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Jodie-Elaine Jun 11
As with all great losses,
not very much from here forward can be the same.
Applaud on your way out.
Despondently, once again, Mavis begins to play.
Jun 11 · 56
JOSEPHINE II
Jodie-Elaine Jun 11
If I had to say something now, in this moment of a great nonsensical sense of loss it would be that I too, can’t stop falling in love but am stuck in the 1950s, I can’t carry a tune or stand in line so there is very little hope, they said hope was the last thing in the jar, and when the lid slammed shut, we were saved from it all. That earth angel knew what she was doing, wholly like a lock of blonde hair from Doris Day, when she set the paper moon on fire, and I guess Bobby knew it too, when he dunked it underwater, hoping to send it somewhere flameless and soggy, beyond the sea. I cried into the moon, tripping over my slippers and I put my head on the bookcases’ shoulder, Paul Anka and Chubby Checker themselves couldn’t quench the tears, I was twisted you see, and I didn’t think it could be the same again. Time to put the cardboard cut-out down, the picket signs chopped to fences and I dragged my toes, I fell in love with the plastic walls, the table I built and a thick, encompassing sense of home, like a teenager in love, I don’t know why they did it but the high crooning voice of Lymon helped me unstick from the walls. Some spirit of left creativity, me and my bereftment belong together, tied when Ritchie Valens dropped us down behind the chest of drawers, I yelled to grab a hand, but it fell quietly onto the curtain pole, impaling itself. Nathaniel entered the room, came looking but answered the ringing with a “Hey, Mama” and left. I couldn’t save my own last dance, I didn’t know that I was it, it drifted and said it would meet me someplace. It said it would meet me when the air clears, it’s getting late and tonight I look something dear and washed up. I miss you so dearly, send me. I hadn’t known that that would be it, this impressive but horrific amalgamation, and I’ve been here for too long.
The screen is dark and blank, I can’t see anything past it here.
Here in this empty space where it all was.
Jun 11 · 70
I've Got The Blues
Jodie-Elaine Jun 11
Take me home
My heart is tired and sad
By the warm microwave light
I’ve got the blues
Jun 11 · 58
Death of A Household
Jodie-Elaine Jun 11
No energy ever dies.
I put you near my bathroom sink,
in the hope your energy tells me nice things
in the morning.
Jun 11 · 57
?
Jodie-Elaine Jun 11
?
God is a hungover slob
who doesn’t wear pants,
I will miss you like a house on fire.
Jodie-Elaine Jun 11
It’s like you never left the kitchen sink footed dance floor. I often feel that something like a familiar round face shrunk in the wash, the tight perm cut down to salt and pepper hair, my mother’s mother is in the kitchen sink and she said she will miss us all so dearly, quietly.
The smudge of a bottom lip and your colour stains on the fridge. I wanted to paint a smile on in electric blue and take it for a spin.
The perfect love story told itself in a gentlemanly manner from the tulip patch, the perfumed window smiled gracefully. It became a little too terminal.
The small kitchen has been kept up so wonderfully like a pretty ‘do. You asked if I could see it, your hair on all the faucets.
Your arms shrank in diameter by approximately 37% when you tried to wrap it all together with blanket stitch, let us all blame it on the waltzing carpet and ignore the humming of the bed legs. I know we are not to whom it may concern, not yet anyways, but let me lead this marigold game of charades.
Of all contrary beginnings I saw the sink disrobed and I so sincerely hugged the bathtub whole. There’s no further treatment for the yellow bricks, you danced around the dining table and painted the clouds navy. I put the wrong key to my blue mouth and the whole room applauded in chartreuse as a chorus at the tragic song.
Your dance partner tipped the water down the sink, broke it and forgot your favorite picture. I asked myself the sheer weight, that of intimacy. I imagined maybe in baby blue it had been done somewhere 56 years earlier, only to roll off the tongue pink and screaming.
I wonder if it had been you, I danced with slowly. I wandered downstairs and my teeth buzzed when I got near the washing line for delicates, like us, that is. I stared into the warm light of a microwave that hadn’t been invented yet and when my slippers were finally warm, I pulled out my photo album.
I spoke out loud and we had a cup of tea in the mugs you liked, we laughed about jam sandwiches and sitting still.
She told me dearly to pay attention to the cardigans, to eat my bananas and she went to meet my mother at the gate.
She kissed my cheek and they were both gone, the grandfather clock melted into the sunken eyed house cat.
A tired but harmonic rendition passed me your dancing shoes. I hope you still visit.
Jodie-Elaine Jun 11
Dear god I miss you
and I dance to the blues
feeling sick all the while
my toes are anemic
there’s a frog in my throat
it’s all a bit wrong
and we dance to the blues
two left feet all the while
it doesn’t quite suit us
these bathroom tiles on the floor
the ballroom dancing to the blues
we don’t touch all the while
dear god I miss you
I haven’t seen you in weeks
it’s all a bit wrong
and all a bit blue.
Jodie-Elaine Jun 11
Dear Grandfather clock,
with the pendulum broken and not swinging on the earth center,
I no longer care about clean poetics and colossal thunderheads.
Let the gloves be stained, I am much too drunken and wobblily with something unpleasant. A nimbostratus cloud, a cumulonimbus, vertical and towering, dark and soggy. I turn up the Frank Sinatra a little louder, singing and bellowing over seduction and kitchen knives. I pay extra attention to wah-wah romantic undertones, they’re celebratory. It’s not so funny when the stark original is bedridden. I want to bring you your dancing shoes, the sparkly slippers. I want to put a smile on your tired face. Bring a name to it. A thick, irremovable blue smile. You were young when she left. Weren’t you, you? Terminal patients get visited by loved ones, lost ones.
Yes, I was half expecting you to visit.
At the bed end. Smiling warmly.
I sometimes hope to see you both.
Jun 11 · 75
The Real Mavis
Jodie-Elaine Jun 11
To my dear real Mavis, I guess I’ve heard some things, some quite terminal things. Some things that leave an impending sink (merciless, not kitchen) of doom in my gut, not at all dissimilar to losing a box of memories, chopping off a thumb, standing too close to an edge.
It could all be a fell swoop, opening the oven makes my eyes water. Things aren’t quite so picturesque, as pristine as we had hoped. I’ve heard that you’re stuck like a pea lodged in-between unneeded mattresses, can’t even be seen behind the bed sheets, except for a hand that asks to be held.
You are nightclothes. Once comfortable linen, too swathed and heavily perfumed. A cold sweat won’t leave your side. What happens when you can’t get up and be the perfect host? Too weak to pick up the marigolds.
Circulation running but not smoothly on course, soft Nana hands. Things weren’t supposed to turn out so oddly, being real went backwards and sloped dodgily, it wobbles when you breathe on it, the bed wasn’t supposed to be in the dining room, and you weren’t supposed to be in it.
It was supposed to be just dandy, pastel coloured and end in slow dancing in the living room, children happy and well and a glow of warmth coming through the window. The thought gets stuck in my throat like stale slippers, what a beautiful life it has been, slowed down now to an imperfect humming T. He asked in a gentlemanly manner for the perfect love story, haven’t you been happy here? Forgetting the contents of the wedding photos, blurred and frozen faces. A half-eaten Weetabix in the cupboard falls from the shelf, the whole thing moved into boxes, into drawers, put safely out without a word, the same story told three times.
The grandfather clock trailed off chiming, chipped porcelain. Kept all the knickknacks, the yellow and pink candle pots, the sad, crude family heirlooms.
Knitting a perfect home into a sweetly perfumed shoe box. You’d kept it all perfect, lost a child and kept all of the plates spinning, hair permed and correctly pinned.
In the silence the only sound is ticking, slow methodical and drawn-out. Dust on the empty, dented bed. You became all too real, too beautiful, too terminal. In my own night-dress things are waiting. There’s no further treatment and they sent you home to sleep, into a dining room bed, broken china and unexpected conclusions.
My real Mavis, I made you another place within a safe homage, I hope it is all marigold and bright.
The Real Mavis
Jun 11 · 74
Haiku(s)
Jodie-Elaine Jun 11
My gloved feet can clap
they make a slapping sound, feet
I applaud myself

