you learnt I was scared of thunder
and mesmerised by lightning
your freckles had doubled in number
and in the morning we are fighting
the hottest day for months
as the earth tries to sweat us out
I lay naked and sweating also
trying not to shout
leave in ten
no leave in five
or never leave you're always right
so I trundle on a bus
now clothed after my own morning of no fuss
I wonder what the ****
why early morning buck
why calamities and sweaty dagger eyes
cause in your dream
I had been mean
well
I don't know her
and she's not me.
Jun 4, 2021
Jun 4, 2021 at 8:25 AM UTC
Like a hundred birds fleeing the power lines in autumn afternoons,
You flee the year you have completed and as always the time has passed so soon. There's nothing like the sound of hollow bones beating against the sky, nothing like the feeling of growing older and wondering why?
Jun 2, 2021
Jun 2, 2021 at 12:36 PM UTC
Scream ***** power,
As you avoid all mirrors
On your way to the shower.
Cold metallic,
Plughole, pathetic.
Scream: "women rule!"
When you scream
Remember the rituals;
As you worship everything about women
But not you.
Jun 2, 2021
Jun 2, 2021 at 10:52 AM UTC
My sister, soft and kind,
Used to love having her toes dug in the sand.
Myself, I complained;
The sand itched me
And felt as though it ran in my veins.
My sister would purr
About the enigmatic green world all around her.
I stayed indoors.
(I never, though, threw ******* on the floor).
My sister loved to walk:
Pavement, fields, mountains,
She'd walked the East Coast to the West,
Non-stop,
Staying in wind battered farmhouses for rest.
I hated walking.
I would run and hide behind century-old walls
That had crumbled in the middle of moors,
To roll skimpy wet cigarettes
And blow billowing purple clouds.
My sister never smoked,
She did love to smell fresh sticky tobacco, though.
When she had walked the breadth of this island
Her hair had only just grown back.
We played a bit of fantasy,
I pretended to like all these things,
Only for a while,
And only a little late.
I once again complain about the sand,
But now her blood is mixed into that.
And those last tangible bits of her -
The bones ground down -
Sit in the sodden earth
Beneath a with young tree.
I hate all these things.
But my sister,
The bit of her that was actually my mother;
Not all those god awful bits around her,
But her.
That is what I miss.
Not the final six years of miseryy,
Not the world where she came and left,
Not the shadow or impression,
Not the charade we played of loving nature.
But my sister,
My sister,
My sister.
...
The world is still the same:
The sand is still coarse,
That green enigma hasn't changed course,
Those century old walls -
Well, guess what?
They're still on the Moors.
None of those once beloved things,
And there are many I can't face bringing
To mention,
Watched my sister gargle her last breath.
Neither did they sit there years before and recognise
Her body melting and withering away.
I won't love these things in her memory,
They don't deserve that kind of reverie.
My sister was much like my mother,
And like every eldest daughter,
I didn't love or do enough.
But,
Neither did the world.
Jun 2, 2021
Jun 2, 2021 at 6:53 AM UTC
Summer is soft and sticky.
An ode to the ocean,
Where you drowned at 13
And now I skim the surface
Pretending I'm not treading
Your grave.
Girls & boys play.
I can hear boat engines
Under the water and they're
Humming your name.
I'm glad the salt stings,
I wish the tide could grab,
But the sun,
Oh the villain if there was one,
Warms me too much
To stay long
Jun 2, 2021
Jun 2, 2021 at 6:38 AM UTC
soft like the powder of first snow,
remember how it burns though.
cold like the metal touch in the morning,
as it warms it bends to your body.
small like the figure of something young,
baby bones crack to grow strong.
sweet like the fresh clip of flowers
and yet thick musk hangs about ours.
dark like the space between two bodies,
light when the colour of our eyes meet and inspect.
empty the space between my fingers,
whole the beat my heart delivers.
Sep 24, 2018
Sep 24, 2018 at 7:47 AM UTC
wasps
lazily flying around
faux red humming light,
early morning darkness outside.
and they would hold still in your hand:
crawl little up arms,
no buzz,
no sting,
no alarm
to be gently flung out open windows.
one deceased
to be inspected in afternoon soberness -
actually a wasp.
Why were they so slow?
So lazy?
So docile?
Did she tame wasps in red light?
Only the foggy evening can tell.
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 7:18 AM UTC
Good morning or goodbye?
I don’t know which
I just close my eyes.
Remember those four hungover
short,
fast,
lingering,
still in shock
cause what the ****
before you left
you kissed me?
Aug 8, 2018
Aug 8, 2018 at 9:20 PM UTC
Do you hear water wherever you go?
The hum,
the slosh,
the drum,
the stroke.
Always moving, potentially drowning us slow.
Like how happy people hear music
you hear the tide,
and the moon tugging gently;
you have nowhere to hide.
Aug 2, 2018
Aug 2, 2018 at 3:12 PM UTC
Not quite the green rolling hills
i’d devour only a few years ago
i’m stuck depending on the
dreary dark alleys, buldings with dessimated feelings,
girls who prance so estatically through
cement pavements and tarmac streets.
How do I feel knowing brick tastes sweet,
smog feels soft, and constant movement relaxes me?
They flourished and thrived,
grew up so different, so industrialised.
A completely different vocabularly that has been bastardised.
Not just trees and meadows
not just red juggarnauts and underground rumbles.
I need to find the sea
just for a moment to wash this off me.
Aug 1, 2018
Aug 1, 2018 at 4:31 PM UTC