Memories

Some are riddled with cancer.
Some are riddled with memories.
Ninety-five percent of the good memories are the ones that give most pain.
There are bad memories too.
And pain.
Each new memory holds within it an expectation of more pain.
Memories.
Regrets.
Bitterness.
And Pain.

Roam

One step
        A hundred thousand

                          The journey ends

                                          It must always reach its end



                                                              And fall.

An Ode to Aunt May (and Marisa Tomei)

Marisa Tomei
Rhymes with Aunt May.
You're a hot Aunt May,
Marisa Tomei.

Steady State

Old thought by spectacle replaced.

A hidden sway revealed to play.

In falling night the silver light.

The lies will rise to be reborn.

Cacophonous peace explodes.

Breaks into that single piece.

That dances in cruel beauty.

Soft dissolve into the earth.

As the uninvited guest.

It falls into the sky.

Embrace in dance.

Wrapped within.

Flooding in.

Solitary.

Finally.

Awake.

Oh Cold Cup of Tea

I just wrote this. It didn't take long to write. I was inspired by the cold up of tea next to my computer.

Oh cup of tea,

There are many ways I forget you.

From afar as you sit next to the kettle

The tea bag browns you

It makes you bitter

And I sit, I poured you.

I just forgot.

By my side, your heat is lost,

As I sit, distracted by the world

You cool and stagnate

And I grow thirsty.

In the microwave, you hide

But I put you there to warm

To make you drinkable

Nice testable once more

And I know you want to call to me

But your voice I never hear.

Oh cup of tea

Oh cup of tea of mine

I forget you in so many ways.

A Want of My Own

Like drowning in a lake of tears that never fall,

I snatch for breaths stolen from me.

I suck fiercely at hard liquid
And pungent air

Heavy in my chest
Air that gags me, a palm on my lips

Strong. As I score their flesh for release

My plea is met with disdain

My face pushed further down

And I panic now as I see the end

Closer, closer as the walls close in

My struggles pulse against my ribs
The drumming in my head

Sliding stars and the colour of blood before my eyes

I need to be free to break free of this force

That is holding me in place

And the gaze pressing on me

Controlling me
Keeping everything from me that I need

That I want

That I yearn
To hold and embrace as my own.

I scream inside and want to draw that life into me.

But it isn’t mine

No more

And I must go.

A Poem - Started 26th November 2015

I'm gonna write a poem. I haven't written a poem for about a year. Maybe less. But I want to write a poem on here. I think I'll write the first draft, then when I change something I'll write it above the first draft so I can see how it evolves. It may not be an interesting process, but it'll be a process. Nowt wrong with that. [Smiley face]

FIRST DRAFT

What do I feel strongly about right now?
I just don't know what to write.
The empty lives of neighbours and passers-by
Outweigh the bulging lives of cattle

There is little drive to drive the wheels,
But the wheels turning still
On the track with the lines the only guide
And the glasses must come off soon.

I fix the loan of tankered mists
And help myself to a ginger biscuit
With an army for a nose in the impenetrable
Foe of the newly minted shores of forgiveness.

A haystack falls in silence and no one can hear the
Pin that has fallen through the cracks
It pierces the night with a sharpness only few have witnessed
But now it is stuck. It is buried in soil that was never meant for a pin.

It slows now.
Like a snail at snails pace
The trail of the snail writing its history on the slab
The slab the only future for the rest of us.

[Okay, so that's the first draft. I struggled for something to write, then I moved into stream of consciousness mode and wrote only bilge-water. Sue me. (Please don't sue me). I'll write the next draft above this one when I feel the need]

Incarceration

You have the bat and you beat me

Give me the bat and then we’ll see

You have the bat and you beat me

If I take the bat then I’ll be free

To beat you till your skin turns black

Your flesh apart, your bones to crack

To take away your only joy

One a girl two a boy

Give me the nails the teeth the fists

The tortured mind the damaged wrists

The fierce and frenzied morning kiss

Till night-time falls the static hiss

The fever and the failing will

Urge to kill. The will to kill.

The Muppet

I deserved it for sure,
But as the bruises grew,
I grew confused.

I was angry.
It wouldn't let you hear my words
That voice in your head
That told you to Kill me
Twice. Once with a wedding gift.

A fist became a foot
And a foot became that knife,
but that wasn't all
Because the blood
Needed a life

And I was scared.
You scared me and that wasn't right.
I shouldn't be scared;

I was Your man.

Not a real man, but a fool of a man.
Not an actual man, but that man far away.

Burning

I pounded hard against the glass.

They couldn’t hear so I pounded more.

I pounded hard until my hand swelled;

My arms began to burn, the lactic burned,

It burned like a torch that fired the fire in my head.

I pounded. I pounded until the noise inside my head

Accompanied the rhythm on the wood

Of the door and I pounded some more.

I could endure no more,

So I pounded more

And more until I fell to the floor and cried

And cried.

And on the inside my family burned.

They burned inside.

They burned

And I died.

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.

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

The Cold Box

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

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

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.

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

Character From Book

Kneeling, seeing in his mind, the first steps of a child, smiling.

A lover's first kiss. Sun beating down on hot sands. Mountain

Splendour. Empty eyes staring, to die on golden dunes, bowed.

Knife sharpened, vertigo swimming the senses, camera whirs.

Character from Book is great, speaking words each man hears

Differently from the next, commanding the hands

Of each man differently from his brother, or mother,

Manipulated by man's treachery to occupy another man's soul.

The end a decollation, sacred blood sinks down. Forever down

Until the life is nothing more than the possessions

Of those whose tears have been falling far away

And will fall still, until the only tears left are dry. Like sand.

And through all the horror, in the wings, forced to look,

The next life is offered up to Character from Book.