If I were madder
I would eat the whole blue thing,
that whole mouth *****

I walk into view
rubber gloves rubber gloves, slap
slapping the floor, clap.

Slap, slap, slap, slap, squelch
I stood in something icky
I mop the floor clean

The microwave burst
I am covered in jelly
pierce film with fork

Play the mouth *****
it sings like a tragedy
blue lipstick edges

The kitchen sink fits
harmonica, sink, fridge, spoon,
I swallow them whole.
Jodie-Elaine Jun 11
I’ve been loving you
for at least three minutes.
I’ve been waiting oh-so-tentatively for
your two backward left feet by the
warm microwave light, for
a waltzily slip
of ultimate falsehood out of the fridge.
Oh darling, yo-ooo-ooo-ou
send me.
You, you, youuu
waltz with me in the warm
kitchen light,
across the checkerboard floor.
Darling, yoo-ooo-ou
fold me up and
toss me
oh-so-lovingly into the microwave.
My legs, oh my marigold legs!
Pop out the funny sides,
false and daintily.
Your limbs with no mouths
but light fingers and a thorough
set of skills with the hoover.
I saw the sink disembodied
in the light wearing
a pretty ‘do.
My hair on all the faucets.
Dear Mother, I…
Jun 11 · 32
The Harmonica Player
Jodie-Elaine Jun 11
ENTER TO A SINGLE CHAIR MID-ROOM, HE SITS
THROUGH CURTAINS. GLOVES ON HANDS AND FEET. THE FEET ARE TAPPING TO AN INVISIBLE RHYTHM DARKNESS TO LIGHT FLICKS ON.
HARMONICA STARTS PLAYING
SPOTS IN FILM, WE FLICK TO THE HARMONICA PLAYER SITS IN CORNER OF THE ROOM, SOMETIMES HE HOLDS THE BLUE GREEN FORM LIKE SOMETHING BELOVED.
PROTAGONIST DANCES AROUND THE ROOM
WITH IT. SHE IS STILL THE PROTAGONIST.
LONG, SOFT, BLUE HANDS ARE ATTACHED TO HER DRESS. GLOVES ARE ON HANDS
AND FEET, TOO. IS SEEN IN
THE PLASTIC CURTAIN, DANCING AND OUT OF IT. THE HARMONICA PLAYER IS PRESENT.
SITS, LOOKS UP IN FRONT OF THE PINK CURTAIN. THINGS ARE ON THE WALLS.
SLOW ELEVATOR MUSIC PLAYS IN THE BACK.
Mavis
Jun 11 · 24
JOSEPHINE
Jodie-Elaine Jun 11
Josephine, the train carriage in front of me wobbles and it is eerie, I find it, I wonder what it would be like to press my hand into its bouncing rubber indents, testing out for some sign of reproach. I love you something rotten. Like a stuffed bear toy with the nose chewed off, a book dropped in the bath, something where my toes won’t dare stop to uncurl and sighs, slow down into somewhere around the place of deep, warm comfort. Eric Clapton’s Layla played slowly, Elvis hasn’t stopped, can’t stop falling in love with the way your eyes close, Mumford are still waiting at the bus stop where we left, and the Lumineers croon in the voice of Cleopatra. You’re crying on a train listening, thinking ‘Oh dear. I can’t get enough of this’, it’s like burying my head in the sand. It’s a nice crinkle in the corner of his eyes, it’s like coming home to everywhere at once. Like seeing it all hug you into one, the place where you lost everything welcomes you home, you find your house keys, your blue scarf, the basket of odd socks. Josephine, you seem like the road sign for stop and road works and this way to the Midlands all at once. You’re the last human left.
Jun 11 · 25
From Each Other
Jodie-Elaine Jun 11
Big fluffy dressing gowns keep misbehaving and stuffing themselves into un-rounded empty spaces and the spaces are shrinking SO EXCUSE ME BUT I’M A LITTLE STUCK OVER HERE like the nightmare about losing teeth, about being too small and driving a big van, a massive van down a long hill, it gets steeper and THERE’S NO BRAKES. MAYBE IT’S THE MARRIAGE OF TWO PERFECT ENTITIES, ME AND THE DRESSING GOWNS, that is. But I’d expected it to pan out a little differently than end in the middle of a Bridget Jones film or some other badly frequented metaphor glued together with lollipop sticks. Who are these people who don’t find themselves biting into deep pure, gross, clogged NOTHING when they have an empty wall in front of them? I BET THEY DANCE FABULOUSLY WITH TOASTERS.
Jodie-Elaine Jun 11
THE PIANO KEYS. KEEP STEPPING. ON MY TOES. THEY DO IT WITH A LOW, GRAVELLY, DOMESTIC APPLIANCE VOICE LIKE THE DAY I CAUGHT YOU DANCING. DANCING SO BEAUTIFULLY. IN THE VIOLET ROOM WITH THE SHAGGY. DRUNKEN. HOOVER. OH. ONE-EYED CARPET FACE I DON’T KNOW WHAT I’M DOING. I SWEAR MY TINNITUS IS ACTING UP. THE ROOM HASN’T STOPPED RINGING SINCE YOU OPENED YOUR MOUTH THE FIRST TIME. WHAT AN UPSIDE-DOWN BLUES CLUB I WALKED INTO. I ORDER A DRINK FROM THE SINK. IT TOLD ME STRAIGHT OUT TO **** RIGHT OFF. I THINK I JUST LOST ITS NOTEBOOK. THE ROOM OF BACKWARDNESS. OUTWARD. HANDS. THUMBS. I THINK I MEAN. PLEASE DEAR GOD. STOP CROONING. SIGHS THE RUG. TIRED OF STEVEN. STEVEN DOESN’T KNOW EITHER. ANYTHING. NOT EVEN. ABOUT THE CARPET.
Jun 11 · 26
The First Song
Jodie-Elaine Jun 11
