2024

Jul 4, 2024 at 10:35 AM UTC

Chicken club sandwiches

Some people come and go in our lives without incident, while others leave an indelible mark. H was one without compromise - and quite often without humility, displaying flaws so apparent on a single meeting that he may as well have had them printed on a t-shirt or pamphleted around the area wherever he went to avoid anyone having to discover just what a heinous ******** he really was. Conversely, he was also the most unfailingly generous person I’ve ever known when it came to noticing the actual or potential for good in others. A complete dichotomy of one seemingly split down the middle, irreconcilable in so many ways. H also made me laugh like no-one else and some of the stupid things he did continue to. One evening, he decided he wanted a chicken club sandwich from the Oakley Court Hotel (famous as the exterior for the Frank N. Furter castle from ‘The Rocky Horror Picture Show’). It soon became apparent that absolutely NOTHING but this particular sandwich would do. The hotel wasn’t far from H’s house, but neither of us could drive owing to having been revoltingly drunk since lunchtime, so we called a taxi and took a Tupperware box with us. On arriving at the hotel, making it very clear the taxi driver should wait for us, we stumbled into the bar, ordered a round and requested chicken club sandwiches to go. The barman stared at us as though we were from another planet. ‘You are guests at the hotel’? he enquired, through narrowed eyes. ‘No,’ said H, ‘We have recently arrived from Uranus and would like to sample your earth food’. That attitude, I asserted, wasn’t going to get us club sandwiches on any day of the week. ‘I apologise for my butler,’ I said, ‘He’s just got out of prison and his manners have lapsed. Please could we have two rounds of your delicious chicken club sandwiches’? Proffering the Tupperware to prove we didn’t intend to stay after slamming back the ***** tonics we’d just ordered, I added: ‘We’ve brought our own box’. The barman wasn’t having any of it. ‘We do not bring food to the bar after nine pm’, he intoned. H checked his watch, which he never remembered to wind. ‘It’s only just gone nine’, he argued, then gestured, foolishly to the clock on the wall behind the bar that showed half past ten. ‘Sir, I’m sorry,’ replied the barman, clearly being nothing of the sort and having recognised our insobriety the moment we’d entered the bar. ‘No food served in the bar after nine pm’. ‘But we don’t want it served in the bar’, said H. ‘We just want it placed into our lunchbox here’. Snatching the Tupperware from my hands, he looked around, presumably for the door to the kitchen. ‘Would it help if I just popped along to the kitchen myself and asked them’? The barman shrieked with a sort of strangled cry ‘Uh, sir, NO’. He regained composure, attempting, no doubt to tamp down the fear of whatever mayhem might ensue when this ****** idiot got punched by the chef for appearing in his kitchen demanding takeaway sandwiches. Unperturbed, H pressed on. ‘If we were residents, would that make a difference’? The barman pushed our drinks, reluctantly, towards us. ‘You would call room service, Sir’. H shot me a look. ‘No’. I said, firmly, ‘We’re not getting a room just to order chicken club sandwiches, that’s ridiculous’. ‘Is it’? asked H, seeking definitive clarification. ‘Yes’, I said, ‘That would make a chicken club sandwich, like, three hundred pounds’. H considered this for moment. ‘Be a ******* good sandwich for three hundred quid though, right’? Querously, H negotiated for a full ten minutes with the seemingly immoveable stance of the barman, and had now begun addressing him by the name on his badge. ‘Kurt, what’s the reasoning for not serving food in the bar after nine o’clock? Give me something I can work with’. Pondering for a moment, Kurt had the good grace to fully consider the question. ‘Because lots of non-residents use the bar after nine pm’, he gestured to the empty room behind us, ‘The kitchen does not have full staff at this time and could not handle all the orders from the bar as well as room service. Bar patrons would see the sandwiches and want them too’. H made the face that meant Kurt’s perfectly reasonable logic was about to be ****** sky-high. ‘Kurt’, he began, ‘How many patrons are in the bar this evening’? Kurt blinked, like a mouse asked where the cat is. He even looked around as though there may have been patrons hiding behind curtains or under tables. ‘Just… the two of you, Sir’. H leaned over the bar, looking left to right in a conspiratorial fashion. ‘Just the two of us’, he said, ‘And we’re not going to tell anyone if you ask the kitchen to make us chicken club sandwiches. Scouts honour’, he finished, attempting a salute and smacking himself in the eye. Kurt looked defeated. He was already reaching for the phone to call the kitchen. ‘On one condition’, he said, ‘You must sit around the corner where no-one can see you’. ‘Kurt, my man,’ said H, ‘I’ll sit on a ********* spike if necessary’. Two hours and two bottles of sauvignon blanc later, we realised the taxi was still waiting on the drive outside. As it turns out chicken club sandwiches do cost nearly three hundred pounds after all.

30

You were sitting in your car smoking a cigarette, looking for all the world like a pound shop prince a marketplace marquis about to steal my heart And I fell, so quick and hard that my feet touched nothing but thin air, on the way up or down And there’s never been a summer that flashed before my eyes as fast as ninety eighty-nine And I wonder of all the things you’ve done, the places you have been without me The things that you have seen my eyes have never touched on.

