Poetry

I can't stand

I can't stand

the person you've become.

Should I tear the truth out with my teeth?

Pull at that thorn till it bleeds

out all those black words held back in my throat,

choking them down, that blue hue on my cheeks

mistaken for a red flush when you walk in the room.

Red like a kiss.

But kisses aren't red, they're purple like chapped lips bursting with cold blood

purple print bruises on your wrists.

And sex isn't pink,

like silk curtains drawn to reveal a swollen sun,

it is black like dark rooms and the inside of your eyelids

shattered light bulbs

sharp and stinging and sore to touch.

And love is green.

Like mould growing on the inside of your chest

the colour of new life and the end of old ones

no, I can't stand the person you've become

but I could never watch you turn into someone else without me,

our stomachs will always be knotted together

churning and turning, sickly shared stomach aches

that make us nauseous with the weight

that throbbing, heaving heart of whatever they call it these days -

love.

Is it?

Can you fall in love with the way a blanket feels

when it's wrapped so tightly around you,

you've forgotten what it feels like to wave your arms

shout 'fire'

If that were true, my parents would be liars

because they both said 'I do'

my mum has green eyes, my dad didn't notice, did you?

Like mine, his are grey with flecks of blue.

Rejoice

Is it hopeless

when kids are losing focus

smiling behind a ring light but they are shattered, they are broken

and who watches TV anymore now the strangers have spoken

who needs experts when we have free speech and cheap slogans

and who needs freedom, when the politicians we have chosen

speak with burning passion but in action they are frozen

so we cluster in the cold over the warm light of explosions

that echo across skies and tumble across oceans

and we constantly forgive for our lack of emotion

when we live in a world of constant bad omens

and constant bad choices

and constant death

and constant loud voices

turn your head to the sun and see how he rejoices.

Safe

Two roads diverged

Or was it four?

It must be even

like it was before

Have you made your choice

before the clocks hit seven?

Have you counted the stars

in this nonpareil heaven?

Maybe if you keep the pace,

Or maybe if you fell

Man has doomed you to the fate

where only time can tell.

(i: Robert Frost’s ‘The Road Not Taken’ (1916))

Boy

As the boy crawled out from the bushes

He was met with shouts but also shushes

As the men ushered him back to where he belonged

And in their minds, the question, of where he came from

surfaced and swirled in the tops of their heads

As to why this little boy filled them with dread,

As to why they could see themselves in his eyes

And you could just make out, in their cries

that this little boy was not just a child

Because although he was dirty and his hair was wild,

He’d laced up Oxford’s and sat in a suit

In fact, he no longer seemed credulous or cute

He sat there now with the world in one hand,

With his finger on every button, with his voice in every plan

And the men, they reeled at this sober reminder,

that this little boy sits as the driver

They were surprised to find that he often changes gear,

And that he had, in fact, been there for years

So as you place your faith in their grubby hands

Remember a child sits sternly inside every man.

Bye, Joe

I think she would've loved him

'till they were buried deep

if he had not betrayed her then

while she retired in sleep.

She welcomed him home wearing red

and promised him Nirvana

she strapped his wrists to the bed

and shed him of his armour.

He lay they quite contentedly

and closed his eyes in bliss

he felt the touch of his wife

and dreamed of his lover's kiss.

Well the axe came down on his chest

gripped by polished nails in fervour

with more passion in her eyes

than when they ever lay together.

Naked, and quartered

he resembled no man

she wiped his blood from her face

and took the ring from his hand.

She took her mother's chain

and strung it round her neck

the medal of a tortured widow

resting on her breast.

I think she may have doted him

till he were buried deep

if he had not betrayed her then

fallen into sleep.

(i: Jimi Hendrix' 'Hey, Joe')

Go Together

To die together has been romanticised so,

To be together in death, to be holding someone’s hand

when you slip into the blackness, somewhat prematurely

But in the reality of death, you will not be holding hands

You will die alone, separate, bickering to the end

about some false God and where your money has gone

But wouldn’t it be so much better to live together?