Beach tunes happy-go-lucky spins around the living room the way you catch me when I launch myself at the kitchen tiles, I just wanted to catch something right like a childhood home and things won’t stop lobbing themselves at the walls like sad, falling existential poets eye rolls bad yarn fingerprints track loosely around this domestic space come in for a slow dance, I’ll tie my hair up and we’ll use the lawnmower as a kitchen table chasing our dinner down the street microwaved bats keep coming through the windows Happy Halloween, my love. Slow lips touch themselves together tiredly at the end of the words fall off the face sliding slowly drum beats pleasantly thoughts die here in this greeting card poster perfection ohh, how nice it would be to have a shootout in a 50’s diner with baguettes the same tune it lollops around the room a little glamorously nothing has ever been this perfectly balanced before I fall off my chair it knows something we don’t.
Jun 11 · 22
From Image
Jodie-Elaine Jun 11
It was a few days after it all
when I clung
to the ship that wasn’t really a ship, or you told me so
I,
I would have believed it could have been anything
a block of cheese, a fandango,
that old porch
I’ve been dreaming of for a few years
the scene doesn’t end but
Frank, the jumper wearing fellow-
he’s shaped a little oddly- he
told me to leave the fridge open
and you see I got a little distracted the world wasn’t quite there
and the machines weren’t quite machines
and I couldn’t pull things off the walls like I could pull
fishes
fishes out of my eyes- something a little backwards
didn’t we used to keep this behind the teabag jar?
I,
I thought the lid was
superglued with something a little tougher than
soft touch
blues
the melody calls out from one of those dog-eared
spitting instruments and we are reminded
it knows something we don’t.
Jun 11 · 31
From Text
Jodie-Elaine Jun 11
Things are falling out onto the floor, bits and stuff- old hoover batteries
doing a bit of a jazzy buzzcut dance like jam hand sandwiches that moment where your
hands can’t skate fast enough and can’t stop tying themselves in knots
elephant trunk knots protruding precariously like weird plate show tunes breaking the moment, wave, pebble beach, ugh.
What a lovely space question mark, it is?
I thought you were a little kooky sandwich filling, blocks from fake eyebrow movements
the childhood adverts like many sided shapes flashing Michael Landy sheds his dose
Mavis plays the harmonica cha-cha-cha
the floor caves in but you don’t need it
you’re held up by sheer, pure spite, very little
IKEA scrambled eggs on toast this is how I scramble it, like bad cement mix
eyelid blink pin drop sounds like not fitting I hate your shoes, put them in the kitchen bin
and move me to the top of the wardrobe, I like to be very, very far from
the floor.
Jun 11 · 31
Little Blue Hands
Jodie-Elaine Jun 11
LITTLE BLUE HANDS GRAB ME FROM SOMEPLACE I DON’T KNOW HOW TO MOVE HOUSE IN THIS PLACE HOW IN THIS PLACE IT’S NOT REALLY THAT DRASTIC NARRATIVE FALLS FROM SKIN LALALAND ROUND AND ROUND THE WHEEL GOES IN FUCHSIA IT MAKES US BOTH SICK AND WE FALL OFF A LITTLE LOPSIDED WHY WEREN’T YOU HOLDING ME YOU’RE NOT MY SEATBELT YELLOW CIRCLE BUT THAT’S NOT WHY THEY CALL IT THE BLUES, THAT’S WHY THEY CALL ME THE BLUES? AUDREY HEPBURN THE MEAN REDS ARE MEANER THAN EVER, THEY’VE GOT BAD EYEBROWS TOO AND THEY WONT GO TO THE BEAUTICIAN, SAID THE BEAUTICIAN WON’T WORK WITH PLASTIC TAKE YOUR DISGUSTING SWEET TIME TO COME AND SEE ME, WE’LL SLEEP ON THE FLOOR AND PRETEND THE YELLOW SHEETS MAKE US HAPPY, GRINNING SO WIDE MY FACE SPLITS IN TWO. GRINNING SO WIDE MY KNEECAPS ITCH SO WIDE I BREATHE IN THE WHOLE SETTING.
OOPS. FILLING SPACES A LITTLE SUCCESSFULLY LIKE DEAD FLY’S BAD ART BUT NOT THE GOOD KIND, THE DROP-DEAD KIND. GOOP KIND. RIP OF MAN OVERCOMPENSATE KIND. NOT THE ME KIND. SOFTER FRIENDLY SPACE BETWEEN YOUR FINGER’S KIND. DON’T LOOK BACK INTO THE SUN, THAT IS. NEGATIVE SPACE SPANS WHITE NOISE SPANS 157 MILES COLD TOES IN CONCRETE ROOMS BLAH MINIMALIST ******* SWEAR AND YOU LOSE ALL TRAIN OF THOUGHT, AND THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE IS MADE TO WOO, YOU CAN’T FAIL ON THAT IT TAKES EFFORT LAPS DAISY TONGUE TWISTS SHHH, PLEASE
AND TAKE ME TO RED ROOF HOUSE COTTAGE PLACE WHERE ONE DAY WE DIE TOGETHER AND THE SKIRTING BOARDS ARE BRIGHT GREEN I BITE THEM THEY TASTE BLUE BUT BLUEBERRIES NOT YELLOW BLUES NOT GENRE MAYBE TOSS BE OKAY IMAGE OF PERFECT DOMESTICITY RUBBER GLOVES ARE WORN AS SOCKS AND SLOW DANCING HAPPENS BETWEEN A MOP AND A 50’S HOOVER. IT’S FROM THE 50’S IT STOLE THE FLUX CAPACITOR AND ****** OFF WITH IT TO WHERE I SIT SWAYING, YOU HEAR THAT? ME. TRAGIC COMEDY LIKE A FATHER JOHN MISTY SONG IT PROBABLY ENDS WITH A SAD ALL-CONSUMING WAIL FROM A BEAUTIFUL VOICE HARMONISE I STAMP ON YOUR FOOT PINK PLASTIC WALLS CLOSE IN AND ALL I CAN THINK IS OH, GOD, YES. FLOW OF CONCENTRATION IN A ROOM OF AWFUL DEFAULTS AWFUL ONES. ******* OUT PINEAPPLES FOR WEEKS ON ENDS, RUN FROM THE ORANGE MAN LIKE BAD NURSERY RHYME SHEEP. WHAT? I BELLOW. TYPING LIKE A COMPUTER ON AFTER READING THE INSIDE OF MY BRAIN ON HOW WEIRD IT COULD BE TO TAP DANCE WITH COUNTING MONKEY CYMBALS PINK ELEPHANTS DO THE CAN-CAN ON THEIR TIP TOES GOD WHAT A PLEASURE IT IS TO BE AROUND. PERCUSSION A LITTLE TOO READILY. REALLY, ISN’T IT? THE 50’S HOOVER WEARS A SKIRT THAT SPINS WHEN IT TWIRLS, THE ENEMY OF TOXIC MASCULINITY. I WOULD LIKE TO SIT WITH YOU AND I, URGH. LET ME EACH YOUR FIBULA, I COULD DO WITH A SNACK. LAST NIGHT I ATE TWO WHOLE-WHEAT CRACKERS, A WHOLE ORANGE, A BAG OF SCREWS AND THE SOLE OF MY BOOT IN MY SLEEP, I KNEW WHEN I WOKE UP BECAUSE THEY SAT UNCOMFORTABLY AND THE SOLE WOULDN’T STOP SLAPPING THE CRACKERS, THE BAG OF SCREWS WOULDN’T STOP TRYING TO GET THE ORANGE TO PEEL. THE FEELING OF IMPENDING DOOM CHANGED TO HAPPINESS SOMEWHERE UP THE RUNGS OF A BADLY BUILT LADDER AND CRYSTAL, FORMER WOMAN OF THE NIGHT, FBI, HAS STOPPED ******* OUT WET FISH AND STARTED DRAWING LANDSCAPES, BUT THEY DON’T QUITE LOOK REALISTIC BECAUSE SHE KEEPS DRAWING DANCING CROCKERY IN THE FOREGROUND.
