A uniform, a badge.
A florescent jacket.

(Worn with pride?)

Law isn’t applied
to its keepers.

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.

Bad news falls from his mouth before I can catch it. Hands and knees on the floor, searching, bad news escapes me. It buries itself in the carpet like hundreds of little black fleas. I claw at the fibres but words wriggle deeper into the floor. I try to crush them with pounding fists but they are strong.

On the edge of my vision I see them in clusters that make sense but, as I turn, the words scatter and squirm back into the carpet. Some of the words jump, biting. They leave me stunned and itchy. Some climb up my neck and make me shiver. I can feel bad news crawling over my scalp, feeding and laying eggs. I try to rake it out with my fingers- end up with nothing except hair.

I remember the man then, so I stand. I see my children playing with train track. Around them the floor is alive with bad news. Outside the Sun shines. The pavement, the trees, the grass, are crawling with nothing except happiness and summer. I tell the man that we are going to the park. These words are candyfloss pink and butter yellow. They drift like confetti at a wedding and bad news is scared of them.

I talk more and more about the park, swings and river while I get my children ready to go. The man says something about identifying a body. I catch these words but drop them quickly to the floor. They wriggle down into the carpet and I leave them there. The man pours instructions into his radio. Navy blue worker ants, easy to ignore.

I keep talking the happy words which hold bad news at bay. Bad news can't get me now. But I can see the man looks sad and cross. Bad news is feeding on him now instead of me. I notice the words he tips into his radio are infested with little black fleas. Somehow this is my fault. If I tried harder to catch the bad news and contain it the man would be safe. I care about that. Then I look at my children, bad news scrabbling around their shoes looking for a way in, and I care about that more.

I try to explain to the man that we must go. These words are deformed and don't make sense. Their wings won't work. They fall to the floor and bad news feasts on them. The man says we can go to the park, so we do.

My children run ahead. Bad news hasn't spread this far yet. I speak to friends in words of lilac and blue. Children's voices ring out over the river like silver dragon flies. Little black fleas are biting me under my clothes, no one can see them.  

I see the police car out on the road, the man watching. I can ignore them. But my children are tired and hungry. It's chilly and we didn't bring jumpers or coats. Friends have gone back to their houses. It's getting dark and starting to drizzle. It's the happy words that escape me now.

It's time to go home and be eaten alive by bad news.

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.

Outside - reflection on dark,
but I am adrift in lamplit reality
with nothing to say.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Beer trickles between my toes. And I stare. You.
You glance at the drink in your hand. Assess the damage.
Direction is lost to your possible moves.
Did you see me yet?
Behind this stranger. This quantity unknown.
A lifetime grabbed hold of me and
I ran. Now- faced with you- seconds keep splitting.
Did you see me yet?
Beer swills round your mouth. Then you swallow.

Recognition slips through your slurred-to-**** vision.
No harm done.

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

My decisions grow, as moss grows. Slow, slow and unseen between the green-green of expected. My decisions grow, as moss grows. Quietly wild. Shallow threads clutched tight at the sheerness of possible- drinking light from the dark in order to thrive.

My decisions grow, as moss grows. Slow, slow and unseen. No branches, no forks, no watch-wait-and-see, just spores caught on a breeze when I need them.

Keys. Shoved through the letterbox
before I got up-
in an envelope with a note:
Could I (please) feed the cat…
Gone away? Good for her!
Car on the drive. Took a taxi. I think.
To the airport? Didn’t say.
******* with rain-
still, had best leave my shoes on the step just the same.
Obsessed with cleanliness and hygiene-
that’s why he left.
Who, in their right mind, puts cream-coloured carpet in a…?
Door. Not locked. Nearly fell through it.
Strange. She forgot?
Kitchen. Freezer’s empty, switched off.
No cereal. No tins.
Utility room. Spotlessly clean-
twelve! two-kilogram bags of Go-Cat Complete.
Planning to be gone quite a while. I think.
Playroom. Packed up. Kids staying with Nan.
She wants to redecorate before they come home?
Great. A fresh start. I think.
Bedroom. Suitcase on the wardrobe.
Bought a new one? Smaller. Lighter perhaps.
Makes sense. After all- she is travelling alone. I think.
Bathroom. Pristine. Almost empty.
Almost. Macleans and a toothbrush,
in a glass on the sill.
I didn’t think about that.
Until now.

