poetry

Fight Night

After too much truth serum,
I was after a fight.
“It will all come out in the wash,”
the wise man used to say,
but those words of mine won’t,
the ones I spat all over you last night,
vodka- and saliva-laced
blood on your white shirt,
and your handsome face,
pale, bewildered and afraid.

Claret on cotton and hearts on sleeves;
words that hurt and eyes that bleed.

You weren’t expecting that venomous spray
and you should’ve washed up straight away
but those stains are stuck now, ingrained,
tainted fibre, they’ll barely fade,
merely to a lighter shade of pain
but it’s still pain, pain all the same.

Claret on cotton and hearts on sleeves;
words that hurt and eyes that bleed.

Blind rage, I disengaged
and, the next day, I don’t
remember the details
of my cruel tirade,
but can tell that it was harsh
by the look on your face,
your face that says,
“I know you’re sick, you didn’t mean it,”
your face that won’t admit
that I say what I mean and mean what I say,
your face that says,
“I will always forgive but I can never forget.”
Can’t you see that I’m trying to make you love me less?
That I want you to come out best?
I’m trying to make you leave me
before you get left.

Claret on cotton and hearts on sleeves;
words that hurt and eyes that bleed.

And you can just buy a new shirt anyway,
one that’s pretty and pure
and free of pain and free of stains,
easy to iron out the kinks,
easy to maintain,
better quality than me,
longer lasting than us.
She’ll fit you just right.
And, in time, you will forget
the unwarranted malice, cruelty, spite
in the words that I spat all over you
during a nasty drunken fight
we had, late one October night.

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poetry, prosetry, Uncategorized

Seeking us

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Some prefer before it happens

that exquisite wait

predating intimacy

a languor of instincts

long nights imagining

how you will taste

can reality ever compare?

with the violent longing of what is imagined

a teasing elongation of want, unfolding

into one outstretched blossom.

I had closed down that part of me

craving clawing keening wanting

put a ‘for rent’ sign on my dancing shoes

hung up the coat of neglect where it belonged

still damp with tinge of youth

you told me it was that way too

with you

when the calendar said – you’re now beyond the hour

to feel, to need, the touch of age too close

resigning yourself to occupations of the mind

swimming in your stifle

then

we found each other

you were the girl I’d been seeing when I closed my eyes

I had this pendant about my neck called fate

it seemed to be firing blanks

there was no chance a lily pond girl with shining cheeks

would step my way

but I have dreamed of everyone I have ever taken to my bed

that night as the bluebird stayed wakeful, clacking into sepia

I dreamed of you, sitting on the mattress in my mind

turning your perfectly shaped neck

and in that turn I saw my beginning

again

as if you were waiting in many forms and only one

for me to pluck up my instruments of courage

fortune favors the bold

your blood already coursed in me

I knew your lips, your eyes, your shoulders

as if intimately

we had begun that deep warbled song of desire

I heard the sound of your violin mouth

closing and opening on warm rushing air

perhaps I was watching from afar

perhaps I stood behind you, our senses enveloping

the proximity of chemistry

kissing without touching the pulse in your wrist

in time you would start to look my way

stay the true course of our wandering

I heard your voice calling, I ran as fast as I could

as if all my life I had been training on needles

for this very moment to come around

languid and slow motion half dream like

before it happened I was already seeking us

in the needs I had, told to no one but

my imagination

who painted at night

the shape of you

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poetry

The Pleasure Of Perpetual Communication

No matter the number by which you decide
to split
the dividend of times I lied
to myself
you’d still have a quotient I wouldn’t know how
to pronounce.

Good sides are derivative and I know mine
suggests communication equals a judicious need
to see
the language of my circumscription—that, in other words, needing
to write
means needing
to outstrip
my speech, leaving only immodest thought to bare.

Once upon an otherwise ordinary
evening, I found I didn’t have
to seek
out and retrieve the telltale slant that, with (despite)
everything, alive is so simply good a thing
to be
no matter the manner of calculations
behind what I may feel or find
to say
or do, blithely adding myself up
to you.

 


Originally published on Art & Insolence.

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poetry, prosetry

To Be All Eye And Eye Alone

I have four windows open around me this morning, a sigh on every side—everything I am is a commingling of question and answer. How to live. Life’s worthiness is a matter of constant consternation. Oh, to see where it might lead, unambiguously.

These would-be pundit people and their long-winded self-flattery through the ostensible virtue of openness, though—everything I am seems at uncertain times to exist on some one-step-removed meta level. How tiresome. But what else is there? Setting out to create something—great—I find myself filling the air with the same species of noise and hoping, selfishly, that some number of those same people and an unknown sum of others will notice all the hyphenations and language-ardor and call it art, for my sake.

One night not long ago I had one of those nighttime darkness world-muted realizations and this one said you’re more into something when you’re half out of it anyway but I was too tired from being so daytime-busy “earning” a paycheck to do anything more than jot it down for later—everything I am says every mistake I’ve made began with a concession. I really should take it down a notch. I’d been reading Moravia’s Boredom, just starting, in fact, with my thumb stuck in the intro after a brief spat of indecision over where to begin, marking the page as though I might jump back out of the text at any moment and spoil it with background and situation, a hovering intermediariness which, to my astonishment, held my attention firm and strong, unburdened by any here-I-am.

 


Originally published on Art & Insolence.

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poetry, prosetry

Remember, Remember

Fireworks over Ally Pally
A child cries, afraid of the noise
We flock to these annual events
Paying £8 for the privilege
Unconsciously celebrating an evil scheme
Finding entertainment in the destruction
Romance in the smell of gunpowder
Joy in the spit of crackling flames
Beauty in the violence in the sky.
Adding to the mix a stabbing, some muggings
A bottle of acid in a stranger’s face.
No such thing as ‘nice’ anymore.
Much to complain about:
Too muddy, too loud, no parking, long queues, overpriced beer.
We feel like we have to ruin everything.
Fun for all the fucked-up family.
“This city has gone to shit,”
“Yes, and we did that to ourselves,”
“All by ourselves!”
Bombs into Aleppo
A child cries, afraid of the noise
Or perhaps the child does not cry at all
So used to the shelling, the sound of terror
That they barely flinch
Actions of a different kind of rebel than ours
Imposed upon them, without having asked
Only ever daring to breathe when the sky was empty
When there was prolonged silence
When their house still stood
When family and friends had pulses
Knowing that celebration is pointless
Because there will soon be a repeat
Knowing that it’s out of their hands
They didn’t ask for this
None of them did
And still they harboured hope in their hearts
And dreamt of living somewhere safe like we do.
(Or should I say, like we once did
Before kids starting killing kids?)

Standard
life, poetry, prosetry

Easy is the slip to nothing

Some have too little love

Like hunger they scrape and search

Pealing the skin from their fingers in want

Looking until emptiness becomes full

For just a glimmer of compassion

The thing marking human

Quick to turn to hate

Like a fickle madness

Or held diving breath

So alive and quickening

A carefully guarded amber flame

Proof of life

For if cold, we are surely dead

Dormant to feeling

Impervious and keening

Easy is the greased slip to nothing

Feelings a weary bead counter

Chanted prayers, wishes forging hope

Touch, warmth, caressing tangible

Not remote

We were not made to stand alone

Though if you set your mind

On climbing chalky cliff side

Be sure there is purpose

For some are made of granite

They release radium

And the unmoving possession of their heart

Is surely worse than never knowing

The hot dulcent murmur

Of poison with purpose

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