life, poetry, prosetry, Uncategorized

Spilt milk

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I don’t have your poise

or formidable intelligence

I haven’t inherited your coloring

or the savagery with which

you tear people out of your life

I used to believe I was weak

because I felt so much and could not

turn away in anger

a trait much prized and perfected

no, I was

clumsy enough to be feeling

and try as I may, the ice

did not stay in my veins

just as resentment doesn’t hang on me

an internal coat

nor grudges devour

my peace.

While i am not always happy

I do not fashion that unhappiness

to break and grind, the bones of others

I was told so many times

I was nothing more than a dumb beast

trying in vain

but those people were proven wrong

for this dumb beast

accomplished everything she attempted

perhaps just to prove them wrong.

It is my road

the one alone

and I ache for you when it rains

like the six year old

listening for the sound of your key in the door.

I cannot expunge the pain, I carry it, inherited, a scar of many faces

you were a pattern I mimicked, knowing nothing else

maybe now you are released from your bonds and I from mine

we will be free to make our own new lines

though if I could choose, I would return

to the feeling of loving you, within your murmur

for yours were the first words I heard

curled in a c within your body.

You can cut me out and there I gasp

but I am tied to you,  as the sun will

pay her travail and always love

the moon

climbing out of what we always knew

to lay wreaths of crimson in homage

to spilt milk

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poetry, prosetry

The Flies That Fasten That Shadow To The Ground

One thing is to be, another is to see, just the way I wish you’d see me. One too many phrases like that and they found themselves confused, adrift, and said my positions lacked grounding, something concrete, which in my head rendered cartoonishly into weighted feet sinking to the bottom of the Neva because, naturally, I like the facility of pseudo-homonyms and the presence and absence of consequence mixed with oblique references to macabre historicity. “You” can be anyone, so long as you’re an idea at heart with a questionmark head—how’s that, clarifying enough? I’ll start there, for want of any special introductions, transmitting these little vibrations to the ambient air no matter how “they” swing over “there.”

Speaking of specificity and tonewood, the server’s name was Azusa and she heard him say I don’t have any friends here, now, zero, he said, and in a split second the recognition, delicious and troubled, traversed her face. It’s like that when you read me, just that, word for word as if starting from scratch but tacitly knowing it all might as well be connected like how I’ve got four days off and you and I are right on time but twice removed. I should be overjoyed at those simple facts after three straight nights of deep sleep the likes of which just might make a person feel more settled and singular in their multi-selves. It’s not the qualities, anyway, it’s their fucking manifestation—how’s that for clarity and intention despite the maths and all that counting. The strength needn’t be audacity, the laughter needn’t be defense, the assertiveness needn’t be boisterous. These are the things we think about, independently, within and without definition, no matter what articularities we might share over dinner or through coffee or around spirits, here, there, later, now, so let’s stay in and eat some cheese and fish and a little drink and a little smoke and listen to music. A little. It’s only life so let’s have us an easy spectrum and see who we are where we land.


Originally published here on Art & Insolence. As some of you may have noticed, I’ve been “away” for a while. I hesitate to label this a return, but it is at least a reappearance. I hope you’ve missed me as much as I’ve missed you.

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poetry, prosetry, Uncategorized
KONICA MINOLTA DIGITAL CAMERA

KONICA MINOLTA DIGITAL CAMERA

My forearm

Has your fingers circled around it

My waist

Your hands meeting each other

The tattoo of your movement

Across the salt of my plains

You chisel my rise and fell my present

Into your eyes I tumble

As velvet dark becomes elongating heaven

Your fingers brush my cries with storm

I am beneath you, as infinite waterfall

In your shadow, from your shade

Eclipsing to return, cycles of moon

Blur what is real, against imagined.

Over time we learn

neither exist more than other

it is our capture of this moment

held in elapsing abeyance

within some sphere beyond consciousness

evoking mislaid emotion

flame lit against sulphur hearts

and we climbed the mountain, sweating and fatigued

thinking … why even bother?

Those wise voices, challenging us as children

take each experience, infuse it

with the richness of YOU

here’s the camera, snap a shot

twenty years later, we are still staring off

color changes over time and people

will leave and return like cuckoo dolls carved into

clocks.

