Storm

Storm

In my dream you were there

And we were in the kitchen;

My kitchen

I asked you

Is there a storm coming?

You didn’t look at me

But you said

Of course there is, can’t you see it out the window?

Numbers Game

I haven’t been very good. I mean, there have been good things and then there have been not-so-good things, but it’s been an overall kind of bullshit mess of a time that I’ve had. It’s such a bummer that five days of good bloods can be ruined by one day of rollercoaster madness. I’ve tried to so hard but all I can do is miss you. I suppose you don’t think of me. That’s what I expected. I gave him a sedative so I know I can relax tonight, but me…? I just can’t seem to take the edge off these days. Maybe I’ll take a sedative myself. Maybe I’ll sleep it all away. Maybe that won’t work and I’ll wake up in the morning with all the lights still on and the television repeating Game Of Thrones like it’s the only thing that ever existed. 

Anyways. I read a Gabrielle Tozer. I loved it. I found something that she recommended and it was another YA, written by Claire Christian. I started it — it was called Beautiful Mess — and I was immediately disheartened. The story wasn’t a flop but the grammatical errors were NOT few and far between, and they stuck out like olives in a macaroni cheese melt. I got to the third chapter and almost put the damned thing down. 

Still, I finished it because I tend to finish most things that I start reading. I promised myself I would try to come away from the book with something. Something. In the end I couldn’t help but like her spoken word poetry formatting. You’ll have to imagine me speaking it because I will never speak it and no one will ever hear it. Here goes. 

Numbers Game

it starts with blood and it will end with blood // don’t be afraid to be yourself, they say // but the only thing I fear // is me // my body, my disease // the inevitable dessi-fucking-cation of who I am and my physical existence // and all the things that could happen to me // four-point-five I should be thankful to be alive // seventeen // why are you being so lean, lean, lenient // oh no, no no no // no doc, sir, no sir, no sir doc, I am anything but lean // nor am I lenient // twelve-point-two // I know I’m not supposed to, but I feel blue // no, scratch that // I feel black // it bears repeating // because who will listen when you’re covered in black // and the numbers don’t matter // even when the game you’re playing is a // Numbers Game // fourteen // nine-point-six // twenty-two // what will I do // when I finally realise that all of the // sharp points // and the knifelike ends // have led me down a path to nowhere // just blackness // black black black // it bears repeating // because eventually blood turns black // and it will end with blood //

Deliberate Vines

Deliberate Vines


I am pulled apart
For a long time now
By something with fingers
That are slow and
Deliberate
Something inside;
Something like vines
And
I crumble from within
A quiet and sure decay
A promised ending.

Soundless

Soundless

It was so much easier to be loved than to have to do any of the desperate work of loving.

Patrick Ness — Release (a novel)

Soundless

I whispered

And you whispered back

I think it was morning

Wrongly, perhaps

And the light filtered through windows

They weren’t mine

Demands and flames

Hot memories of you

Quick pressure, you knew it would work

On me, at least

Such weakness

Such submission; only ever yours

You were on top from word go

Just what I wanted

Marks burnt

Remnants of our mess

The fire that we started with fever

So quick to appear

All of it ruined

Fast and dark

Extinguished before the light returned

Perhaps it was morning

I whispered 

And you whispered back.

Dark Red

Twisted veins
Strings of blood
Hold me here
Await the flood

Water flows
love, you say
But black and cold
It's not the way

I thought would be
Inside embrace
Beautiful; bright.
Not commonplace

Your blood, dark red
And so is mine
Just let me go
We're out of time

Just To Be Clear

It was far too late to go for a walk

But of course I went anyway

Right down to the end of the street

Forgetting this wretched pain of a day

Trying at least to lose some of my nerves

Remembering all of your solid words

Coming up short when it came to the end

Knowing that I just cannot bend

So I came to the end 

where the road was no more

I found everything

It was smashed on the floor

My heart and my soul 

Still belonging to you

Cursed and abandoned;

But no longer true

So don’t be surprised

When comes the dawn

You said disappear 

And so, I was gone

It was far too late to go for a walk

But of course I went anyway

Right down to the end of the street

Thinking of how I could fix this day

All I found was a curve in the road

And a long wooden fence, and beyond, a lake

That’s when I was soughed and I became

Part of the beyond with nothing at stake

Untitled 4

Tears tickle my nose as
They Fall

Crying is an inconvenient consequence
Of You

The House

I built a house for us

And you are gone

I built it, but

Everything is gone

In a sunny spot, I planted my pain

Beyond our house

I watered it, the pain

And it grew

Now my pain is everything

Don’t be afraid

Because I am not

I built this house

And now 

Our house is mine.

