Friday 30 June 2017

Summer Layers


It's a toothpaste brand and the precise time of day
the exact shade and colour of a stranger's hat
the plaster wrapped around your finger
the absence of teeth
the hollow screeching of a train on the tracks
the crunch of an apple, the afterwards slurp
memories left over from summer
the strawberry smell of cheap jam
the dainty sad simplicity of your grandmother's kitchen
the stubborn dirt beneath your toenails
a spider's shadow on the walls of your childhood
the bags of exhaustion that lay heavy under-eye
the tight waistband of your jeans
the glint of copper wire in a frayed connection
bits of grapeseed in your gums
a scar the size of Jupiter
the scribble of a fountain-pen from some distant dream
bald-headed men
a pot-belly marked with pubic hair
the smell of a public bathroom as you pour white on white
the clear liquid left behind from cheese
the note of a killer detected in a lover's voice
the passing seconds as you wait for a yes
the stark stark absence of your father
a misshapen thigh spilling over a plastic chair
the need and disgust that trip over each other
the loss of self
as they all blur to one.


I Muse

Angles of light appear differently now
the twee whisper of summer makes the room seem smaller
re-arranges objects.

Rays caught on edges
dust on the window sparkling
sun rising over the hill
edging up past rocks
echoes of a dog bark
farmer's voices
cars speeding off
birds twittering
and the profound silence beneath
the morning rhythms
of life in the country.

I dare to dream about walking over the tops
huddling under slate shelters as it rains
or browning my skin in the sun
in company.

How things turn around (and how they don't)
and how I have let myself dangle on a string
with my mouth open wide as bait.

I invite romance and comfort and beautiful still settings.

This magic place
lambs bleat, throats quavering,
tongue vibrating like the bell on a church tower
stairs creak, wooden frames stretching with the change of temperature
each word
is a vessel.

I channel some sort of luck, or in other words diversion,
so many times I have entered a stranger's car.

Oh yes life is beautiful
I am just discovering the sweet gentle underside
of the vibrant buzzing truth.


Screaming in the Present

White-wine sauces
and red-wine reductions.
Dark chocolate eaten like an ancient remedy.
Wind combing through a barley field.
Days spent on the internet
scrolling, to where, to endless depths.
Please please please my darling
make each action deliberate
do not find yourself gorged out and bloated
at a train station, alone,
with no transport and a hand scarred
with too much action.
One morning you embrace in bed
and it is very certain he means it
and it is very true and unavoidable
and he looks at you shocked
with an open mouth
and you throw in penny sweets.
Sparkly wallpaper
and stuck-on words.
These worlds I inhabit.
- Yes I do like to shine
out of context -
Lambs bleat
and I hear myself.
I am not in an echo chamber,
I am screaming in the present.
The sound comes out like the rush-roar
of a waterfall
and we swim in the pool of endless time
of fleeting eternity
and its mother,
the forest.