Sunday 23 November 2014

Contributions

There's a thing about Twilight and viral disease;
About football and soccer and feeling the freeze;
There's a comment about cinema or having a chill;
There's some about meals and eating your fill;
A link to a video and a picture that's funny
And a 'Fuck My Life' for having no money.
I commented on Star Trek but no one agreed.
I'm starting to think you've blocked my news feed.


I wrote it on 2nd February 2012. Just found it. It's okay. It's about Facebook.

Sunday 16 November 2014

The History of Me & You

A profile with no picture
I send out a 'like' (or whatever it is on match.com)
She replies
We meet the next Sunday
I wake too late and shower quick
I can't park. I call her
She's waiting outside the Tavern. She's nice. But sad
We talk. And we talk and we watch a film. The Lady in the Water
I walk her to her car and we kiss on the cheek
We meet on the Wednesday and have a Mexican meal
“Would you like to come in,” she asks
“No, that's okay, don't want to disturb.”
“The house is empty.”
We enter. We hug. I leave feeling good
The next night on the phone. Come over. The girls are in bed
We hug. We kiss. A little bit more. I please her
We meet on Saturday. We have sex. I find out her name from the mail. Sarah.
We talk. And we talk. We have sex. And we talk
And we have sex. I love to hear her voice. To please her
A call at 2am. Friends are arguing.
At 3am. They are arguing still. "Can you get me?" I don't like this
I take her home. She takes off her shoes in the car. Walks in the house. Gets in bed with dirty feet
Why did I love this about her... but I want to break up. I want someone new
And then it happens – I talk to myself. "Give her a chance!" Give myself a chance
We go on. I please her. And I please her more. She changes. She's happy
Candles everywhere. "I didn't know this happened to people." she said
It makes me happy to see this. The oil. The skin. And more
And more
You're Bree, she said. I like this. A spilled drink and sex as playful punishment
We lie together on the sofa and I can't keep it in. "I think I'm falling in love with you."
This is heaven. It's no longer sex, this is what 'making love' means
2½ hours and her voice 25 times. I'm in heaven
So much heaven...
And then it isn't. Then it's over. And then I have her back!
Champagne and a dance just for me
A letter through the post - she's a free woman. 11:23 my grandfather's ring
Then an awkward night
And a text the next day from the airport and my life falls apart
"I'll never forget you." she said
The anger comes, but nowhere to vent but my phone
I accept it. It's over. That's okay. Then the pain
I beg
Finally I'm numb on Year's Eve. By myself. In the centre of town. Alone. I want it to end.
A few scattered calls and an insinuation of manipulation
"There was always one thing I didn't like about you." But she never told me. Goodbye
Four years later, my life is over. I reach out to her. I hope. But she doesn't want me
Now, an unseen message from 7 months ago. I'm in shock. I'm upset. I'm encouraged, I think
I tell her I love her and she's beautiful
We type. We chat. We text.
The whirlpool grabs me. I want to swim a while... but I tire quickly

Saturday 15 November 2014

The Cold Box

Double wrapped onion half
Loose-topped milk in door
My fridge, Her fridge

Thursday 13 November 2014

Eight Years On

A veiling smile and hazel eyes.
A nose I pecked a hundred times.
The curve of her back, explored
By my lips. An ache returns.

A solitary piece to complete the mosaic.
Burred edges reveal a glimpse inside
The tint of a hidden treasure,
Beckoning attention and warmth.

The fog clears and snatching hands reach out,
Clawing relentlessly, pulling at her, wanting a piece of something...

The fire within illuminates.
Holding it back. Driving forward
Rising like the Winter sun
A promise of Summer on the horizon

Monday 10 November 2014

My Ode to the Girl in the Creative Practice Seminar

Turning her pen, eyes stare distantly.
She runs a finger through her hair, her ear exposed.
I glance, it's hard not to stare when it brings me such joy
To see her face and she smiles in that moment
Causing a drum roll within my chest.
She raises her gaze, a furrowed brow in concentration,
Lips pursed. I look away and replay the moment.

She scribbles in her book and I wonder...
I mean, it's not about me, but I want to know
What's inside her. To know her. To understand her.
It's beautiful what makes people tick
And to know what makes them insecure,
If you'll allow me, so I can offer a shoulder,
Or more?