To accept that people often speak

in a key we are not all fond of, or in words

that don’t greet our ears like butter?

To hold hands isn’t necessary, even to agree

is not always needed, but tolerance is a treasure

hoarded by those wise enough to see

that the sun sets and rises only with the acceptance of the moon,

Who dies so that plants can grow.

Buzz

A fly flew into my ear one day and whispered awful things;

He seemed to know the universe and carried sorrow on his wings

And though this fly did tempt me to join him in his feud

against the world and all its misery – I knew sadness was its food

So I told him of the sun and how she feeds the soil

But he told me of the fires she makes and how she is not loyal

She would rather paint our forests with black and grey cinders,

She would rather abandon blue, and see what black brings us

Well, let me tell you of the moon, I say, and how he guards the dark

And every new-born night he sings – every star a birthmark

And of these stars, he buzzes, how many die, I wonder?

Though beautiful their deaths may be, they send darkness asunder

Oh, this darkness, I reply, how terrible it must be

for a blank canvas to be born, filled with possibility.

We Will (Rondo)

We will always miss home.

It doesn’t matter if you have everything;

If you have the grandest of gardens,

Or the most lavish of living rooms

Something will always be calling you back to that shitty single bed

And the peeling wallpaper that you miss looking at as you fall asleep

You’ll miss tripping over the clutter,

Having to hit the TV before it starts -

The static, the crackle under your fingertips,

That one wobbly chair that you gave to an oblivious guest -

You’ll miss it all.

You’ll miss the carpet burns on your knees you got from chasing the dog along the floor,

The gravel ingrained in your palms like pomegranate seeds

when you fell off your bike on the drive

Only ever going in circles, until you built up enough courage to go past the gate

Your dad’s hands on the back of the seat, stretching to fingertips -

Then to nothing.

Stabilisers thrown to the back of the garage, school bags flung over bannisters,

car keys down the backs of sofas - the foam indented with you

that soon settled after you left.

Because there must be a reason why we’re buried where we’re born,

Because home is the start, so there will always be something calling you back

telling you it’s only right that it be the end.

Done

There are nuns upon your doorstep,

There’s a Cherokee in your throat

Your heart has set on fire

It’s time to grab your coat.

The Devil’s come a-knocking

He sensed your soul ablaze

Time has stopped a-tocking

You find yourself afraid.

Afraid of what he’s knocking for

Afraid of the foul taste

Of the Devil’s words on your tongue

when you look upon disgrace.

The Men in my Life

I loved a man called Wisdom

I loved a man called Faith

I loved a man called Happiness,

Until he went to waste.

He went to waste on Greed,

A dark figure from the South

Who filled his heart with gold

and put copper in his mouth.

So he sang the song of Wisdom

and how he wished he’d known him sooner

He looked on Faith to restore him

from this sentimental crooner.

Then he turned his head to Sadness

playing poker in the corner

Although he had not known death, he dressed

as if he were a mourner.

He detested the sight of him

And the blackness of his heart

Because, though Sadness is the end of things,

Happiness is the start.

Worth your Weight

There is no better feeling than when you tell me you’re happy

And when you really mean it – not with paper-thin, ‘I’m fine’s

But with smiles that turn up the corners of your eyes

And squeezes that force the laughter out of me

I see your face darken as you dare never ask,

‘What makes you happy?’

My dear, you could fetch me gold

And I would still rather hold the hands that carry it.

Vintage Love

Oh, those fickle feelings, that fuck-on-the-first-date love

Courtship is dead,

The roses dried up a long time ago,

And chocolates in heart-shaped boxes only exist in stories

told by TVs and old men who swear by the old days,

Only hold her hand when she asks

and use the other to reach under her skirt

They’ve been through it, you see.