You’re going to be fine.
?
I am, see?
.
You will. I came to tell you stuff. Listening?
.
Jumble sale shoes. I know you’ve got acrylics somewhere. Paint them.
?
The shoes. Flowers and dragons like you draw up your arms. They’re really good by the way. No one in school draws like you.
.
We are. You just have to be good-different. Stop hiding the whole time. Everyone loves your drawing.
.
We still like painting, reading…
?
It’ll happen when you’re 11. The letters un-jumble and it makes sense.
!
Honestly.
.
And at Christmas- tell Mum it’s your idea: Keeping him away from the ***** makes him cross- no point. Give him a drink as early as possible. By noon he’s unconscious and you put him to bed. Looks like he hit his head real hard but he woke up.
?
It’s OK. He doesn’t remember a thing. Works every year.
.
Stuff heals. It gets better. Everything. Life is excellent. People say you’re pretty, won’t believe it but you are. And we live on a good street in a warm house by the sea.
!
Honestly, cross my heart.
.
There’s one last thing. Listening?
.
Learn to laugh silently, no sound what so ever. I know you can’t imagine it- but she gets her revenge and it’s going to be funny. Takes years. You must play along or it won‘t work. So laugh silently.
?
Just one example then: Do you go to the car-boot sales yet?
.
On a Sunday in June, only 7AM but it’s so hot! She spots a koi carp in the road.
?
Like a giant goldfish. This one was huge. Probably dropped by a heron or something.
.
She moves it onto the verge and keeps walking. It's still there at 1.30. Been baking up on that verge all morning in full sun. Smothered in ants, horrible.
.
She wraps it in a Tesco bag and a bin liner- it stinks. As soon as you get in she starts frying onions, making pastry, white sauce. Dad eats fish pie for supper.
?
She made us a separate one.
.

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.

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.

The air is cotton-tangle thick and
thoughts are heavy.

I unpick a hem of memory -

The quiet pip-pip of a broken stitch
gives way to raw.

intoxicating

Pour yourself into me,
until you are sweet
and I'm on fire.



tongue, tied, valentine

I am listening, it’s just...

(I got distracted)

...you have the
most
beautiful
wrists
I’ve
ever
seen.
x


restraint

I’m not interested
in cheap nylon confession.
I’d rather unravel
a good quality secret-
Make a beautiful bond
from its thread.


Hangman

I should warn him:
My soul leaks like a sieve.
Instead I listen silently
to words that steal
my breath.



You and I

You are
delicious
And I am
greedy.
You are
generous
And I am
needy.
You are
experienced
And I am
learning.
You are
flammable
And I am
burning.

search for

pale, warm colours adrift in white
butterfly flickers- so slight I miss them  
soft rise and fall of sound-asleep tide
silent maybe, sweet-sticky breath

hit the switch- search again quicker




expectant

i want to feel complete love
i want to feel complete
i want to feel
i want to
i want
i




empty

I should be
nervous or excited,
have butterflies
in my tummy.
I should be
beautiful and ripe-
I should be full.
I should get over it?
Carry on?
Try again?



wish

Your haunting me is beautiful:

How you stand just out of frame-
Though I sometimes think I see you sparkle
in their birthday-candle eyes.

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.

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

Why do you stay? That question chokes me. I hook a finger past lips, over teeth
-  scoop it free. It dies, loose and blue-breech on my tongue.

I can’t. I can’t. I can’t ask you. I fold legs to torso, wrap arms around them
-  tuck and tie. Make the question small, tight - then swallow.

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)

She lets me try it on.
I want it. But I don’t get presents like she does.
It’s beautiful. Bright with a white, fluffy trim. Zip and
poppers all the way up.
She widens her eyes. Twists her hands into claws
and she says “Little Red, come here and climb into bed…”
I laugh. Her wolf sounds just like Grandma.
Ma swings her arm back. I stop.
She turns to see what’s changed. It isn’t funny anymore.
I hear the thwack as Ma’s hand connects with her nose. It
was an accident.
Should’ve been the side of her head.
Now there’s blood.
She buries her face, wraps her arms round my waist.
A darker red blooms on the nylon.
She calms down but she’s shaking. We untangle and I help
her on with the coat.
I don’t want it.
We wait for a while in silence; shredding lollypop sticks,
peeling the top off an old lemonade-can.
She starts to cut neat, tiny crosses into her fingertips.
Not deep.
But I’ve seen enough. I feed the lollypop sticks and
lemonade-can to the cracks between the planks of the pier.
The hood covers her eyes completely. I think she’s stopped
crying.
“You look just like Little Red” I tell her.
She says “Maybe I am.”

frenzied
flipping
solenoid
(re-pinging)
pop bumper
spinning
steel *****
(skill shot)
end-of-stroke
trip
hit
drop

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.

Storms seldom reach into this tarmac dip - but I find my chairs broken, wrong-angled and awkward, on the grass-struggle lawn.