Unexpected are the faithful and true

we smile because we’re told to

soon sides begin to droop, if held too long

spontaneous and a little dangerous

leaving the washing for another day

floors need cleaning, beds changing and perhaps …

if we stand still and instead, wait

they will see our outlines if

they’re not in a hurry

but everyone is too preoccupied

with staring at the red moon

to notice our climb

over the globes circumference

flying we take hold, of each others seek

a creature of bush fire and opal.

She told me once

don’t wear them, they are bad luck

I polish now, the angles of my semi-precious face

to ensure nobody knows my true thoughts

save you, you who built

the universe and with your existence

I have no need of foolishness.

We are what we are, because

there is a flower blooming

only at night and

the frangipani spell stays

rich and heady

all through the long

hours

of our union.

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poetry, prosetry

’til Death

1. It looked like the scene of a crime and I suppose it was:
manufactured by a fucked-up mentality and fuelled by pity,
it was a crime against sanity, a crime of stupidity,
and now I’m gonna have to serve my time until one of us dies.

2. I’m stuck to you with claret glue but you are bad bad bad news.
I’m bad news too but you think I’m the best thing that’s ever happened to you.
That’s just one of the reasons why it was a fucking stupid thing to do.

3. Your dark red dabs remain underneath the fresh magnolia paint and I had to throw your jumper and my t-shirt away. It was a good idea at the time: the unification of two bedlamites, the formation of an everlasting alliance between the perpetually misunderstood, but the knife in the drawer and the scar across my palm reminds me that you do me far more harm than good. Blood smeared on our faces like war-paint and Eminem elected as our patron saint, how we laughed and thought we’d finally found our place in the world: together, against it.

4. “Dream Team, baby.” “Nightmare Pair, baby.”

5. Now that we are family, bound by loyalty, I can’t get rid of you. Well, I can. We always said we’d go out on the blades of glory and this is definitely gonna end badly. You think you’re Sid but, trust me, it’s more likely that you’ll end up like Nancy. Ah, God: it would be way too easy.

6. The problem with a blood pact
is that you can’t take it back:
you’ve got me as a friend
’til the bitter, twisted end.

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life, poetry, prosetry, Uncategorized

Moving toward light

adult alone anxious black and white

Photo by Kat Jayne on Pexels.com

When I am sad, a voice, not unlike my own

chastises the impulse

if it is that, wishing to rise beyond, crush of emotion

when I am sad, I make myself sadder

by listening to those inherited echoes, telling me how I should feel

shutting down the validity, condemning feelings less than

knocking walls already fragile, disqualifying the emotion

when I am sad

I think of your disappointment

how much you wanted me to be

a thing of steel

reflecting only brightness

nothing dull or sorrowful

how I became in irony, almost everything you loathe and detest

I would say I am sorry, for your distress

but I learned instead of words, to be sad

maybe in part, because I saw, that flint in your eyes

nothing else was there

though in truth I was sad, at six years old

watching kids bully each other

knowing then, inequality and inequity

imagining the fight before I had, grown tall enough

hoping The Magic Faraway Tree

was real but knowing if it were

children grown to adults, would cut it down

when I am sad

sometimes it helps to think

love cannot be broken

by sadness or loneliness or grief

love stands as our first flower

even as it no longer exists the scent remains

to save us from disappointment

of so many other things

including each other and our infinite ability to be cruel

I am still the child with the blue rabbit

watching adults lie to each other

and kids emulate and pinch, the very stuffing out of hope

for if there is a Magic Faraway Tree

I think it would not be

for you or thee or me

like all magic things

only reveal itself to those pure hearted enough to know

sadness is manufactured by what we do to each other

with each cruel act it grows

if we let it and if we don’t

then next time I am sad

I will think on other things

like your voice and how

you make my heart quicken, just in your use

of words, the familiar cadence a worm

reaching deep into my heart

moving toward light.