TYPE A LITTLE MORE EVERY DAY, PUKE OVER THE SIDE OF THIS FINE ROLLERCOASTER, ROLLERCOASTER? IS THAT WHAT I SAID? EXCUSE ME I MEANT OVER THIS FINE YELLOW RAILING FROM THE SCHOOL TV PROGRAMME WEDNESDAY ROAD OR SOMETHING DRAG MY TOES OVER THE GRAVEL EDGE, THEY ALWAYS PRESENT A FUNNY IMAGE A LITTLE BETTER WHEN IT’S TOES DOING SOMETHING I HAVE TO GET ALL OF THE BRAIN FOGGY GOD KNOWS WHAT STATIC LIKE OLD COLOURLESS TV BEFORE WE GET TO THE REAL GEMS BUT WHAT IF THERE ISN’T REALLY ANYTHING THERE I FEEL LIKE I’M PULLING A QUITE BURIED IN THERE STRING FROM THE BACK SECTION OF MY BRAIN ITS MAKING MY EYES ROLL, SUBMERSED IN THERE, STOP IT, PLEASE.
MY NAME IS SONNY AND I WOULD LIKE TO BE HERE AND I WOULD LIKE TO DANCE WITH YOU AND I CAN CHANGE MY MOOD LANGUAGE TO FIT THE ROOM BECAUSE I’M JUST THAT GREAT MY NAME IS SONNY AND I THINK MY VOICE IS SCREAMING IN YOUR HEAD RIGHT NOW LIKE AND ANGSTY TEENAGER I’M A LITTLE BLUE AND I HAVE THE MEAN YELLOWS OR REDS BUT NOT, CUT ME OPEN I SPILL OUT YELLOW BUT I SMELL BLUE, OH SO BLUE, MY NAME IS SONNY AND I WANT TO BE TOUCHED.
YOU SOUND LIKE A BUNCH OF TURKEYS WARBLING.
THE HOUSE GOT UP AND JIGGED ITS WAY OUT OF A PARKING TICKET LIKE A REAL ADULT. MOONSHINE, VICTORIA AND BRING BACK THE FUNK ARE STILL STUCK IN THE TOY SHOP. THEY’RE ALL A LITTLE TOO WRONG, IT ALWAYS HAS BEEN. THE SCORES ARE STILL NIL. THE PORCH. WHATEVER HAPPENS. I WOULD LIKE TO SIT WITH YOU AND I…
Jodie-Elaine Mar 2019
Shut up and go to sleep.
I would give anything
to feel your sleeping body next to mine.
Poem from the 'PERFORMANCE ARTIST POETRY...' collection. Finally, one that makes sense, yay right?
Mar 2019 · 301
GAME (word association)
Jodie-Elaine Mar 2019
Tyrant vandal Belly buttons born from tongue toy hammer whack shameless pantomime gold-digger jezebel ***** archetype bad product off food witchy fingers green fluorescent pink yellow ray of backwards twist mother truckers flat wheel tyre engine fire engine whoop weep tear tears down ripped up feeling face straight up to ceiling baby crib our tired little limbs break against the tide I want to swim away from here place island Caribbean holiday at Christmas I don’t want to be here when I get back lead trail hike walk up the stairs followed my shadow tie me up to lamppost dead flowers bouquet take give taker giver relationship spit out the blues by Benny and The Jets riddle saxophonists up walls and silly laughter clown faces you are a good morning stream streamer party thrower down sink lob me up pipes plumber broken loo place to sit and ponder on my **** think too many faces cherub fat little smile me a river bend down here we build a fort like kids and you’re home for ***** sake safety traffic cone orange still scares me to death bobby pins left on windowsills I chuck the memory out back it makes me sick pummel the cheekbones down flat face two face baby feet get into bins bin trash bag split when I picked it up I’m covered in rotten courgetti hipster you’re a stinking mess I hate your stupid shoes walk in a straight line you drunken ******* skip home with me hop scotch decanter glass slips off side crash pop Rice Krispy cereal noise white noise rain playlist through the walls
I push through in pure stubbornness
I
leave us be
lots of love,
distance.
Manipulated stream of consciousness poem from the 'PERFORMANCE ARTIST POETRY...' collection.
Mar 2019 · 924
Poem about Love (thin)
Jodie-Elaine Mar 2019
We talk politics in the shower.
You shampoo your beard,
I condition my armpit hair.
Good morning coffee breath.
I love you like a palindrome.
Tragic comedy, our physical love stretched
thin
over distance.
Endings always differ.
Moon circles scream it’s raining on me.
Serotonin’s been locked up for years, I put her somewhere safe.
Check you’re alive with a finger *****, comedy of errors sings an ode in my left ear.
Here
beard bristles
brush hair
light back catch
sensitivity sits
less lower lip
fold
selves
in
scene end
stage right
pick up towel
EXIT.
Collection: PERFORMANCE ARTIST POETRY AND BRAIN FARTS FOR UNSOLICITED MICROWAVE HEADS
Jodie-Elaine Mar 2019
Got the heavy
chest sad-sad feeling that sits
uneasily above my rib cage, a very fat child in a garden gnome costume.
It makes me sluggish and lethargic,
pen goes from sword to damp paper straw.
Idiot-skin leaves precious missions permanently
unattended.
The weekend email hacked by death fearing idiot-skin.
Astronaut wannabe idiot skin.
Today I decided I would make it to 2065
and be shot into space therefore after.