Like warm ocean waters, her voice washes over me.
The echo of her words beats down on me,
Her radiance, I worship (just a little for now).
I want to speak, to say I agree, or tell her she's wrong
Maybe. Affectionately.
But such things are easily broken. When you're clumsy.
Like a boy who wants to pull at her tenderly,
But only pushes her away with fledgling fervour.

We smile. Me at her. Her at another.
Her eyes have never held my reflection.
I wonder how my name sounds
If she sighed it.
Is there a day when I'll have her to myself?
I'm patient. I can wait for her.
But my reticence tortures me fiercely.

I want to make her laugh.
I want her to look at me and see something good.
I want to turn to her. Say hello, but my voice stays.
I want to reach out a hand.
That's a choice that'll never be made.

I know you'll be looking. Now.
Too late for redaction.
I hear a tremble in my voice and pray it's just in my head
As you listen. And watch me. Not knowing
If my song is for you, till I say your name.

And I remember right then in a moment of clarity
It isn't Creative Practice at all it's Drama you fool
The girl she's in my Drama Seminar.

Ode to Hong Kong

There's no equivocation here, Hong Kong belongs to me,
I was there before the tradesmen of the king procured their tea.
The polluted sky is mine alone, So worship it each day,
The junks that sail on murky seas are never washed away,
For typhoons that fiercely pound the shores for ninety days a year
Pass on through by my command then kindly disappear.

I have no claim to my Hong Kong, it's just a foolish itch.
The Chinese own the fucker now. Every seam and stitch
Of tailors who sell 'copy-suit' and mimicked finery,
Of hawkers who sell 'copy-watch' with utmost slimery.
The smell of putrid grease that layers every market street
I'd sell my soul right now if I could feel it under feet.

The fear I felt was crippling that I'd one day leave the place,
That I'd have to return to England to some graceless, faceless base.
I loved Hong Kong more than I'd loved any other place,
The people had no manners, would happily spit in your face.
A friend of mine passed out in town, his wife was sure he'd died.
She screamed and begged for help, the locals walked on by.

So why did I love Hong Kong, why do I love it still?
Why love a place that makes you want to permanently kill?
Why eulogise, why write an ode to vile, corrupted masses?
It's liberating living down amongst the underclasses
To shuffle off the shackles of constricting English bearing
And live amongst a populous with no concept of caring.

Taken Apart

So you start over again and find someone new.
When you start a new life, new house, new town,
How easy it is for your guard to come down.
Locked in her house, you enact deja vu.

On the sofa, exhaled breath, aimlessly staring ahead.
Virtue riven, monogamy taken, the taker grinning.
Why did you do this. Again? Realisation spinning
My thoughts. My new beau will hold me later in bed.

"This is rubbish.” She screamed. “You're just talking shit.”
This lady before me who'd hurt as a child.
Her formative years continually defiled.
Silent. I know this feeling. I invite the first hit.

The theme played out, repeated, destroyed, I took all the rage,
I'd earned it all, all the applause. The last player on stage.

Sunday 2 November 2014

Bereft of Heart

You talk about your weary heart, when all mine does is bleed.
The tears I've cried have emptied me till nothing hides inside.
A chasm gapes, I gasp for air, I find I cannot breathe.
Your voice says there's no other way, I say you never tried.

While desolation isolates a light that strives to shine,
Fighting through exhaustion and an umpteenth final plea:
"Stop crying now." I hear you say, you said I'll be just fine,
“You'll find another, better girl, thank God I set you free.”

I close my eyes and, over me, a change within myself.
A violent fury in your face, your hand becomes the knife.
You said you'd kill us all, you said and then you'd kill yourself.
So how, I ask, I ask myself, how were we man and wife?

My last appeal, I begged you please. Through yielding words you lied.
There's nothing now, you took my gifts, the best of me has died.

Portmanteau

Tummy rumbling
and fifty minutes waiting for three buses that didn't come to choose the slow bus
that takes an age and that driver who doesn't want the
joy to end
or is the most courteous human being but the smell
from this lady is wet dog
and lack of soap
but more than that the smell of stale shit
compromising the sensibilities blurring time with jagged

praise be!

the malodorous beauty has
stood and fuck me
if she isn't staring at me as though it was me
that smelt like shit and stale piss and was in
fact I that was sitting in my own
faecal mess
but I digress cos if
I'd waited
just a few more minutes

the
express

that didn't come would be almost home
and she's going to slimming world
at an earlier time and I need to eat
I'm so...     hungry