Stained sand, we
saved for grey days
that never arrived.
Rivers greeted
prying thumbnails,
which remained
ready, but unclean.
Romance clucked
through the crook
of an armed shadow,
where she melted.
Sherbet floated
like ***** on
her shuddering
upper lip.

They said your footprints
were still on the windowsill
when the authorities showed up

I wonder how long my hand prints will remain

as I lean out and see the last thing you ever saw
speed towards you
like that camera trick they use where the background speeds forward
but the person stands still

I feel you in my nose here
all that remains of you is
a scent of yellowed dime-store novel pages
and I can't help but agree
when scientists say that
our sense of smell is the one most closely tied
to our memories.

They always said you had an old soul

but I know better

You lived with the clarity of a newborn's eyes.

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.

Knee length skirt, cotton cami,
lace shrug, and heels.
All black.
Fair skin, blonde hair, blue eyes. Very pretty.
My children edge past her, past the Other Women,
on their way to the park.
Son takes a second look, then hurries on. Vans squeak
through sodden grass.
Baggy jeans soak up puddles of mud.
Typical twelve-year-old boy.

They return,
plastered in cut-grass, flushed-pink and grinning.
Daughter cradles the ball, and
crows about winning, while
The Pretty One, the Other Women,
alternate tuts with
oh-what-it-is-to-be-youngs
…
but The Pretty One,
she's only
twelve.

When all is said and done
I'd do anything for you

I might be distant, cold sometimes
But believe me, it's because
Your power over me bleeds me dry

That carnal, eager smile
Your antsy fingertips
Dancing along my skin
A quick breath causes parted lips

Ah, it's time to go
Someone will see us here
Another time, we'll meet
'Til then I'll miss you dear

Today I walked into a used book store
looking for anything that could distract.

The air was cool,
the atmosphere serene.

I walked down the isles and looked at nothing in particular.
I found myself in the poetry section.

I looked up and saw cummings.
My favorite. our favorite

I pick it up and leaf through. Painful memories come flooding like blood into the syringe.
Make it stop.

I began walking towards the door when a familiar song comes on.
"Oh baby baby it's a wild world,
it's hard to get by just upon a smile."

I can't stand to be in this place any longer.
I can't stand to be in this ******* town with these stupid ***** and these stupid bookstores and these stupid vegans and these stupid ******* kids and these stupid cool kids and these stupid writers and these stupid stoners and skaters and singers and football players and drama kids and choir kids and band kids and these stupid ******* Ag kids.
I can't stand it.
I need to get it.
I need my strings to melt.
I need this towns grip on me to lighten up.
I need your grip on me to lighten up.

please, you gotta let me go
*You gotta let me go

after a certain film
a boy walked outside
worked the knots
from the yard hose
put the pistol grip
nozzle
in his mouth.

during the film
his mother aproned
a wet baseball.

before the film
his father attended
the occasional
but forbidden
house fire.