They’ve loved harder and deeper than those skinny jean teens

We are the water to their courtship cordial

Because deep maroon love is only found in wrinkled brows

But are people not the same?

Is that flesh not still traced by wandering fingertips?

Do irises not still widen, do palms still sweat?

Lacklustre we may be, but we are anything but dull

when our streets are paved with the colours of the rainbow

And we may not dance with one another,

with hands resting delicately on shoulders,

But we have leapt further than they ever did.

I can't stand (pt.ll)

I can't stand
to be compared, she thought, as she looked into the mirror

and saw her eyes growing darker and her waistline getting bigger.

I can't stand to be compared, she said,

so how dare he look at me, 

and see me as the past reflected from where he used to be

like he is holding up a mirror, and there he sees me shine

from then he yells at now, with that Morse code of time.

And sometimes if he turns it, just wrong or just too fast,

he catches a glimpse of her eyes echoed in the glass.

How dare you compare me, she thought

as she echoed back his laughter

as she swore she'd be forever his, and his forever after

because he'd tell her how he'd dream of her body laid in cotton

how he'd discarded all those putrid thoughts of old hearts gone rotten.

He traced her spine with his fingers, that splits the girl in two,

oh, to be someone for myself, she thought, or a woman just for you.

Knuckles

She kissed you like you were the ropes on a swing set –

Her knuckles white around your jaw

Like she knew she was desperate,

But you’re not what she was desperate for.

His Shirt Her Shirt

I was rooting through your wardrobe

Trying to find a t-shirt for bed

Picking through ripped jeans and odd socks,

Underwear flying over my head.

And from the back of the wardrobe

floated a long, blonde hair

I didn’t touch it, just watched it fall,

Then, just left it there.

I crawled into bed and contemplated it

Twirling my brown fringe around my fingers

I kissed the back of your neck and flinched

because I knew her fingertips had lingered.

Because I was wearing a t-shirt

that had touched the tops of her thighs

Had you raised it over her head?

Had your eyes met her eyes?

As my t-shirt it laid

crumpled on the floor

As your fingers traced her spine

And the mouth that begged for more.

And I thought about the matches

downstairs under the sink

And how easy it would be to set the sheets alight

And then that made me think.

Because the sheets, yes they were lined

with this pretty girl’s skin

So of course they would have to go,

But then there was him.

He’d scratched her name into his chest,

Fallen asleep stroking her hair

His heart once beated with her

dancing at the top of the stairs.

Would it be so hard to flick a match

on top of those gas-syphoned sheets?

And watch my baby boy go

walking on burning streets?

I’d sit with crossed legs and smiles

With expectations so great

Of what true love really feels like

And how it feels so much like hate.

Hall of Fame

Oh, what a mess he’s made

in the left side of my chest

And as if he’s not satisfied

with what there is left,

He’ll take scooping handfuls

of all that red stuff

that gets behind his fingernails

And when he’s enough,

He’ll sit back and paint me

all over his walls

I’m the blood-red tapestry

that papers his halls

All this, just so sometimes

when he walks by to make tea,

He can take his forefinger

and start poking at me.

He was Grand (Freckles)

Yes, there will be others

But nothing quite like him

No-one will match the freckled constellations

that danced upon his skin.

No-one’s hair will fall the same,

Scattered over their eyes,

No-one will bring me joy as he

Though others they will try.

Yes, I will love another

Though the others will not be him

Maybe I’ll start to forget his voice

And the freckles on his skin.

Y.O.U.

You are held in the eyes

of everyone who has ever loved you.

Your face is cradled

in the dusty pockets of their minds.

Your stories are re-told

in dirty pubs and taxi cabs.

Their ears prick up

when your name is called by strangers.

As if it were their own.

As if you were still here.

I just wanted you to know.

First Love (Toothache)

What is the obsession with love?

Can we only lose lovers?

Can we not lose friends and still be torn wide open?

No one really writes about that, do they?

