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scar Oct 2016
my friend is coming over today
that’s nice
isn’t that nice?

she’s a therapist
specialising in
obsessive compulsive disorder
how interesting

i should probably just
clean around a bit
before she arrives

everyone does that, right?
i mean everyone
when somebody is coming over
has a bit of a manic clean beforehand

and i’ve been doing so much better
last week i took six sips
of the orange juice
instead of seven
even though three and seven
are the best numbers
followed by thirteen and fourteen
and then all the multiples of seven
well, not all of them
not twenty-eight, for example
that is a bad number

but i have been doing
so much better  
so it won’t matter
if i just clean up
a little bit

i will put on my motivational playlist
whoops the song didn’t start
quite right
oh dear
i was distracted and i missed the opening line
two more times
i’ll start it once more
but it didn’t go back
right to the start, so i have to
restart it a
but then no
four is not a good number, and
i’m allowed a bit of indulgence today, so
five six seven
and now the song has started
and i can wash up

but what if she arrives
and realises
that i’m not really obsessive
but just pretending?
what if she looks down the side of the oven
and sees the mass of dust
which i notice every day
and thinks
“well i’ve seen much worse than this
she must be fine
just doing it for attention
or something”

what if she goes to the bathroom
and looks behind the toilet
at that bit i can

she will know then
that i am a fraud
and that i cannot
keep my house clean
like someone who really cares

but it’ll be fine
i’ve been doing so much better
and my friend is not
a judgemental person.

i will just hoover
one more time
and before i know it
i am down on my knees
sweeping the carpet until there are graze marks
on the sides of my hands
to make sure i get up
of dust

and i crawl through the flat
picking up the miniscule specks
that the hoover managed to miss
but that somehow
i still see

i’ve been doing so much better though
she’ll be here any minute now
i’ll just bleach the toilet one more time
and the bath
and the sink
resist the urge to sip it
it will not make your insides clean.

i’ve been doing
(cough seven times)
so much
(seven sips of tea)
better though

(12346 come on you can do it…)
scar Aug 2016
swallow the stars

glow from the inside out
as the pain of what you've done
spreads seeping through your body
filling your veins
with excruciating light.

close your eyes against it and
find it's to no avail
the bright follows, the light suspends
behind your eyes, pinpricks
finding their way out
working their way in.

sell yourself for borrowed silver
scatter it on the ground as later
you cry out for a redemption
that never came.

submit to the silence
you've swallowed the stars now
and there is no one else
there is just becoming
scar Aug 2016
the sky dims dismal
over a washed-out landscape

harrowed, its holes fill furrows in the earth
and in the distance something cackles

a sound that splits the dawn
as the sun breaks over the horizon
its giant eye watchful but bleak.

a flamboyance of flamingoes and a ****** of crows
rise to the cries of battle on the moor
and nature's drums of war
beat a tattoo doomed
to eternally repeat.

and in the distance something crackles

the sun has turned to fire;
a spark
lies empty on the hollow ground
depleted of breath, it fades to ember
but then
but then

something startles it awake
the smallest of stirrings
for that is all it needs
and out of the crumbling darkness
the spark hurls itself
setting alight the expanse around it
and in the distance something burns.
scar Jul 2016
the sky is
the fields are sometimes, too;
it is England, after all

view upon view, an expanse of
dusty hues -
the sorts of colours you might find
locked up in an attic, unused
for years

the grey is a stillness, an unrestful quiet
that stretches out across the country
like a tapestry of disdain

we feel nothing here, because
the grey has taken it - well
has dimmed it; perhaps
it still exists somewhere
beneath the sombre sea

of colour, or a lack of it;
and i can make no sense of it, nor it
of me
because, you see
the grey pervades

it turns everything the same shade,
and impossible to pick out hues
it blends in one
leaving but an impression
of a world no longer clear

yet artists, poets, lovers and children still hope
and they stare expecting to suddenly see a sunburst of colour
across the grey.
scar Jul 2016
the world is hard today
but there is still

there is still a person smiling at a stranger in the street
still the trees of summer wafting in the breeze
still the light of a warm golden evening slanting through the park
still dust motes dancing in its wake
there is still

there is still the look on a child's face when it sees its first bubble pop
still the warmth of a fire, smell smoke and sound of crackling wood
still the feeling when cold, you get in a hot bath and your legs rejoice in the numb
there is still

there is still the joy of reading a passage and thinking "yes! this is me!"
still the tight hug of a friend you haven't seen in a while
still the first glimpse of an unexplored landscape from a plane window
there is still

there is still the pure lineny smell of the first ****** snow in winter
still the satisfying crunch of an autumn leaf under your shoe
still the gritty scratching of sand between toes on the beach
still the haunting melancholy howl of a wolf in the distance
there is still

there is still the way your favourite person looks at you when you walk into a room
still the beautiful moment of pregnant silence that hangs at the end of a sonata
still the feeling of diving dry into a lake and coming up wet and free
there is still

there is still, and yet
that's it really, isn't it?

there is stillness when the world creeps off
and you are left alone with stark reality in the lamplight
and then in the silent dark
there is still

there is still, and you sit motionless in it
and the world continues around you but you have retreated
and as it all falls away a voice within you screams a silent plea
and there is still.
scar Feb 2016
It's like I know I don't fit in
I shouldn't be here, I don't belong here
With the suits and the boots and the people who have roots
My history's lawsuits and bootprints and long hard routes
scar Sep 2015
as the plane came in to land
i believed i was descending into the very gates of hell
the mountains circling the area jutting like a devil's jaw
waiting to swallow us whole

ripping holes in the sky
clouds bleeding an unnatural red as the sun set.

in the hotel i turn off the light
and lie in the humid darkness
listening to the storm raging outside

the devils are hungry now
their stomachs yelling angrily
their eyes flashing bright across the blackness
as they hunt for their prey

and the sky cries heavy rains of grief
for its wounded victims.
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