Sun hides. The day still dawns and I watch. Copper plays over rain-dark wall, licks the plastic idyll of neighbours’ houses.  

This house (moss-tile, rust brick) sits at the base of a hill - A full stop to their pale-clad, block-paved lines of must try harder.

I don’t attempt to keep up. The drive boasts a warm rainbow of stone, a zig-zag flourish of green sprung with yellow -

A dormant hive. Project pieces. Puzzle bits strewn. My what-if imagination stung gold - Summer-soaked moments yet to fly.

Bad luck fills a brass horseshoe and the world sulks ill at ease - *****, unwelcome - between plimsolls and boots by the door.

They used to ask about the shoes. Now, as light pours over the sanctuary bell, I laugh at the ghost of their honey-glass question.

I might be taking a break
but clearly he is not.
He watches as I spoon instant coffee
into white enameled mugs.
His gaze travels up my legs,
rests on the hem of his sweater.
I catch his eye, he smiles,
shrugs an apology, carries on.
I shift my weight from foot to foot,
arch my back, wiggle my hips-
Resist the urge to do
a bad rendition of 'Time Warp'
He accepts his coffee with a nod,
watches me drink mine-
then it's time for us
to settle back to work.
He re-arranges jars, cleans new brushes-
while I get naked and in position,
him watching from the corner of his eye.
Straight away the aches return,
my muscles tie themselves in knots-
and I know it's just a shadow
of the pain that is to follow.

muse

I pull the sweater further down my thighs.
Fabric bunched in my fist keeps the hem tight,

Stops it gaping as I lean, cold feet pressed to his shins,
inhaling steam from thick-as-mud coffee.

Would like to rearrange myself ‘round the warmth of him-
tangle my fingers in his hair.

Clamber into a linseed oil and white spirit scented nest.

But now’s not the time.
Distance is key.

I drink coffee, mind my hem ‘til he’s ready to draw.


muse

He doesn’t draw me as this.
She appears to be sleeping.

Not hiding like me, from a light that’s too bright-
on a day that grew late without warning.

Her hand between thighs
seems to be still. And her smile whispers words for the taking.

Will they know when they see her, that those fingers
concealed, are already threaded with ***?

He doesn’t draw me as this.
Satisfied only to the point of frustration.

muse

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

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

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

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

Green-apple pings off of a shelf,
just misses his ear,
watermelon scores a direct hit
to the back of his throat.
… askin’ for it... the ****...
short ******…
Woken mid rant, we don’t hear the rest,
not yet.
Straight-faced to the telly,
feeling confusion
pierce the backs of our heads-
dontlaughdontlaughand
dontlookatme.
Silently we pray
to the gods of Friday night
and sour candy, that
he’ll nod off and start snoring
before one of us pops
into a neon-snot-mess of giggles.
It’s taken too long
and we’ve eaten half our ammunition, but
he’s at it again. We grin.
Retrieve pink and green missiles
from 'round the chair legs,
listening
to what he’d do to her.

I’m, I don’t know-
lonely I guess. Stretched out  
warming myself in a pool of sunlight-
would just like to be held.
Not longing for
new love
or a one true love-
they’re all true enough
at the time.
No, not love.
Not now.

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?

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)

cross-legged on prickly cord,
picking frayed edges
that don’t quite meet the wall-
stealing pimply-glassed heat and
pretending to live
in a house, where warmth exists
beyond window-spills and
a broken gas oven.

He fishes-
with barbed question hooks.
Discarded conversation-thread
leaves me too tangled
to talk.
Too tired to care.
Exclamation marks hurt-
Long strokes do nothing to sooth.
Marble-dots scatter
to trip me up as I move.
******* the difference
between his round-mouthed-O
and mine-
A slow, steady discontent
slithers
down my spine.

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.

Marilyn Monroe (who
lived next door, and swore more
than anyone I know)
reckoned blondes had all the fun.
It didn’t seem so to me,
when her old man was home.
She was as glamorous as
our Mum was dowdy.
Her lot lived on freezer-food
and fizzy, while our Mum
slogged over a ****** gas-stove,
and washed-up without gloves on.
Marilyn Monroe told
our Mum that she should fight.
Our Mum gave, to Marilyn Monroe,
secret recipes for dog-food stew
and koi carp pie.

Fist-tight, it casts a shadow on pure white card -
I draw around it with a fine-black, cut it with a curved ten-blade.

The shadow-heart’s a gift. I keep the stencil.

lythrum leans in
curious, tall -
I have nothing to tell

nothing left

I take careful steps, mind loose-stones
don’t twist me up

fire-lidded

I am here, I breathe here

I bleed a weak, thorny tide

here