For I have never lost a lover

But I have lost friends, and let me tell you

It is the kind of wound that slowly widens,

Like a door that is loose on its hinges

One day, the wind curls round the frame and rips it away

And all that’s left is that empty, hollow cold

rattling around inside, bouncing off the walls

And every time you breathe it is like breathing in winter air

with peppermint on your gums

And that chill grows harsher and stronger

Till you forget how they took their tea and the smell of their house

Toothache for the soul

But nobody writes about that, do they?

For You

It’s hard to write about my happiness

I can never be inspired by its warmth

My words roll out of loss’ lap,

They rise from bitterness’ belly

And burn in hatred’s heart

I want to write about the beauty I see in you

So I forge my words in yellow paint

But they leak from my fingertips in black ink

How can my eyes see it, but my mind cannot?

How can my lips deliver songs, but my tongue deliver venom?

I want so desperately to drown you in this light

And though you are yet to hurt me,

my heart has already forgiven you

But the pages will never.

The Most Beautiful Suicide: A beginning, middle and end

Salt

In the end, her passion bled out of her.

Her body

                        oozed

                                    like an oil painting left in the rain

colours of her life left her pallid skin

in whispers of watery dreams.

Greens for desire, reds for fickle love,

yellows for the stars she saw in peoples’ eyes.

Black for everything else.

But there were deep, warm oranges

that were her mother’s hands after a bath

swirling purples for flowers,

for lavender her grandmother kept on the kitchen table.

But they were the pavement’s property now,

as she lay there, simply dying.

The concrete was no longer solid.

Her fingers

                        slid

                                    into it, through it,

like clay, then like sand.

She was laid on a beach.

Soon she could feel nothing

but her hands

falling

into the water.

Her driftwood body floating atop a dead sea.

And then Death’s laugh rippled the tides

as He waded out to meet her.

His black fingers oil on water,

bending with her body.

She breathed the world’s poisons one last time,

and Death’s hands trapped them inside her,

clasping her mouth and nose,

like a father catching a spider in a glass.

And she lay there cradled in His arms

in the centre of that dark sea.

Sugar

When the little girl was little

She was scared of Sleep

Afraid to close her eyes

Afraid to keep

Her little head in darkness

For a little too long

Because even though you’re here

You’ll soon be gone

So she’d prise her eyes wide open

Scared to fall asleep forever

Because that’s how Death gets you

Because our friend, Death is clever

But she’d crash into Sleep

The unstoppable train

The cacophony of war

Inside her brain

She’d walk in her mind

Aware of her own dreaming

In a world of not-quite-right

And not-real-seeming

She’d pinch her skin

And be met with numb nerves

She’d repent for her sins

For, did she deserve

Sleep the cruel mistress

Cackling in her head?

Making her wake in cool sweat

At the end of her bed?

Her brother, Death enjoyed it

Watching her remember

Watching her heart fight

Then watching it surrender

Her beautiful heart

In its final matinee

An encore nobody clapped for

One last hooray

Then her life, it passed

In front of her face

Her eyes filled with memories

She could not place

Years of colour

And soapy hands

Lavender on tables

Of abandoned plans

She looked to Him now

But He was just oil atop the water

And she a pool of wax

She, Death’s daughter.

Cocaine

Death is like losing yourself in somebody’s fingertips

Falling into the swirling patterns,

Swimming in that Starry Night of skin

Each turn unknown - even to the palm onto which they are pressed,

Nails digging into flesh until the red comes

The anxious red;

Red for love

Red for danger

Red for death

And in that silence,

Where fists relax into an artist’s dream

of gently curled fingers and the sound of rain on a tin roof,

The world loses another set of fingerprints. 

Not Waving (Fire)

Outside smells like science classrooms - that Bunsen burner breeze

the smell of smoke reminding me of gravel in my knees.