Mock them.
Reply to my texts. Be gracious.
Point out the emergency exits.
Give, romantic existentialist.
Help me lift the fat gnome child sitting & let’s go someplace.
Crumble me and us home.

Curtain, it falls.
Collection: PERFORMANCE ARTIST POETRY AND BRAIN FARTS FOR UNSOLICITED MICROWAVE HEADS
Jodie-Elaine Mar 2019
Walking              to             meet            fate
you walk in and you’re sat on a cushion mid
room
*******               out                  your                   insides.
This whole thing happened years ago.
Urban legends laugh as you say your own name
three times in the mirror
you’re                         still                            there
Collection: PERFORMANCE ARTIST POETRY AND BRAIN FARTS FOR UNSOLICITED MICROWAVE HEADS
Mar 2019 · 297
You will feel deeply
Jodie-Elaine Mar 2019
You will feel deeply
Little girls can write like dragon ladies,
galvanise poems and spit them out metallic
slipped through pavement portal cracks
I don’t want to write like a girl anymore
there’s no air holes.
Dragon ladies told me not to
I stuck googley eyes on my conscience
diversion tactics
I hope the world doesn’t eat me
crack sun-roof open
limbs steer in different directions and going around in circles.
No canoe
I want to be an radio ooost
me in their karaoke voices
if you stop being yourself, it will set you free.
Cha-cha-cha.
if you stop being yourself, it will set you free.
Collection: PERFORMANCE ARTIST POETRY AND BRAIN FARTS FOR UNSOLICITED MICROWAVE HEADS.
Mar 2019 · 1.9k
Snuffles
Jodie-Elaine Mar 2019
The narcissistic urge flips eggs now.
Our ex-veteran father-figure gets a hamster, calls it Snuffles.
The thing you don’t know until the end of the script of the Tarantino-twist is that our protagonist sits
rocking back and forth in
a barren room inside a strait-jacket.

Meanwhile, our enemy shouts
something along the lines of:
"grab a spoon
I hope they don’t wash their hands"
The stones fallen off their strings,
gunshots hotwire themselves away from
a dubstep kind of drilling, the pipe dream
of an intimate email relationship.
Shout again,
"I hope you never feel those clammy hands.
Blaarghh"
Your diner eggs stink
I chucked up
In the kitchen bin.
Snuffles, a weird poem from my collection: 'PERFORMANCE ARTIST POETRY AND BRAIN FARTS FOR UNSOLICITED MICROWAVE HEADS' (again, yes all caps)
Mar 2019 · 616
Performance Artist's Alibi
Jodie-Elaine Mar 2019
Let the babble stop
Let the brain farts cease
Let pleasure be your guide
And the poet slip into their persona,
Like a performance uniform,
A slip dress
An existential throw up of thoughts like
Bad Chinese food.
The kind that climbs out of Tupperware,
slippers ready

Of Tupperware and ready slippers
***** out takeaway rice.
Performance uniforms sit up in bed,
Babbling about existential poets.
The bad Chinese food
Waltzes with its guide,
Brain dribbles out of nostrils.
Dear night-shoes,
This babble has ceased,
Pleasurely.
From my Poetry Collection: 'PERFORMANCE ARTIST POETRY AND BRAIN FARTS FOR UNSOLICITED MICROWAVE HEADS' (yes, all caps)
Nov 2018 · 1.5k
She Called it Plant Food
Jodie-Elaine Nov 2018
The day after my childhood self wouldn't leave the old house and cupboards, I sat in the dark with my boxes and these pretend grown-up versions of myself.
I'm losing my favourite memory, I cant find the right side of paper but I will always flip the page. I know I am stuck. Still seeing the image of your skirts disappearing around old pine door frames, try to run after the hem to ask you where I left the right box. Can't even find the words to ask.
Sometimes the last thing we ever get to say is “goodbye, old house”, we don't always get a chance to kiss it on the cheek before we leave.
That nothing we lost once was inside you the whole time.
I remember the private hospital rooms, we know that for that much money you have to switch of the part of you that won't stop dying.
You still visit.
You still visit in the form of robins following me home, of ghosts enclosed whispering in a space reserved,
breath suspended in mid air,
the very last one.
I made a room of ghosts for you.
And if I could have stopped time
I would have paused it in the middle of this room.

Open the yellow memory box one last time.
Snippets of foundation year spoken word typed out. Themes: collection, loss, memory, home, moving house
Nov 2018 · 531
Endoscopy
Jodie-Elaine Nov 2018
"There is a strange place between just about and not quite" she says and you imagine her jumping off that ledge again and shudder to yourself,
think "I can’t ******* do this anymore.
I feel like I’ve swallowed a dictionary of her words".
She used to say ‘I love you’ and you’d think "from the inside out"
'Fiberscope:
a fibre-optic device for viewing inaccessible internal structures,
especially in the human body.'
She tells you definitions can be beautiful.
Swallowing a fish eye lens to try and meet you
on the same page, looking
over and over into your own insides
knowing you can’t get any further into yourself.
Interruption
"but for ****’s sake I wish you were here",
we expose ourselves to the sound of Pink Floyd and laugh our gilded throats slit like we’re going mad around the same carousel.
'Endoscopy:
a surgical procedure
used to look inside the body to examine the interior of a hollow ***** or cavity.
Unlike most other medical imaging techniques,
endoscopes are inserted directly into the *****.'
She smells like soft skin on a postcard, like holding the thing from home closer
and trying to make it part of yourself.
You tighten the door hinges when she’s near them like trying to catch her in the inverted gap of the door,
expressing the art of a good catch.
She could never understand why you were so empty
and think "I am golden I am pure ******* gold,
when I die they’ll make a suit of my insides"
you're Zeus turned Midas, touching her she turns cold,
but at least now she's always radiant for you and
standing on a podium you made out of her bones when she told you
she was struggling with herself,
there is a strange place between just about and not quite and one day
I hope to find her there.
In my opinion, the best thing I've ever written. Collection: 'She Called it Plant Food'
Jodie-Elaine Nov 2018
The child in the pushchair leans forwards.
Touches the wheels while they move, later this revolves to watching wheels of a bus
and wishing to be
underneath
them and maybe we're all just looking for a way out and a getaway driver,
maybe this room with a view we built to ruin is flooding
and we're pressing our
open lips
to the ceiling, grappling for a last breath
and pushing time for a second more
and maybe that escape route is waiting round the corner, a lamppost with flowers cellotaped to it, a
place away from the place
our parents kicked us out,
drove us to the middle of nowhere and made us walk ourselves home, telling us this is a metaphor of life, waiting for a place for us to rest our blistered ankles and bruised wrists,
a place where there's someone we lost waiting for us, holding our their hand to bring us home,
but I guess,
maybe, for now
we're gonna have to stare at buses and wish for those pushchair wheels and the days we stared at the pavement moving beneath us and wanted to be anything
but a painting on the road.
Jodie-Elaine Nov 2018
Our eyes
spit the blame like darts playing home
to poison gas
tell yourself
you never liked that shade of emulsion anyway
don't look at
her, your
mother's ghost. Not in the eyes.
no paint left
to fill
our indents, syllables die on
our tongues and
this is
the very last time, nothing beyond
fake flowers, marble
make this
make sense, wait for the sun to get up
so you go
with it
if your mother's ghost still loves you
she will follow.
Tell yourself
you could feel her keeping you alive, you're
scared that you
could get
hit by a bus and she wouldn't be there
to save you.
I almost
lose your name from my mouth, which one of us died
in this room?
The yellow walls got painted over when after seven years, Dad
accepted that his childhood sweetheart wasn't coming back.
Anova one. Reminder that people have ghosts they get stuck on.
Jodie-Elaine Nov 2018
The day sits waiting in it's pear-shaped
room, one of the vacant eyed occupants of other, older,
occupied chairs.
The day crosses it's knees, one leg
over the other as a white flag,
resignation.
The day wants it's peace,
it fought the world wars, caught it's reflection aged,
tripped over itself
calling itself out, a
tripwire
unravelled.
This day knows it won't live tomorrow,
knows it's wanted blind and poor, so waits
           waits
in a waiting room,
wasting the room's air in an exchange of
          silent
blows.
This day is counting down it's losses, putting
all of it's seconds in a jam jar.

