A rum life this, filled with doubt
If all we do is gad about
(picture from here)
Lying Still
We are lying still
Arm in arm, leg curling leg
Your strained I love you
And I mean it neither
We are lying, still
We are content
Closer than a river to the river bed
But my thoughts hurl like a hurricane
And yours are silent
We are content
Will this: never end.
A pledge and a promise
Reused, wrenched and twisted
Hollowed out again
Will this never end?
These Things
The ram’s bloated belly as it curled around the moon
A Rorschach hellmouth with a mirrored demon at the gates
A hedgehog-rabbit hybrid in a plush fur coat
These things I see in clouds
Evaporation
Howl, howl, howl at the lightbulb!
Stir the cobwebs so they waft and settle
Wrench apart the four-walled silence
Just a crack
And slip in a toothpick
Rage, rage at the cutlery!
Voice squeezed through your teeth
In a raggedy whisper
Like steam
Like stolen music
Cry at all of nothing
Huddled between your knees
Keep below the window
Like a slug
Of lunatic sleep
I Keep Small
I am very careful. I keep small. Unobtrusive, with only pin pricks of behaviour and momentary stutters.
I don’t mention you.
Or me.
Or the waxing waning of my shadow beneath your light.
I keep my pens in a row. I drink coffee with soya milk. I try not to sleep through meetings. I smile politely, I flick crumbs from my shirt.
Then I remember your smile and a frenzy of memories rattle my stupor to a waking roar, with an ocean incomplete and a sky full of holes.
I write an email and forget the heading. I make another coffee.
I watch time tip so slowly that my eyes cross.
I’ll meet you on the overmorrow,
Until then I barely exist.
This is Not a Love Poem
A torn photograph of a turbulent sea
A crawling ladybird, its wings plucked free
A stained jacket sleeve, a discarded shoe
These foolish things remind me of you
A bruise and a stitch I can’t fathom at all
A mysterious stain on the bathroom wall
A doll dismembered and reformed with glue
These foolish things remind me of you
Drops of blood leading out of the door
A chalk outline, half-drawn on the floor
Your name crossed out in a botched tattoo
These foolish things remind me of you
inkbiotic 