0

Jul 3, 2024

Jul 3, 2024 at 8:43 AM UTC

1989

You were sitting in your car smoking a cigarette, looking for all the world like a pound shop prince a marketplace marquis about to steal my heart And I fell, so quick and hard that my feet touched nothing but thin air, on the way up or down And there’s never been a summer that flashed before my eyes as fast as ninety eighty-nine And I wonder of all the things you’ve done, the places you have been without me The things that you have seen my eyes have never touched on.

20

Breezy, not bright, stems of crispy grass Whisked about my ankles I was regarded, chewing, By ten pairs of curious eyes My blanket set beneath an oak Eight hundred years of shade fanned out Above and wrapped me Whispering of history Its own, mine and his Henry’s house at my back Unexplored As for two hours I indulged A novel having no right to my time And he came, focusing into view As though he were rendering From the past, before my eyes And, this time, it was to be his voice That so reminded me Of family For he seemed to be My kin And recognisable As one who holds My trembling and sorrow Forever he has known Of my wish My fear and breathlessness Indivisible from his comings And goings Three hours Of having been held underwater And yet being able to breathe In and out of his presence Was not long enough Nor ever enough.

0

Jul 31, 2023

Jul 31, 2023 at 10:59 AM UTC

The Deer Park

Breezy, not bright, stems of crispy grass Whisked about my ankles I was regarded, chewing, By ten pairs of curious eyes My blanket set beneath an oak Eight hundred years of shade fanned out Above and wrapped me Whispering of history Its own, mine and his Henry’s house at my back Unexplored As for two hours I indulged A novel having no right to my time And he came, focusing into view As though he were rendering From the past, before my eyes And, this time, it was to be his voice That so reminded me Of family For he seemed to be My kin And recognisable As one who holds My trembling and sorrow Forever he has known Of my wish My fear and breathlessness Indivisible from his comings And goings Three hours Of having been held underwater And yet being able to breathe In and out of his presence Was not long enough Nor ever enough.

35

Full of love and tears the hour late. I've been ******** all day cursing myself for clumsiness and unimportant inability. Fed up of being fed up bored with my own thoughts and sick to death of seeing kids in snowsuits. All it takes is a simple shake like a dog coming out of a lake. But that hate sticks to me, and drags me back to where I once lived. **** this" I say aloud enjoying the swearing that I'm alllowed relishing the indignity of self-pity and the thoughts that rattle as marbles in a bag. No-one can make me and so cannot break me. I am me: ***** and uncommon bitten fingers and a permanent sulk on.

0

Feb 10, 2022

Feb 10, 2022 at 6:07 AM UTC

Tired

Full of love and tears the hour late. I've been ******** all day cursing myself for clumsiness and unimportant inability. Fed up of being fed up bored with my own thoughts and sick to death of seeing kids in snowsuits. All it takes is a simple shake like a dog coming out of a lake. But that hate sticks to me, and drags me back to where I once lived. **** this" I say aloud enjoying the swearing that I'm alllowed relishing the indignity of self-pity and the thoughts that rattle as marbles in a bag. No-one can make me and so cannot break me. I am me: ***** and uncommon bitten fingers and a permanent sulk on.

23

Pick a little bit from the bottom of your pocket Make a fist and hold it very tight Grab a little courage where the fluff lives Everything is going to be alright. The bottom of the pocket is the safest Curl your hand and catch your waning fight No-one else will see your nails digging Into palms or knuckles going white Down in the pocket’s where your guts are Look skywards and believe in coming light Take hold of a fistful of pocket And I promise you will make it through the night.

0

Dec 21, 2021

Dec 21, 2021 at 4:19 AM UTC

Pocket

Pick a little bit from the bottom of your pocket Make a fist and hold it very tight Grab a little courage where the fluff lives Everything is going to be alright. The bottom of the pocket is the safest Curl your hand and catch your waning fight No-one else will see your nails digging Into palms or knuckles going white Down in the pocket’s where your guts are Look skywards and believe in coming light Take hold of a fistful of pocket And I promise you will make it through the night.

12

Lack of touch has rendered me numb Kisses left unkissed, cold-handed, cursory Fleeting swipes of barely-love Have become and are dwindling I burned out long ago But love you no less I promise, I swear Hand-on-heart and always My head tells me daily To be warm, put my arms around you And squeeze... just squeeze So easy, little, simple But daily I tie my arms behind me And the drips sink beyond my fingertips Disappearing Terrified of what’s leaving me I do nothing to reel it back Inert, lazy, dead, ice-cool All my heat has dispersed Pooling about my feet Before draining silently away.

0

Oct 28, 2021

Oct 28, 2021 at 12:32 PM UTC

love-but-not-in-love

Lack of touch has rendered me numb Kisses left unkissed, cold-handed, cursory Fleeting swipes of barely-love Have become and are dwindling I burned out long ago But love you no less I promise, I swear Hand-on-heart and always My head tells me daily To be warm, put my arms around you And squeeze... just squeeze So easy, little, simple But daily I tie my arms behind me And the drips sink beyond my fingertips Disappearing Terrified of what’s leaving me I do nothing to reel it back Inert, lazy, dead, ice-cool All my heat has dispersed Pooling about my feet Before draining silently away.

21