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life, poetry, prosetry, Uncategorized

Bus stop for restless people

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I get so easily hurt by
the change in people

how when they like you

you think they are being their true selves

their gentle care

mana to your eroded soul

it is merely the sticky gloss of their expectations and dreams

makes them so

appear attentive

short-lived when you do not

rise to unspoken expectation

once they know you are

just who you are

not

fantasy or the begetter of

their own glossy stage play

all the light

all the brightness

all the careful looks of care

are withdrawn

and they say

no problem

yes we can be friends
nothing much will change

but by friends they mean

I will no longer shine a light your way

I only did that because I thought

there was something else

on offer

as if you were a
tender piece of meat

swung at ill thought promise

for they exist at

the bus stop for restless people

who only give damn when they get

paid in turn

and they say
no we are not
people who feign or parry

we mean what we say

but they are

not true

to their word

or their word
is made of thin paper
submerged in the shallow lake
of their true

intention like

blotting paper absorbing

all the little stains and feelings

and no boat can be formed

for those left drowning

in their indifferent wake

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poetry, prosetry

A Sorry State Of Affairs

Good morning, London.
If you’re reading this, congratulations!
You’ve lived to see another Friday.
Good morning, London.
If you’re reading this, commiserations.
You’ve lived through 1000 days of Brexit.
Another day, another death by blade,
another hashtag, another have-a-go-hero.
Atrocities peppered with royal babies,
terror on the back burner
to make way for another celebrity suici—
BREAKING NEWS
Reality TV Stars are Humans with Feelings!
(You say ‘stars’, I say ‘participants.’)
Anniversaries and gofundmes,
Westminster and Manchester,
Dunblane and Hillsborough,
Grenfell and 7/7,
stranger murder and internet danger,
lest we forget:
lest we forget that these events are out of our control,
we can only sit back and watch the horror unfold
from the comfort of our council homes
on our fancy new smartphones.
Victims getting younger,
prisons getting softer,
vigilantes getting punished for doing God’s work,
remember when this little island had so much to offer?
Oh my goodness, a D-list celeb has gained weight
“Look at the state of it!”
Religion preaches kindness,
ignorance breeds hatred.
Who’s Afraid Of ISIS State?
Sorry, we’re too busy to deal with
our own homegrown caliphate, sorry,
I’ve got to send Tesco a passive-aggressive tweet
about the absence of tomato in my BLT,
and come up with a witty response to theirs –
sorry. Sorry. I’m so sorry. Sorry.
Ah, our glorious nation,
built on a solid foundation
of queuing and apologising,
of sarcasm and profligation.
You’re blind, you have no legs, and you have 3 months to live?
Sorry, you’re not eligible for the full rate of disability benefit.
But the bloke down the road who is a roofer on the side
and can run up and down stairs?
GIVE HIM ALL THE UNIVERSAL CREDIT!
A sorry state of affairs.
Darling, #woke and #Brexit cannot co-exist:
the two are mutually exclusive.
But London’s burning,
and you can live stream all of it!!!
The newspapers are an endless torrent
of stories of hatching, matching and dispatching,
vile comments, casual racism and mansplaining.
Make sure you Instagram your #prayers
and Tweet your reaction,
live, as it happens
but, other than that,
do NOT take any viable action,
do NOT try to make a change,
do NOT get involved,
just collect your pennies from your plugs
and remember that you are #blessed.
Make sure EVERYBODY knows how much you care.
So I’ll see you for the revolution at dawn?
No, of course not. You wouldn’t dare.
The murder count rises
faster than the cost of cigarettes.
15p added on the price of a pint?
Oi, Hammond, you wankstain, you want a fucking fight?
(Anybody else still wondering how Tony Blair sleeps at night?)
How about we try to Make Britain Great Again?
Because we are actually were Great, once upon a time.
Silver linings, swings and roundabouts,
county lines and Leavers doubts,
4 hour wait for an ambulance,
and votes of No Confidence,
but when times get tough
we can all sigh with relief and say,
“At least we don’t have Trump!
Put the kettle on, love,
we could all do with a cup.”
This isn’t the Wild West.
This is a test.
And we are failing.

Tune in next week to find out
how many people are arrested for no reason at tomorrow’s march,
which members of Pizza Club ordered which toppings,
what Tommy Robinson’s been up to,
which actor has been denied planning permission,
and who has been a very naughty boy!
Don’t forget to like and subscribe! @me!
@mememememeit’sallaboutme
Abusive comments will be [screen-shotted
to be discussed in Daily Mail Online
before being] deleted because
WE DON’T TOLERATE TROLLING.
Stay woke, stay blessed and,
as always, stay safe.

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