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
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.
instead now digested by the Earth that I had once possessed.