And there are screams never externalised, legs never uncrossed,
paperweights weighing less than those they push to the floor, and
this day is
screaming,
this day is
flailing
from the inside out in the form of folded linen,
inconspicuous on a plastic chair.
This day holds
up the moon,
hears it's laughter and falls through the cracks
in the tide.
His knuckles aren't
connected to his fingertips and
shoulders feet apart
from the spine,
the spine crossing one leg over the other in a pear-shaped room
with fingertips tapping at themselves, writhing into an hourglass formation.
This day is holding
up the walls.
Count this day lost when your eyes skip it, miss it, dance past it
in a waiting room.
Count this day screaming
when you wake up tomorrow.
Jodie-Elaine Nov 2018
The dog is nine years
three months
six days old
and still counting,
the old man sits and counts up in
a chair rocking on an old porch,
creaking floorboards faded wooden again
from turquoise,
turning raw in their old age.
Parts of the floorboard have chipped away beneath
the chairs wasted slats
and yet the old man still sits, counting
down
time
like a train whistling at a
trespasser on the tracks
like a stray hair curling from
it's braid
get off those tracks
'cause you know it's not your place.
All we ever do is rot back down to
the floors we came from
and maybe
all we end up doing is completing a week
and then we're not counting anymore,
and maybe
the chair doesn't rock back to dust
and forth to
nine years
three months
and six days old
and we sit on our old porches
watching the train tracks and
maybe we know it's not the
time or the place
but a train whistles at the
trespasser
and we watch the young girl
and we count down, looking away
when it happens.
But we're not counting any more
and we sink into the porches we came from.
2015
Nov 2018 · 191
View from the top, Wreckage
Jodie-Elaine Nov 2018
The bumper
pushed
right
back
like bangs,
into the skin, breaks in a creased forehead.
Linen from insides
turns into
a toy.
Plasticated hot wheels.
Activated air bags,
prank flour explosions from the ledge of a door,
door handle swings,
fidgets
funny how one day it looks like rain and the other
not just a gale,
a down pouring hurricane.
The end is here, baby
and
nothing left
of
our
...bombsite, breathes,
but flailing and pleading,
a hand.
Where's it's
limbs, breathes,
got to?
Bust its last change at high noon,
fingernails, shoes, chewed, dug into dusk.
Dust.
Politics' lips slapping, struggle shaping, stuttering
W-w-why, Ma?
your best friend who tells lies to keep live,
watching, waiting
assembling dark matter 'cause our lives matter
Like the old man
who fell asleep at the wheel.
2015/16
Jodie-Elaine Nov 2018
Sometimes I still get like that
think I might turn eight, wake up
screaming into the night-
it's too real, I'm terrified of my own insides.
Sometimes I can't remember
if it was a dream,
because since then panic has felt
like choking on water
that tastes like the world is
too real, tastes like not coping
tastes like knocks on the door
telling you
grow up.
This time you can't sink beneath
navy blue carpets so you
see a swimming pool, think
hey, maybe I can jump in to cool my sadness down.

I was the child they taught to swim
when you left, thinking
that maybe that if I knew not to
drown then making eye contact
wouldn't feel like making myself
smaller to fit into tighter spaces,
wouldn't taste like acid into places
where only oxygen fits.

Sometimes I still get like that
time flips itself over, scraping
the pool tiles with blunt fingers-
how old was I the first time you asked me what I ate
today, am I okay,
am I okay, am I okay?
Sometimes the dream reacurres,
though now living tastes like
trying to swallow everything above
the chlorine surface, and
I can't remember the last time
I was terrified of
my insides.

I'm not screaming at night any more,
though this time no one arrives to pull me back
to the places
where I can
breathe.
I'm comfortably numb until I realise
I'm eight, sadness is cold and
I can't swim.
2016
Jodie-Elaine Nov 2018
Early nineties,
they found a box behind reception labelled ‘lost anatomy’
opens it,
finds his voice.
They took our sounds for granted and crossed the lines ‘till the only thing our lips could do was flail,
they plugged us in with wires but no amps, back into the whitewashed walls and tied us up in graffitied corners, all the places where political shadows do nothing but lull out anaesthetic.

Mocked scenes from final destination,
the one where the subway train collides
encounters America’s tired hum and buzz.
The television upchucks static and we don’t know why it’s still switched on.
A child’s hand reaches out and plucks a seashell from an afro,
tries to hear the sea.
Looping, rippling and losing his rights each time a wave hits the shore.

