The Colour, That Colour

January 20, 2013 at 8:47 pm (Bodies, circus, Home, Out) (, , , )

That month, crisp
on evening of alarming skies,
some awesome shade (or other).
The iced grass crossroads of King Mab
barking orders
to stop.
He did now.

With home gone

he did now spit fire.
He did now juggle that knife;
learned there was no trick to it,
you just did it without dropping the blade,
swallowed the fire and winced
through the blisters. Bubbled
up throat.

Now he did feel that sharp
pick adrenaline fueling his shudder as he knew
by the way someone stood
that they meant for their next word to be brutal.

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Digger

June 16, 2012 at 9:11 pm (Home, Observations, Out) (, , , )

Why on earth do you do it?
The mud on the knees and seat of your jeans give you away;
the dirt that lurks under your nails
shamelessly for days following.

I’ve seen you
at night
digging.

Do you think you’re some kind of
horticultural vigilante
Digging up flowers and seeds,
some with old roots, deep and tangled into nests
some seeds, barely sprouted, embryonic.

Don’t tell me you’re acting in the name of some
high botanical justice.
I’ve seen those you leave bereft:
Tiny, Mr Phips
tending to chrysanthemums alone
since 2004;
Lindsy, and Helen with her round belly,
who just want one shot at the white picket fence.

This morning I found a baby shrub
leaning against the kitchen door.
It’s leaves pale and waxy,
covered in the delicate blossom of some older tree
like a mould.

You sap stained murderer,
why on earth do you do it?

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She’s the Wow.

November 15, 2009 at 12:48 am (Alcohol, Female, Home, misogyny, Rooms) (, , , , )

I can think of nothing better than stocking tops, or more horrific than a uterus. Between: the lense blinks. They mistake innocent whale-bruises for a diamond’s mirror tilt, and a fist’s caress. Lips tense, pulled into grins by bliss, to kiss their drooping eyelids.
Our love affaire continues between walls, a concrete tank of rain and smoke. I am given sour commands: Sprint north, or east, or here. Save her, ravish him, leave me.
My flesh crawls with cells. These unnatural X’s pair and germinate to form this hide, and my skin is sick.
The walls shake and creak, they will give at any moment to crack us all from glass to sand. Shoulder blades to sheets, unable to panic my ribcage rolls in heavy waves. Four sloping walls, past occupants bound by space alone pollute the room, they must dissolve. This whole house sways like a drunkard,  I toast with it.

The wine tastes like poison, and it is.
And I like it that way.

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