21 February 2013

awkward stitches

the trees could be winters' bare tongue
against a grey unmoving sky
I can hear it 
it's discontent
as if picking a colour oversteps a boundary and offends
with the streetlights on 
its a bruised kind of blue
I can see my lampshade
reflected in the window as if the window 
is a room I'm looking through
I'm looking out
and my incandescence
I watch the washing line 
make its own horizon
creeping up the glass in the glass between the glass
I wish I couldn't describe
I wish it was impossible
what it means to mean nothing
the page blank the thought unfed
its darker now
not just the lampshade
now the walls the painting
the coat 
hung on the door
a ladder
a loneliness
a crying newborn
no one listening
just the walls
reflected through the window
in the window
is the window

09 February 2013

Nancy is an Alleyway



waiting for the weld to hold it was supposed to be a stanza unfiltered language loose hipped and bourbon rich leaning on a wall paint flaking onto its shoulders like rain like old September like Nancy when she cracked her skull against the wall


handing off the baton

the wall sighed and stuck between her teeth it became her even the air vents cackled into the
sweaty breath of Peri Peri Chicken Dreams or DreamZ as the sign said in slow lazy neon tattooing
light into rusty drainpipes moss on their lips


letting go of gone

dripping the sweat of twenty bathrooms into one small metal square in the ground with half a
peppermint pressed into the grooves she was propaganda she was every corner


beginning to give

she became it’s bricks and mortar as if she was nothing or a part of everything people died in
alleyways people had always died in alleyways but she became the alleyway she became the trash
can the tarmac the drainpipe the graffiti


your open hand behind you

the piss the cigarette butt the fox at 4am she was a wasteland watching restaurants close The Slow 
Grasshopper sent their last few diners home


threading the air
it's infinite axes

minimum wage baristas dragged rubbish outside piling empty barrels into short fat columns building 
their own kind of Acropolis out of draught ale and empty pitchers sound of broken glass spilling on
her thighs as bin bags tore discarding fragments of time


blind transfer

dark bathroom windows with lucky cats waving their paws like grandfather clocks in abstract


keeping the pace

or stuck somehow between movement and thought repetition imploring jagged recitation


breaking out

it grew through her toes and what she imagined was her mouth why should her body fit together the
way it had before


on the backstretch

now it could build itself it was its own architect her elbows were a fire escape she spilled her fingers
into shadows into light into the dawn


qualifying distance

alphabets climbed into trash cans into crisp packets into milk carton crud into dirt into the pulse of
everything that is not Nancy and the rain beat against her