Although I cannot place it, and now struggle to recall

the sound of polished shoes clapping down the halls,

these feet are not children’s however, but men in their black boots,

waking neighbours as they run, yellow jackets as their suits.

I close the kitchen window and press my nose up to the glass

as if I’m about to cross my eyes at friends in the other class.

I think I can see him waving - so I return the gesture,

screaming till he’s hoarse, like another of his lectures.

The air above me wavers as the wood begins to crack -

the sound of many crumpled tests and crafty ruler smacks.

I start to feel some hollow guilt scratching in my chest

but then I think of cricket bats and running laps in my vest.

The rooftop billows smoke - the cigarette between his fingers,

yellow teeth, chapped lips, his habit seems to linger.

I take the carton from my pocket, tickle the lighter with my thumb,

all I need is a bottle of grouse, but all I have is rum.

A toast to you, Sir, as I wonder, have you ever missed me?

Of course – I used to come home smelling of your cigarettes and whiskey.

But Drowning (Water)

His teacher said he knew him well,

Until he didn’t at all.

Mrs Evans said she’d known him

since he was ‘this tall’.

His friends said they knew him a little,

But they wouldn’t say a lot.

And Jake, the Dawsons’ kid,

could’ve sworn he’d heard a shot.

His mother said she remembered

singing him to sleep.

And his father had complained he hadn’t

heard from him for weeks.

His doctor said he was healthy,

‘As far as bones were concerned’.

And the librarian recounted borrowed books,

And how they weren’t returned.

His daughter said she was disappointed

because he promised to take her swimming.

His Granddad sat drinking scotch

and said the garden needed trimming.

The police declined to comment

or take part in any debate.

But his sister said she’d warned them

about his ‘mental state’.

He says he’s always hated heights

as he feels his stomach churning.

So he takes a swig of whiskey

and revels in its burning.

He finds a picture of his daughter

he doesn’t remember bringing.

He falls into the water smiling.

He promised he’d take her swimming.

The water said it knew him,

it said it knew him well.

And the water would not lie to him –

as far as he could tell.

Life Time

There was an old man who once sat on my feet,

his time passed within a week.

Then there were the children who ran rings around me,

in a day they grew and had families.

I’ve watched girls, turn women, turn mothers, turn old

seconds too cruel and quick to hold.

And the lovers that carved their names in my chest

lay buried beneath me, put to rest

like babes they curl, crumpled, reclaimed by soil

no more time to waste, steal or spoil.

I wonder, had they been told, in their first hours

that they were born to feed the flowers,

they might have forgiven, done away with regret

while I basked in the glow of a thousand sunsets.

If I could cry for them – I would, if I could protest – I’d try

but even timeless souls are destined to die

because babies learn to walk in a minute or two,

and old age is reserved for the lucky few

so I find myself wondering if they can remember

how beautifully the sun sets in September.

And although I despair in watching them fade

like spectres they cycle through the days

it is hard to relate to beings who throw

away the chance to watch flowers grow,

away the chance to see seasons change,

away the chance to watch mountains age.

But that old man who sat on my feet –

for a moment, he stopped, and looked up at me

I swear that man had oceans for eyes,

and skin that had aged very much like mine

he left no mark, no hole where he once was rooted,

his days don’t echo, his weeks were looted.

Does it still astound you that everything must die -

even old men who have oceans for eyes,

even old trees who breathe life into lungs,

who are ripped from the ground by the soil’s own sons.

The Earth’s underbelly - a necropolis of ancient roots,

once the foundation of that Albion, now pillaged of our fruits

the world aches in mourning, I hear the flowers sigh

as every breath they take is drawn from poisoned skies.

And what can we do, but shelter what is left?

Every bird a precious stone we must clasp to our breasts

that signal their coming and abandon their nests,

machine drowning song without space for protest

they strip me and shave me and shame me undressed

and soon I have fallen at this new world’s request

do they bother to count the years that reside in my chest?
instead now digested by the Earth that I had once possessed.