The invisible nooses around our fingers rifle through an open book.
They told us that that much candy can rot your teeth
and the hand works its way up a room with a view where
tights aren’t tight
but no one ever notices the old man at closing time,
crying at the clocks.
Inspired by a 2015 Nottingham Contemporary exibition on voice, race, sexuality and gender (I'll add in the name when I remember). Favorite artworks in the show were Felix Gonzalez-Torres' "Untitled" (Perfect Lovers), 1991 and Bruce Nauman's "Run from Fear, Fun from Rear", 1972.
Nov 2018 · 257
Pollenation
Jodie-Elaine Nov 2018
Found on the pavement
from fingertip to shoulder
laid out
stretched out
onto
a palm
like one of those beautiful
twisted
daisy heads.
Stroked hair behind an ear
and whispered
“you're fading out, honey”
and fire spread
from limb to the door frame
and you shut yourself out
downstream
cut the yarn with oversized scissors
and then
fingertip to shoulder
collarbone to knee,
waist to heel,
bent and folded.
They found you
like one of those beautiful
twisted
daisy heads.
September 2015
Jodie-Elaine Nov 2018
10pm
knocked off the nightstand,
tonight it rains
cold coffee.
Fourteen of us wrote life and each a singular way of looking at a mug. I was number three. I don't want to risk speaking for all and posting the whole poem without consent
Nov 2018 · 283
Melting Clock Faces
Jodie-Elaine Nov 2018
You watch the plastic frame meld into itself,
The second hand turning inward
Smoothly running down the walls like fingertips trying to find their hands,
Tapping the pencil against the desk,
Tapping soles onto tiled floors,
Toes rhyming in spite of themselves, waiting.
Ode to Dali. 2015.
Nov 2018 · 334
To His Sleeping Form
Jodie-Elaine Nov 2018
He awoke on frozen concrete,
The broken glass.
Locked door, let the house run down around us,
At least we’re safe, right?
We had Time on our hands, we always said we’d go Someplace,
said our youth was a tragedy.
We’re our own worst enemies, silent screaming, kicking ourselves out the door, glass limbs.
Your hands fumbling over the catch of the lock, unmending the hinges.
The last glass we owned skidded off the other side of the table,
Throwing itself, disembodied and disfiguring
onto the floor.
We were empty in that last glass,
Cold eyes at means to an end.
Staring at the broken glass, wishing
To his sleeping form
It would glue itself back
Together

Together,
It would glue itself back
To his sleeping form.
Staring at the broken glass, wishing,
Cold eyes at means to an end.
We were empty in that last glass,
onto the floor,
Throwing itself- disembodied and disfiguring-
The last glass we owned skidded off the other side of the table,
Your hands fumbling over the lock, unmending the hinges.
Glass limbs.
We’re our own worst enemies, silent... screaming, kicking ourselves out the door,
Said our youth was a tragedy,
We had Time on our hands, we always said we’d go Someplace,
At least we’re safe... right?
Locked door, let the house run down around us...
The broken glass.
He awoke on frozen concrete.
mirror effect vilanelle-like poem, 2015. I've forgotten the name of this poetic technique. If anyone knows please tell me and release me from the niggling bug of not remembering
Jodie-Elaine Nov 2018
On the creaking wooden chair in the corner, hanging on the scaffold, in the circular mirror, distorted and twisted and folding. It stands in the shadows. It lurks in the school playground while parents wait for their children, it’s a runaway train, and it’s the ink streaming down the window pane, it’s the clock melting inwards.
its golden fluidity and baby blue subtleties.
It’s the reason why you wake in the middle of the night,
gasping into darkness and grappling with loose ends... it was just a dream.
The reason you turn a corner just to look back behind you, why you double-take in the mirror, question where did I go?
Looking at nothing, staring into the bleak dark, it lurks. Awaits.
It waits in the form of a child holding a red balloon, staring into our blind spots.
Like shadows, when the sun rotates away from behind the playground wall you know, just then, now, in that full circle...
it’s about to run out.
You bend over backwards to relate to the moonlight dancing on the floor of its own reflections. It shows itself on beer bottles from better nights, you cross one leg over the other, position yourself,
folded linen.
Rushing to endless deadlines for nowhere o’clock, last call for the runaway train, struggling with human concepts.
You’re simply a sum of parts: an addition of flesh, limbs, old and broken battered bones, blind spots.
All the places you can’t see, can’t feel, can’t reach.
Loose ends meet themselves in the corner of that same old dusty room,
the folded linen crumples to the floor,

the red balloon bursts.
Another April 2015 one
Jodie-Elaine Nov 2018
Breathe out,
taking yourself out of the groggy room
Drawn back, six years old and
kicking high enough on the swing set,
high enough for tree tops.
Swinging became toes dangling from a high ledge
high ledges into things your parents told you not to touch, not to burn yourself on,