I remain,

And you are gone.

I built this house for us

Thin Mercy

A blade; sharp

But not painless

It's yours and I am ant

Torment unheard, unfelt

Can you not see

My forfeit?

Can you not smell

My fear?

Ant and Blade

A war lost

You step on tiny bodies

And look at me

As I am

Ant-like

No movement

But I am cut open; splayed.

My gold

Spent on Revenge

Ant and Blade

Cruel, so much

Such thin mercy, and

As always

You never fail to 

Disappoint

Pale Pink Sky

    The sea so deep and blind
    Where still the sun must set
    And time itself unwind
    O love, aren’t you tired yet?

    The Faith — Leonard Cohen

 

Pale Pink Sky


If I could be
Something
It would be the
Pale pink sky of afternoon

I would be
The cool wind
Of early evening
And the quiet of dusk’s edge

If I could be
Something
I would be the purpled-blue
Before sunrise

I would be
The rumble of thunder
After lightning and the
Grey behind the trees

If I could be something
I would be you, or him
I would be her
I would be anything

Anything but me

What's Wrong Nothing

What’s Wrong Nothing
 


I think the darkness is following me
Last week I woke in the night
This week I come home in the night
And
The darkness
It is outside the window
And in the rooms where my bulbs have blown
And in the deepening bruise on my thumb
And in the helpless thoughts I have
When I can’t remember not feeling tired
The darkness
It is everywhere

I don’t know if the darkness scares me
But I still look away from it
And keep working
Because I have come to learn that there is no relief
For some of us

For some of us
There is only the unending path of persistence
And that path is paved with the darkness

The darkness that follows

Would you ask me questions through the darkness?
Are you okay?
I wake in the night — I’m fine.
Would you worry at all?
Is everything alright?
I come home in the night — Yes, of course.
Would you see right through my lies?
What’s wrong?
I think the darkness is following me — Nothing.

Little One

          what follows is not a very good poem ...




Little One


Thinking that yours is the only
Heart that can be broken
You don’t know the half of it, Little One.
All your vines
As far as they have grown, and
The others
In which they are tangled

How much damage would there be
Should
You choose to leave
You couldn’t fathom, Little one

Will
You find a way to un-break those hearts

All of those bloody, delicate hearts
Or will
You be just how I imagine;
Helpless;
Useless;
Lost.

What will you do when
You realise
That this world wasn’t built for you, Little One.
What will you do

Thinking that this pain is yours alone
You don’t know
Anything.
You are weak and un-marked

All of the lies you tell
Will come back.

All of the skin you touch
Will suffer.

All of the time you take
Will be lost.

I wonder if you will survive this storm
Or prove to be
Another victim

What will you do when the time comes for ending
How will you un-break all of those hearts
How will you fix all of your damage

Little One, what will become of you?

 

He. You. She.

He. You. She.
Three poems for free. I hope they're okay.




My Avocado

Sitting there in the fridge, smug
That would be fucking right
But I know he’s hiding the truth from me
The naughty shit
His skin — dark and rough and green
And yet he looks so perfect
Ready for a salad
Mine to take
Mine to eat

But my avocado
Hiding his foul brown-ness from me
Leading me on
Lying in my fridge
Lying to me
He’s nothing but a liar
Naughty little avocado
You’re naughty
You’re a naughty little shit



My Pen

Baby where did you go?
Three days
Three whole days since I lost you
My soul aches wondering where your plastic-self might be
Your spare ink cartridges lie still — no longer with purpose

Baby where did you go?
I still remember how you felt between my fingers and how you
Managed to speak for me
Even at the worst
Even at the best
Even in the middle

You were all of me when I was nothing
Ink running down to your tip
I could always coax out what you had
To spill

Baby where did you go?
It was easy
To work you, until you couldn’t help yourself
And then your hot, thick truth was all over my page
And you were mine
And I was yours

Baby, where did you go?



My Crazy

My crazy wakes up early and goes to bed late
My crazy knows that there isn’t enough time in the day
My crazy has a busy schedule and I am at the top of the list
My crazy has been watching me
My crazy has been paying attention
My crazy knows the drill, but
My crazy, she lacks imagination — for she looks just like me
My crazy talks like me
My crazy walks like me
My crazy smells like me
My crazy, well, she’s just like me
My crazy is me
My crazy is everything I want to be
My crazy is everything I’m not
My crazy is qualified
My crazy is tired, and
My crazy wants her life back
My crazy is going to win.

