Depends what your idea of colour is
or if your forever will ever exist.
Too many ink lines on one too many lists,
another reason for you to invest in one kiss.
Visit them, pay them,
lay next to them in Milan:
as there you can let every crease
unravel and unfurl,
let the block roll on,
like every Italian street.

Here, a fake friend has helped you
write a novel,
she helped you out of that darker hovel-
where you once sat and laid,
cut yourself off from
apartment rent and all the prices paid.

Ideas are darkened figures,
built upon pigments and ideas.
They can whip through gallery doors,
the canteen,
across mezzanine floors.

Ideas are hotel love affairs,
with their take away trays;
they’ll check up on you
every once in awhile,
with a phone call diverted from
the Hotel Lobby’s, binary file.

Ideas are those ghosts of girls,
pale skinned beauties that’ll pass you
in the street,
only to unfurl at the feet
of some other man
as a fireside treat.

That you can't see the positive before you
Or the gift you have been given
Or the change that reality has carefully draped around your shoulders
Has me in agony

The beaten dog trembles
at the thought of being free
and would rather stay
beaten

For if it's home
which is where one expects
the happiest to be
is this bad, then terrifying is
outside?

When a boulder falls from a height
And crashes into the forest below
Focus not on the boulder
How it fell
Why
Focus instead on the sheltering oaks
In the peaceful forest
Shattered and broken by the unexpected impact
And the many little acorns they sheltered
Crushed
Which will never grow to tree

You were lying on your back
on the grass beside Judith
three days after
the start

of the summer holidays
she was talking
about some girl
in her class at school

who wore stockings
instead of socks
and how her mother
thought that

(the wearing of stockings)
was quite too much
too grown up
and you were watching

the formation of the clouds
and how they changed shape
and colouring
becoming darker

then paler
and now and then
a bird would fly
across your vision

and you
only half listening
to her as she spoke
her words

touching your ears
her voice
like a kind of music
there lulling you

and you heard also
in the distance
the sound of a train
its puffing of steam

the sharp sound
of a horn
as it went by
the crossing

somewhere down
the track
but I wouldn’t wear stockings
Judith said

I like fresh air
getting to my legs
you have nice legs
you said

have I?
she said
yes
you said

right up to where
I can’t see no more
and she laughed
and smacked

at your arm
beside her
if my mother
could hear you

she’d not
let me near you again
a rook flew over head
its darkness in contrast

to the blue of sky
if she saw us last Sunday
she’d locked you up
you said

and Judith touched
your hand
next to hers
and held it

she mustn’t know
she whispered
course not
you said

well least not
until you’re fifty two maybe
and she laughed
and her laughter

disturbed the birds
and kind of
dissolved the cloud formation
into blueness

and you loved her
nearness
her touch
her being there

beneath clouds
and birds
and sky
and maybe always will

you thought
until the day we die.

This poem was written after watching a few hours of slam poetry on Youtube. Let me know what you think...it's my first shot at slam poetry.*

There are so many words flowing around out there about the big girls. The thick girls, the curvy girls, the p-h-a-t phat girls. About their plush and soft exteriors, their abundant backsides, their willingness to accept themselves and their hopefulness that others will do the same. Their….thereness.
They are beautiful, don’t get me wrong.
They are beautiful.

But what about the skinny girls?

The small girls with petite builds and large hearts and an aversion to the word short. The size two and under girls, the drive thru can’t gain a pound girls, the I AM NOT ANNOREXIC OR BULLEMIC girls.

The girls who will always be referred to as “pixie-like” or “waif-like” or “twig-like.” The perfect model body girls that all of the other girls hate…because of their lack of fat.

Aren’t they beautiful?

The girls with the size 32 bust line, the girls who, at 24, still shop in the junior sections of department stores. The girls who, regardless of their age, their strengths and weaknesses, their experiences, heartaches and joys, disappointments and triumphs, their want or need for life and love will always look like they missed a meal or gave it back purposefully with the intent of becoming even thinner. The girls who, no matter how ******* HARD they try, cannot even weigh 100 lbs soaking ******* wet.

Aren’t they beautiful?

The big girls have to search and search for cute and **** and attractive clothes because of their size. Guess what? So do the skinny girls. Do you know ******* hard it is to find a pair of pants with a size zero waist and a 34 inch leg? To finally find an extra small shirt that doesn’t have one of the top three cartoon characters of the time plastered across the front?

All I’m saying is yes, the thick girls, the curvy girls, the p-h-a-t phat girls…
They are beautiful.

But ******, so am I.