Let the taste burn,
Through fingertips
candle wax eloping down the wick, it's last flicker of redundant flame.
Time is runs short,
feel yourself creasing down the middle,
stained like an old table cloth, wilting away like sunflowers
curling at the corners
Dust swirls through the empty room, echoes in a ribcage, punctured lung.
Poem from April 2015
Jodie-Elaine Oct 2016
"So. Why a robin?"
I picture us fighting, my neck hits the back of the leather arm chair. It hurts and you apologise. You are still pretending to get mad whenever I say I love you like you are not willing to hear it. You know I am going far away and whether its university or life we can't work without one of us making the other miserable. And I am still folding our hands to origami swans at 3am wishing for a second more with you. It goes futher than taking the scenic route home, dragging my feet and prolonging the front door, pretending we don't know how this ends.  We have the same conversations over and over, you apologising and joking as you think about what you'll turn into//me wondering if I'll even bother to make it that far. One day you might not remember my name, think my face isn't mine because didn't I used to blonde? We are not even perfect on paper. The government wouldn't grant us our bursary because they knew we are too self destructive. My poems for you were pretty when flipped to the ceiling but we think too much, wound ourselves up, and the folds in the pages won't come loose anymore. The words don't sit right. Somewhere on a fence in Carlton sits two robins. And life gets so hard when you realise you can't actually help another adult with their problems, you can only make them a cup of tea. Not coffee. Their brain spins in it's swivel office chair, controls broken. A dictatorship sinking fast. Their heart races - the more coffee you drink the more likely you are to experience anxiety//undiagnosed depression is hard to get rid of, it knows you want to acknowledge it and it waits for you to stumble upon it, it feigns surprises behind a pinewood door, but life doesn't get much better after you notice it. You still want to die and you still think every day about the one in three anorexia sufferers that don't make it. How really you don't know what "making it" is. I found a boy that I imagine smells like fire. He has these crazed pinpoint eyes that are not like yours and I don't know what to think anymore. He is an artistic genius and I want to run from my bad dreams into you and I don't know what to think anymore. I don't think anything is real anymore. I think we hit an iceberg. I think my fingers are caught in the ice, splayed hands grasping still like curved talon ends and I don't think I can get lose but it is cold. Think. Your warm hands on my ribcage holding me on an axis. Pedestal. You told me I don't love you last night and it felt like hot wax cooling in my throat. I can still taste it now. My hands are cold. I'm writing poetry about you again but I don't know if it's for you this time. Yes, there's a difference. I felt something gut wrenching today when I found that the great barrier reef had died. Is dying. It lived for 25 million years and the human race killed it. Like a toxic relationship composed of a bad survival climate and corporate waste, like us killing us. Big red buttons looming closer. I would compare us to the death of the great barrier reef- I don't think we were as beautiful, and we were killed by ourselves not climate change. So I am writing us an obituary before we self implode. I am writing the nights I have not spend crying on the kitchen floor an obituary before they are even over.  I don't think I can breathe underwater and the pressures are getting to your head. The colours are fading and the plants aren't breathing anymore. The backs of my eyelids are freezing over. You are the only one who knows about the two robins on a fence somewhere safe. You are the one I tell my nightmares to, the ones where I wake up and I can't breathe without you. The ones that I don't have anymore because now my fingers are inches away from the end of the rabbit hole. I can feel the breeze at my fingertips. We deserved more than a bunch of flowers cellotaped to a lamppost. More than a game of hangman. More than this is how I say happy anniversary. I wish we hadn't killed the great barrier reef. I wish that there had been better ways to say happy anniversary.
I am back guys! Sorry for inactivity. Wondering how many people/followers stuck around to read this. This is a prose poem that I'm still working on. Welcome to feedback.
Jodie-Elaine Jun 2016
My hands fidget.
I will tell you when I see you that
my fingers could break when I speak,
loose from the chicken wire houses that pin them to nail holes
no one sees and my words could snap
with them, straight down their spines.
My hands fidget and my tongue trips.
One day I won’t be allowed to see your eyes, your eyes when the sun hits them and they turn green, your eyes when they're blue, when you're being real. Or both.
The sun is in your eyes and it's setting.
I think I could be the moon,
we could meet at every eclipse,
create our own lightshow in the sky or make them notice us just for five minutes,
the kids sat on steps behind the sports centre,
I will tell you when I see you that you are so ******* smart you could ruin the world with it, so why can’t I tell you this, so why can’t my hands stay still?
I want to feel the way my mouth tingles when we sit, you murmuring in my ear that you could spend all day here,
alone with the indents of each other's lips.
I guess if we ruined the world I wouldn't even feel Numb, the Nirvana song.
My hands fidget.
Recently I stuck a sticker over my fear of death to try and be as brave as you and now I am Nevermind,
I can't feel a thing.
My tongue sits still when I try to speak about thinking and when I think of losing you I see Topcat, Pink Panther and this time my mind trips over itself.
I chew my lips and the corners of my mouth close.
I can’t see in the dark like I can’t breathe when I see cartoons like I can’t see **** when you say we need to talk like I’m scared of the ******* dark so please walk me home.
You find my hair bobbles at your house and I'm sorry that that last one wasn’t a metaphor.
I imagine the space behind your closed eyelids looks like a dark place at 3am where you exhale smoke.
I imagine the space behind mine is inhaling, coughing and static in the form of a thousand headlights blinking
and
it burns.
My hands fidget.
You call me out and it sounds like my brain not being able to hold itself still, I can't,
I can't stop fidgeting under those blue-green eyes.
When you tell me you love me my fingers stay still.
When I think it's loud like nerve endings screaming at me god-**** react like
controlling hands, interconnecting veins jumping from wrists,
hazy.
The stuff of nightmares where you say I don’t trust you
but I know that your hands on my wrists would not,
do not,
burn
like that.
I will tell you when I see you
I will not wrap you in chicken wire.
I am writing to tell you that when you speak my hands stay still.
I am trying to say that nothing snaps and my head is
quiet.
May 2015 · 1.2k
Bright lights, Big city.
Jodie-Elaine May 2015
Photographers step out of hazy stairwells, tired eyes adjusting to dim light, looking for
their next muse.
“Works of art take time” they tell themselves
they look for the next spark of intrigue, their next fix.
You’ll find them on public transport, in old cafes:
cameras slung around their necks like billiard boards captioned ‘the end is nigh’.
Buzzing with anticipation of their next good catch, biting the lips of their disgruntled
faces like ancient gladiators biting the dust.
Castaways, oil paintings once brilliant and beautiful thrown into apartment blocks and
grey buildings,
ruins of art cast adrift by time.
Haunted by still frames and possibilities, all burned onto retinas, they stumble across
traffic jams;
finding beautiful people, forcing themselves into their lives.
Fleeting whispers rotate into double takes and flickers on the film of a Polaroid camera;
the subjects become muses,
cities are reborn as golden
flood into spotlights:
vibrant, reckless, insomniac.
Dec 2014 · 606
Last Ditch Attempts
Jodie-Elaine Dec 2014
Last ditch attempts and descents without grace.
Darkness was diffusing into ambers. He’d been deteriorating for a while now, slowly, abruptly, and then with the fall of the summer months completely off the other end of the scale. He’d felt it in adrenaline coursing through his veins, known it when spilled liquids seeped into carpets that weren’t his own. But this was it. He faced the final breech of his own standards, or what was left, with bare feet, exposed eyes, all the while knowing he was corrupted.
He had brought himself inches away from a descent, drawn himself through the chaos, grasped his gnarled hand around what had held him back, and pulled, pulled his own cold body from the lifeless thud on the floor, pulled himself here, and now his toes curled over the edges of what had been his life.
Gathering the last vestiges of his age and time, Bram stepped forwards into unfilled air. Foot first, the ground drawing closer; he watched the atmosphere fly past in kaleidoscope. Like all inevitabilities, the moon extinguished the sunlight, both knowing their places elsewhere.
more of a story than a poem, but ah well.
May 2014 · 858
Untitled
Jodie-Elaine May 2014
Coiling round the telephone wire.
Seemless, where does one meet
The other's end?
Incessant ramblings into the answer machine.
Nothing, speaking with heavy eyes
Call me
If you get this?
Jodie-Elaine Mar 2014
It took him years to stop loving her,
For the impression of her eyes to fade.
There'd be dreams and nightmares,
He'd see her around town.
He could never really move on from her perfume, the colour of her eyes in the morning, sunlight bouncing off her figure;
The way her nose crinkled as she laughed.
Mar 2014 · 1.2k
Cluedo
Jodie-Elaine Mar 2014
I am not the sophisticated underdog,
I trip and fall through door frames
Always unannounced.

I am the wavering circle,
I give myself away too early in the game
Always a red herring.
Mar 2014 · 958
Parental Guidance
Jodie-Elaine Mar 2014
If you still loved her you'd tell me about how her nose crinkled when she'd laugh like she could love the entire the world, and how she liked the yellow of sunflowers because they'd remind her of what it was to be healthy; how she was set to be nothing like her parents yet was still fragile enough to breakdown in a hospital bed; her spontaneous singing. What it was like to hold her in your sleep.
You'd tell me how you miss her reaching out for you; how sleeping alone made you worship the summers when you heard her laugh billowing in the wind like her skirts, dancing in the breeze:ablaze.
But time does that sometimes,
You don't love her anymore.

— The End —