Untitled

Untitled

And they both went down into the water
         — Acts 8:38

How quietly and slowly it is, that
You waste me away
How surely it is, that
You waste me down to nothing
You grind me down to dust

Dig up what you’ve buried and it will only stink of earth and rot

Dig up what you’ve hidden and it will ruin you

How entirely it is, that
You use me up and take all of my love
I am emptied out; cavernous, now.
And how slowly it is, that
You fail to fill me up again.
How slowly it is, that
You

Dig right down into the heart of me

Dig up what you’ve tucked away and it will be your end

How surely it is, that
I am not the means to your end
And so you dig

You and dig
And dig
And your hole
It fills
With water
Me; I fill with water

I fill with water and how slowly it is, that
I fill with water and yet it is not you
Who fills me

I can’t breathe
And you can’t tell
How surely it is, that
I fill
How slowly it is, that
I drown

Dig up things you’ve stolen and they will burn you

Dig into your luck and it crumbles

How quietly and surely you waste my time
And waste my body
And waste
My soul

How slowly it is, that
You lean back
Fall back
Into the water

And you take me with you.

Imbrue

Imbrue



To whom do I belong?

I am marked, in this pit, and who is responsible
Who shall be held accountable
The pit, was I the one who dug it
Did I move the earth away and make a place
For myself to fall
Did you push me, or did I merely lean back
Into it

I am marked — with your bite; your stain; your ink; your honey.
In the darkness of the moon
I see nothing, all I feel
Is the mark
Though it be hidden in the shadow of
This pit
Where I find myself

I am marked and down here I will stay
Marked possession
Marked for the end
Marked for the pit
I dug it, empty until my fall and
Now, I am marked
I belong to you.

Two Weeks

Two Weeks



I cannot wait for the taste
Of salt water in my mouth
For the massive nothing
That I will fall into when I finally
Let go

I’ll slip away

You’ll lose me
For damage done
For the whip
For every word ignored

I will dissolve in a smile
Into the black
Into the thick reeds
Into a place beyond you

And every bullet that I bit, and that
Fell down into my belly, will
Fill me up
Fill my heart
Fill my swollen veins

Heavy with lead

There will be nothing to stop the sinking.

Behave

So I say
I hate when you're away
I killed you so you'd stay
'Cause you would not behave.

- Sticky Fingers, 'Caress Your Soul'


Cut-
throat
Brick
wall
Thick
coat
of
scrawl

Full
gut
Wet
skin
Ink
heart
All
in.

The Back Stairs

I'll cease to exist as quickly as I became
In a moment; created
In the same; undone.
I can't be a brand new girl

Where did I come from
Olivier, do you know?
Where do I grow from
Olivier, will you tell?

I'm trying to be a real girl

I speak but not with my mouth
Olivier, will they believe me?
I never pretended to have wings
Filling your lungs is the easy part

Night comes quickly in recent days
Olivier, letting go of the rope
Is the test.

Giving in, falling back
My head; making contact with hard wood
Is this the end Olivier?

Slumbering Boy

 
I'm so afraid.
I've forgotten how to function; how to breathe.
My lips are red and dry, and as cracked as my will.
Statues would blink, turn their heads, speak words
That could never be
as we passed by. You and I; impossible
With frenzy in Elysium and then
In the early evening autumnal, auburn light, all this truth
makes me slaver.
My pupils blown with thirst
Who am I to enjoy such fresh hope?
Each night, lying next to your warm ghost.
I tremble,
Filled with cornflower-blue dreams
And maddening, hopeful needs.
Sunlight and snow; beautiful; unavoidable opposites
That draw nearer with each touch our lips don't make,
And with every embrace we never share.



If things start happening, don't worry, don't stew,
just go right along and you'll start happening too.

~ Dr Seuss

Cornered And Devoured

I am flushed and warm.
I think I may be enormous,

--   from 'Letter in November' by Sylvia Plath




I bloom. No!
Rather...
I ripen and become a deep golden red;
Heavy and sweet.
Testing the branches that have held me for so long.
By a mercy will I fall
And be granted lenitive freedom
Will this imagined, glass-clear curse be lifted
For how long;
Until when;
And
Why now?
Boiled in my skin, near splitting.
Yielding to the sharp edge,
Wilting on the hot oil
Then
Seasoned with promise —
The vines of yesterday no longer around my
Arms and neck.
Now;
Compliant.
Now;
Wild.
Now;
Depraved.

I am
The wanton meal upon your table
Spread me thin,
Poach me.
Or slice me open and
Set me afire.